Category Archives: 19th century

Have Fairies Always Had Wings? The Iconography of a Magical Being

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Everyone knows–or ought to–that fairies can fly.  All the thoroughly modern tooth fairies illustrated in this summer’s post about “Rewriting the Tooth Fairy’s Job Description,” no matter what they were wearing, had wings.  These magical beings may not have acquired this essential power until relatively late in their history.

Unfortunately, fairies frequently disguise themselves when they need to test mortals.  In Perrault’s “La fee”–often known in English as “Diamonds and Toads”–the cruel stepmother sends her detested stepdaughter to the well to draw water for the family.  The kind girl stops to give a poor old woman (a fairy transformed beyond recognition) a drink before hurrying back home with the the full pitcher. The illustration does not blow the fairy’s cover then or at the end of the story, so the reader has no idea what she really looks like.  Maybe she has wings, maybe she doesn’t…

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My guess is that she probably didn’t.  Here is one of the earliest pictures I have ever seen of fairies in the wood cut frontispiece to a selection of original fairy tales by Mme. d’Aulnoy published by Ebenezer Tracy in 1716, just a few years after they were first translated into English.  (Cotsen 25203).   A group of tiny fairies are dancing in a ring before their king and queen, who are, rather incongruously, the size of human beings (the bird and insect in the upper left and right also were not drawn to the expected scale). The dancers are wearing brimmed hats with steeple crowns, the kind that Mother Goose and witches wear, but they have no wings.

The book was owned by a George Jones who wrote his name in the back of the book.  George tried to copy a portion of the frontispiece on its blank side.  He, or whoever the artist was, had some trouble drawing the fairies, but they don’t any wings.

Cotsen 25203.

William Blake, who claimed to have seen a fairy funeral, ought to be a reliable source. The Tate holds a charming  drawing ca. 1786 of the fairies dancing in a ring before their  king Oberon and his queen Titania, in which everyone is wingless. 

A little over ten years later, the French illustrator of  Perrault’s “Peau d’ane” in an edition of 1798.  The girl with the donkey’s skin thrown over the blue dress must be the heroine, so the fairy has to be the lady in the rose gown with the billowing yellow scarf descending in a cloud.  No wings necessary seems a reasonable explanation.

But in forty years, there has been a major change in the representation of the appearance and attributes of fairies.  The fairy Cri-Cri shown in the frontispiece of  Fairy Tales, Consisting of Seven Delightful Stories (London: T. Hughes, 1829;  Cotsen 33142) has gauzy pink wings and an accessory that is clearly some kind of wand.

It is impossible to mistake the fairy in the Walter Crane illustration below.  Her blue chiton harmonizes perfectly with her gorgeous (and very prominent) wings.

Lucy Crane, The Baby’s Bouquet: A Fresh Bunch of Old Rhymes and Tunes. Illustrated by Walter Crane. London: George Routledge & Sons 1878 (Cotsen 21153).

Why did the appearance of fairies change so dramatically?  I strongly suspect it was the  influence of the popular theater in London, but it will take an enterprising enterprising scholar to establish a more precise history of fairy wings…

Cooking for Dolls in the Summertime: Marjorie Winslow’s Mud Pies and Other Recipes

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Today I was reading a bookseller’s  catalogue and came across an extraordinary illustration in a late edition of a popular French alphabet book, L’abecedaire des demoiselles  (Paris: P. C. Lehuby,1839; Cotsen 52908).  I ran into the stacks to see if the 14th edition had the same engraved frontispiece of a little girl entertaining her friends outdoors with an elegant repast improvised with stones.  The story “Le diner de cérémonie” tells how little Elisa welcomes her friends in a corner of the garden shaded by lilacs on a tiny table with bricks for chairs, a sheet of paper for a table cloth, and leaves for plates.  Being a proper little French  girl, she serves them slices of small brioche, wedges of apple, and sugar-coated almonds.  The author notes approvingly how generous the little hostess was without lapsing into gourmandise, a good sign for the  future.

The reason I mistook the main course for two artfully arranged stones instead of a buttery brioche was I had leapt to the conclusion that I had discovered a nineteenth-century French equivalent of Marjorie Winslow’s enchanting cookbook for dolls, Mud Pies and Other Recipes (New York: Macmillan, 1961; Cotsen 13477), which assures readers that anyone with a little imagination can prepare a backyard picnic out of few ingredients:

Doll cookery is not a very exacting art.  The time it takes to cook a casserole depends on how long your dolls are able to sit at a table without falling over.  And if a recipe calls for a cupful of something, you can use a measure cup or a teacup or a buttercup.  It doesn’t much matter.  What does matter is that you select the best ingredients available, set a fine table, and serve with style.

Dolls dote on mud, according to Mrs. Winslow, so here are some recipes for choice dishes starring that tasty and tactile ingredient.  The illustrations are by the incomparable Erik Blegvad.Pair “Mock Mud Puddle Soup” with the “Molded Moss Salad” and a “Grilled Mud Sandwich.”  For a party of vegetarians, “Leaves en Brochette” are a nice substitute for the sandwiches.

Little girls and dolls adore gooey desserts.  “Instant Mud Custard” couldn’t be simpler and follow it with “Dollypops,”  which are not too sweet.  Seconds would not be out of order. On a day that isn’t too hot, a good late afternoon snack would be “Pie-Throwing Pies,” an easy variation on “Mud Throwing Pies,” that can take out big brothers or pesky neighbors.

We Americans may not rival the gracious hospitality for which the French are renowned, but we can show then a thing or two about outdoor cooking and dining!