Welcome, dear readers, as always.

I have, more than once, in reading about Tolkien, seen a reference to a book with a rather odd title:  The Marvellous Land of Snergs.  I confess that I don’t find the word “Snergs” at all inviting, but I have been intrigued:  what’s so marvelous about this land and why is it associated with JRRT to the point where Douglas Anderson, in his The Annotated Hobbit, calls it an ”obscure influence” upon The Hobbit?

I had a copy of the 2008 Dover reprint of the 1928 US edition on my bookshelf,

and, when I took it down, I noticed this quotation at the bottom of the cover:

“I should like to record my own love and my children’s love of E.A. Wyke-Smith’s Marvellous Land of Snergs.  J.R.R. Tolkien”

Hmm.  So this was a favorite book of JRRT.  But where had this quotation—perfect for a book blurb– come from?

Although I often write about some aspect of Tolkien and his work, I would never claim to be a Tolkien scholar.  Fortunately, there are now numerous members of that community, from Tom Shippey

whose book, The Road to Middle Earth, should be on the bookshelf of everyone interested in JRRT,

to John Garth

to Dimitra Fimi

to Verlyn Flieger,

and far beyond.

Among the works of these excellent students of Tolkien, one book has now carried me through teaching The Hobbit half-a-dozen times in the last few years:  Anderson’s

The Annotated Hobbit.

It’s rare that, when I have a question about The Hobbit, a quick thumb-through doesn’t answer it (although I wish that some enterprising person would make an index for it, thus speeding up my thumb) and so I flipped to his introduction and there it was.

And, in a draft to “On Fairy-Stories”, a lecture given at the University of St Andrews in 1939, Anderson reports that Tolkien wrote:

“I should like to record my own love and my children’s love of E.A. Wyke-Smith’s [The] Marvelous Land of Snergs, at any rate of the snerg-element of that tale, and of Gorbo the gem of dunderheads, jewel of a companion in an escapade.” (Anderson, The Annotated Hobbit, 7).

That Tolkien had read the work to his children, who had enjoyed it, we know from Humphrey Carpenter, as he writes:

“…the nursery housed more recent additions to children’s literature, among them E.A Wyke-Smith’s The Marvelous Land of Snergs…Tolkien noted that his sons were highly amused by the Snergs…” (Carpenter, Tolkien, 184)

So, what and where is this land and what has it got to do with Hobbits?

 E.A. Wyke-Smith (1871-1935),

 was, among other things, the author of 8 novels, four for children, of which the last was The Marvellous Land of Snergs, published in Britain in 1927 and the US in 1928.

As I read it, it seemed to me actually to be several different novels at the same time.  It begins somewhere on the coast of South Africa, at an imaginary place called “Watkyns Bay”, which is, in fact, the base for something called the “S.R.S.C.”, which stands for “The Society for the Removal of Superfluous Children”.  This sounds like a Victorian goblin association, poorly concealed behind the respectable words “The Society for…”, but is, in fact, a kind of fantasy orphanage.  A group of rather severe English  ladies  have the ability to observe neglected or mistreated children and carry them away, seemingly on the wind, like Mary Poppins,

(don’t try this at home)

to this mysterious spot, where they appear to be frozen in time, which is, I suspect, why the original US publisher added his blurb:

“All who love Peter Pan will also love this story for children of every age and kind.”

After all, the original J.M.Barrie play of 1904

and Barrie’s subsequent novel of 1911

both begin in England, then move—by flying–to an island in a place called “Neverland”, where children remain children, presumably forever. 

(Although it is suggested that a few children may be returned to better homes in England, Snergs, 2-3).  Thus, we begin with a sort of mild social satire on children’s welfare in Britain.  This is then briefly interrupted by the mention that, although Watkyns Bay, is protected by its position, someone named “Vanderdecken” has landed a ship just north of it and is encamped there with his men.  Although he is not identified directly, there is a clue to who he is in the following:

“Owing to his rash oath that he would beat round the Cape of Good Hope if he beat round it till Doomsday he found himself doing so…” (Snergs, 2)

And, with this, we have moved from social satire to legend, as this “Vanderdecken” is actually the folk character called “the Flying Dutchman”, condemned to sail the seas forever because of a vow he had foolishly made—although, in one version of the story, he is allowed, every seven years, to come ashore and, if he finds a woman brave (or mad) enough to love him, he can be redeemed.  This forms the basis of Richard Wagner’s (1813-1883)

1843 opera Der Fliegende Hollaender (“The Flying Dutchman”).

(This is the first page of the overture.  It’s quite a piece of music, full of Wagner’s characteristic leitmotifs, little themes tied to characters and emotions.  If you don’t know it, here’s a LINK to a recording of that overture with its ferocious opening here:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nEcyCEAm1Mg  From the details Wyke-Smith offers us about Vanderdecken, I suspect that he had read this early account in Blackwood’s Magazine for May, 1821:  https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=KPUAAAAAYAAJ&pg=PA127&focus=viewport&output=html  )

So far, with the exception of the linking of the S.R.S.C. and the Dutchman to South Africa, there seems to be little connection between two seemingly disparate stories—then enter the Snergs. 

We are told, at the beginning of Part I, Chapter 4 (if the chapters had numbers) that :

“Probably they are some offshoots of the pixies who once inhabited the hills and forests of England, and who finally disappeared about the reign of Henry VIII.” (Snergs,7)

To me, this is an echo of the tradition that the English Reformation (1532-34) and the subsequent  Dissolution of the Monasteries (1536-1541)

saw the migration of the supernatural (with one notable exception) from England.  This would have been relatively recently expressed in Rudyard Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill (1906) and Rewards and Fairies (1910), the title of the latter being based upon Richard Corbet’s 17^th-century poem “The Fairies’ Farewell” which laments the disappearance of England’s “other” world because of the change of religion in Henry’s time.  (For more on this, see the posting for 22 June, 2022,  “(Failed) Rewards and (No More) Fairies”).

The Snergs act as general dogsbodies to the ladies of Watkyns Bay, building houses, providing game, even acting as lifeguards for the children, and are described in ways that might suggest something hobbitlike about them:

“The Snergs are a race of people only slightly taller than the average table but broad in the shoulders and of great strength…They are great on feasts, which they have in the open air at long tables…”  (Snergs, 7, 10)

After a certain amount of description of said Snergs, we are introduced to the two main human characters, Sylvia and Joe, children of a neglectful or abusive parent, respectively, and, with them, the main narrative begins.  Soon, they run away from Watkyns Bay, are lost in a dense forest on the way to the Snergs’ town, meet a local, Gorbo, who seems less-than-brilliant, 

and stumble through a complex tunnel network which lands them on the other side of a difficult river.  In this part of the story, then, we’ve moved from social satire and legend into what appears to be a standard fairy tale:  a journey by children attempting to return home—with a dubious guide.

Thereupon, they meet a shakily-vegetarian ogre, a timid knight, an obnoxious (and very unfunny) jester, a witch out for revenge, a king said to be a monster (but who turns out to be quite genial, if touchy), before finally being rescued and sent home.  With the story ended, there is, as far as I can tell, no more possible influence upon The Hobbit than a kind of general sense that the Snergs are vaguely suggestive of Hobbits (and why their land is “marvellous” is difficult to tell, as most of the story occurs to the east of that land and, in itself, isn’t marvellous, just home to some odd characters).

What about that blurb, then, and its source, with what sounds like unbridled enthusiasm? 

I think that we can begin with an interesting fact about the source of that blurb, which Anderson tells us was taken from a draft of a talk—those words only appear in the draft and don’t appear in the published version of the lecture (see Tolkien, The Monsters and the Critics, edited by Christopher Tolkien, 109-161, for the actual text).  Did Tolkien have second thoughts about Snergs as early as 1939?

Certainly , upon rereading George MacDonald’s The Golden Key, for a proposed introduction to a reprinting in 1965, he found the work “illwritten, incoherent, and bad, in spite of a few memorable passages”, Carpenter, Tolkien, 274) and abandoned the project.  And, in 1955, he certainly appears less enamored of Snergs in writing to W.H. Auden of the history of The Hobbit:

“But it became The Hobbit in the 1930s, and was eventually published not because of my own children’s enthusiasm (though they liked it well enough)…not any better I think than The Marvellous Land of Snergs, Wyke-Smith, Ernest Benn 1927.  Seeing the date, I should say that this was probably an unconscious source-book! for the Hobbits, not of anything else.” (letter to W.H. Auden, 7 June, 1955, Carpenter, Letters, 215)

As Tolkien could be rather touchy about sources and influences, it’s interesting that he would suggest that the volume had had some sort of effect—on the Hobbits—but, he’s quick to add, “not [on] anything else”, which, for me, underlines one part of Anderson’s description of The Marvellous Land of Snergs—although, as JRRT writes, it might have had some “influence”, that influence was certainly “obscure”, even to Tolkien.

Thanks, as ever, for reading,

Stay well,

Avoid ogres with a professed desire for cabbages,

And remember that there’s

MTCIDC

O

As always, dear readers, welcome.

Since I began teaching World Civilizations, a number of years ago, this image, which I’ve used in discussing the elaborate nature of Egyptian funerary beliefs and practices, has always struck me, both for its sheer beauty and for its complex meaning.

It comes from a kind of instruction manual, a so-called “Book of the Dead”, the goal of which was to aid the deceased through the process of judgment and (with luck) into the afterlife.  This version dates from about 1300BC, at the time of the 19^th Dynasty (one of two methods for laying out ancient Egyptian history is by ruling family, the other being by Kingdoms and Intermediate Periods) and is in the British Museum.

The figure to the far left is Hunefer, an important court official for a very important pharaoh, Seti I.

Important as he is, Hunefer still must face the Judgment to determine whether he is worthy of passing to the afterlife.  The main focus of the judgment is the weighing of Hunefer’s heart on the scales of the goddess Ma’at, who is the patroness of justice, which, to Egyptians, meant attaining a proper behavioral balance.

(She is sometimes represented as having wings

which I would guess suggests that she is omnipresent.) 

Hunefer is being led to the judgment by Anubis, who acts as the overseer, as well as administrator of the weighing.  Hunefer’s heart is represented by the jar on the left pan of the scales.  On the other pan stands the feather of Ma’at (who is also represented in miniature on top of the center of the scales).  The point of the weighing is to see if Hunefer’s behavior, represented by the heart, in life has been just—in Egyptian belief, in balance—and the feather (from an ostrich), which is not so light as it seems, is the symbol of the goddess.

 If the pans are equal, Hunefer will progress beyond the weighing.  If the heart sinks, it is then consumed by that very sinister creature just under the right-hand pan, Ammit, who has the head of a crocodile, the front legs of (here) a lion (other legs are possible), and the rear legs of a hippopotamus.  The judgment is then recorded by Thoth, the god of, among other things, literacy, who is standing to the right of the scales (and is Ma’at’s partner among the gods).  If the heart is devoured, all chance for a life beyond the grave is gone and the soul is lost.  Fortunately for Hunefer, his heart and the feather have the same weight and we can see him further on being conducted by Horus (who is the pharaoh himself in divine form) to an audience with the ruler of the Underworld, Horus’ father, Osiris, mother, Isis, and Isis’ sister, Nephthys. 

Just as there is a goddess of balance among the ancient Egyptians, there is also a divinity for its opposite, chaos, called Isfet/Asfet.  So far, I haven’t found an ancient image of her, but here’s her name in hieroglyphs.

Thus, with the potential for Isfet, Ma’at’s scales represent a safe middle ground, where justice is achieved by a careful balance and which is then a defense against the chaos which would come if people not properly monitored could behave in any way which they wished, to the harm of others.

When I see justice as balance, and injustice as chaos, I’m immediately reminded of the Greek concept of dike (DEE-kay), as we see it first appearing in Aeschylus’ (EH-skih-lus c.525-455BC)

 trilogy, the Oresteia (or-es-TYE-uh 458BC).

(an early printed edition from Antwerp, 1580)

Initially, dike clearly implies eye-for-eye revenge, but, as we’ll be shown through three plays in succession, this leads to a kind of societal imbalance—a bloody chaos:  where will vengeance ever stop?

If you don’t know the plays, they are Agamemnon, The Libation Bearers, and The Eumenides (a nice name for The Furies, as we’ll see).  The basic plot which runs through these dramas is the following:

1. while Agamemnon, high king of the Greeks, has been off fighting at Troy, his wife, Clytemnestra, remaining in Argos, has been having a long-time affair (7 years) with Aegisthus, Agamemnon’s cousin, as well as grieving for her daughter, Iphigenia (or so she claims), ruthlessly sacrificed by her husband to obtain the wind he needs to sail to Troy. (He had offended Artemis, who withheld the wind until he offered his daughter as recompense for his behavior.)

(In case you’re worried, this wall painting from Pompeii offers an ancient alternative, where, at the last minute, Artemis substitutes a stag for Iphigenia, carrying her off to become her priestess in far away Taurus, where she becomes the subject of Gluck’s (1714-1787) beautiful and striking 1779 opera Iphigenie en Tauride—which you can hear here:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QTgmncbsqzg )

2. when Agamemnon comes home to Argos, Clytemnestra and Aegisthus kill not only Agamemnon, but his Trojan captive, Cassandra,

and the surviving men from his Trojan expedition (which, after being away for ten years in Agamemnon’s service, must have seemed like a particularly rotten end).  This brings us to the conclusion of Agamemnon.

(The play’s description of the murder, as more or less depicted here, differs from that in Book 4 of the Odyssey, where the killing happens at a feast, instead of by a bathtub.)

3. in The Libation Bearers,  some years later, Agamemnon’s son, instructed by Apollo, returns to Argos and, with the aid of his cousin, Pylades, kills both Aegisthus

and his mother, Clytemnestra.

This act of revenge, however, doesn’t end the play as the Furies, spirits who hunt down those guilty of kin-murder, now appear to Orestes and it’s clear that, though no human may attack him for the murder of his mother, there are otherworldly beings who will.

4. with the opening of the third play, The Eumenides, we see Orestes having taken refuge at Apollo’s shrine at Delphi (after all, it was Apollo who encouraged him to seek revenge), but surrounded by the Furies.

 With Apollo’s help, he escapes to Athens, where, when he appeals to Athena, she sets up the first trial:  12 unbiased (she must hope) Athenian citizens as a jury to try Orestes for murder.  Considering the complicated circumstances, it’s not surprising that it’s a hung jury:  6 to 6.  Athena then adds her vote for acquittal and Orestes is free—but the Furies are outraged:  they are the spirits of vengeance—what will happen to them—and worse, to revenge, at least for kin-slaying—if they are replaced by this new system?  Athena then tells them that they will now have a new job description:  overseers of justice, with a new name:  Eumenides, “the Kindly Ones”.

And, with this, we see a new definition of dike:  not the chaos of endless vengeance, but civil justice, which brings a new balance to the world. (I almost wrote “to the Force”—but, certainly, Darth Sidious, as the Emperor Palpatine, has seriously brought the entire galaxy into an unbalanced condition, beginning with the murder of most of the Jedi, who are the traditional guardians of order—that is, balance–the overthrow of the Senate, and his new brutal police state.)

Using this idea of balance versus chaos, I approached the final episodes of A Game of Thrones.  If you read this blog with any regularity, you know that my approach to such complex visual narratives as this or the whole 9 Star Wars films (minus Rogue One and Solo) is not to praise or condemn (although I’ll definitely praise what I believe to be good work), but rather to try to understand what the creators wanted to present and how successful I thought they were (see two postings on the Obi-Wan miniseries:  “Obi Won? (One)”, 6 July, 2022, and “Obi Won? (Two), 13 July, 2022, for an example of this method).  I usually avoid reading negative criticism, as well, because, commonly, it’s mostly invective, and therefore not really helpful to anyone.

In the case of Thrones, its eighth and final season attracted a great deal of such invective and I admit that, the first time I saw the series, I began that last season, then stopped, as I knew just enough to dread what might be coming next.  In a second viewing, this summer, however, I watched it all the way through–with the concept of balance in mind.  (I’m assuming by the way, that, by now, there’s no reason for a “spoiler alert”here.)  As I did so, I tried to imagine what it was that the creators had intended for the conclusion.

From the beginning, Daenerys Targaryen,

along with Jon Snow,

and Tyrion Lannister,

seemed to me the characters I most wanted to know more about.  In their various ways, they were the underdogs:  Daenerys, sold by her brother to a barbarian horse lord in order to gain an army; Jon Snow, the bastard of a major nobleman condemned to a celibate life at what was termed “the end of the world”; Tyrion, always condemned simply because he was a dwarf.

As the series progressed, we saw Daenerys grow and gradually become a powerful figure, not only because she had three dragons at her back,

but also because she was eternally resilient—no setback ever really set her back, beginning with her survival as the widow of the horse lord  and progressing to her massing an army to free the thousands of slaves in cities along her route west towards the Narrow Sea.  There were, at the same time, some disturbing moments:  although she was adamant about ending slavery, she was equally so about becoming the queen of all seven kingdoms of Westeros and, when she finally managed to reach that island, her behavior seemed to become increasingly over-focused upon that ambition.  In a word, she was gradually becoming unbalanced—and this is what I believe the creators intended us to see.  From the pawn of the opening of the series to Series 8, Daenerys had grown, certainly, but there was always that disturbing undercurrent, much of it based upon her increasing insistence that she be obeyed unquestioningly.

(I’m reminded here of Alexander the Great, who began by treating his men as comrades, but, after he had mastered the Persian empire, began to demand that, when people came into his presence, they should throw themselves to the floor in the gesture called proskynesis, which we can see here being performed before one of Alexander’s Mesopotamian predecessors.)

This reached the point where, even though she knew that all of Westeros was threatened by the coming of the White Walkers over the Wall to the north, and that their victory meant a kind of living death for every human,

she would only ally herself with the forces in the North, led by Jon Snow, another underdog who had done very well for himself, if he acknowledged her position as his queen.

This obsession then progressed to the point that, with the White Walkers defeated, Daenerys demanded that all would now march to the south to take the throne of the Seven Kingdoms for her, beginning with the capital, King’s Landing.

When this did not go quite as planned and Daenerys was forced to witness the murder of her closest friend and confidante, Missandei,

she uses her remaining dragon to destroy the capital city and most of its inhabitants, something which Tyrion, now one of her counselors, had begged her not to do.

Tyrion himself has gone the opposite route.  Initially, he had begun the series as a drunken, womanizing loser, bitterly hating himself.

By Season 8, he had, after several years of horrific events (including strangling  the woman he had loved, but who had betrayed him, and killing his own father), gained some balance, so that his obvious intelligence was matched by a sort of calm, thoughtful decency, encouraged by another calm, decent character, Lord Varys.

Varys had begun under a cloud, being spymaster to a succession of kings, but he, too, has progressed towards balance.  Unfortunately for him, this balance has led him to see what Daenerys was becoming in her all-consuming ambition, which brings him to plotting to overthrow her and to his death by dragon, leaving Tyrion alone to watch Daenerys gradually fall into the same kind of tyrannical mindset as the Emperor Palpatine, obsessed with control.  (In fact, at this point, she admits that, as she will never be loved, as sovereign, she will rule by fear—another step towards the Dark Side.)

Ma’at and her feather signify balance in ancient Egypt and dike comes to mean balance in the Greek world, so what can bring balance to the world of Westeros?  Once King’s Landing is in ruins and Daenerys’ chief enemy, Queen Cersei, has been destroyed,

it seems Daenerys will only go on, terrorizing with her dragon, until the whole world, of which Westeros is only a part, will be subjected to her increasingly brutal approach to monarchy.  Tyrion sees this, as Lord Varys had before him,

and he now takes action, but, being Tyrion, it is indirect action.  He prompts Jon Snow, who has not only become Daenerys’ vassal, but her lover, pointing out the danger of a queen so obsessed with domination, and pushing him to draw the only possible conclusion—balance can only be restored if she is removed, permanently.

As I tend to avoid invective, I can only guess that this was a major feature of the wave of criticism which washed over Season 8, and, having found her initially such a sympathetic character, I can understand such a reaction:  did this have to be the end for her? 

As I wrote earlier, however, I try always to understand what it is that the creators are aiming for and, after seeing Daenerys’ vengeful swoops over King’s Landing,

and remembering her expressing her belief that she would have to rule by fear, what would the world be like if she were allowed to do so?  The very chaos in the world which was the opposite of the rule of Ma’at, certainly.

 In the ancient Egyptian world, everyone’s behavior in life was literally weighed,

and the consequences for a life which didn’t balance were extreme, but unbalanced people, in the Egyptians’ view, would be wicked people and would deserve what happened to them after death, as they would have caused so much harm in this world.

In ancient Greece, the dramatist Aeschylus elaborated upon the myth of how old dike, vengeance which brought only brief balance before the cycle began again, was replaced by a new definition, in which the cycle could be stopped by a new dike, law in an impartial court, whose judgment would replace vengeance with justice and there would be no return to the cycle and its potential endless damage.

In the case of Daenerys, who, dead, is carried off by her remaining dragon,

she undergoes no trial in this world and we have no idea of what judgment she may then have undergone in any world beyond, but her end brings order once more to war-torn Westeros and perhaps that’s reason enough to justify what the creators of A Game of Thrones decided upon for a conclusion.

Thanks, as ever, for reading.

Stay well,

Avoid Ammit,

And know that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC

O

As ever, dear readers, welcome.

People wearing impressionistic medieval armor turn up all over the internet these days.

When it comes to combat, however, something always seems to be missing

and this is where an attachment to the real medieval world and internet productions comes loose.  In the real medieval world, not protecting your head could lead to unfortunate consequences…

The week of 21 August, 1485, for instance, was a very bad one for Richard III, (1452-1485), briefly King of England (1483-1485).

Challenged for his claim to the throne by Henry Tudor (1457-1509),

he faced his opponent at Bosworth Field

only to find that the Stanley family, supposedly allies, first hung back—and then, much to what I imagine was Richard’s horror, joined forces with Henry Tudor.

(a Graham Turner, capturing Richard’s dawning awareness of what was going wrong)

Richard was then killed in the fighting which followed—and that wasn’t the end of his bad week.

(another Graham Turner)

Henry ordered that his body be publically displayed so that everyone would know who was the king and who was dead, then the body was hastily dumped, probably naked, into a hole dug in the grounds of the Priory of the Grey Friars in Leicester.  (For more on the priory, see:  https://storyofleicester.info/faith-belief/grey-friars/ )

When Henry VIII (1491-1547) began the process of restructuring the English branch of the Church by emptying monasteries, nunneries, and other Church properties, then selling them off,

the Priory was knocked down and disappeared for nearly 500 years, leaving Richard to be the subject of one of Shakespeare’s first hits,

which depicted a twisted monster, juicily played by everyone from the original Richard, Richard Burbage (c.1567-1619),

to David Garrick (1717-1779),

to Laurence Olivier (1907-1989).

By 2012, the site of the Priory had been covered by a car park,

In which, upon excavation, was found what was first posited to be Richard’s grave, and then confirmed when DNA from the bones was matched with those of living descendants.

When those bones were examined, it appeared that Richard had received a number of wounds to his torso, most of them posthumous and slight, but what probably killed him were two to the head,

one, perhaps with a sword,

the other with a polearm, like one of these.

Such a wound in such a place suggests that, surprisingly, for a man with the ability to afford the finest Italian or German armor,

Richard wasn’t wearing a helmet when he was fatally attacked.  (For more on Richard’s wounds, see this excellent piece at the University of Leicester website:  https://le.ac.uk/richard-iii/identification/osteology/injuries/how-richard-iii-died )

I doubt that this was carelessness—Richard was an experienced warrior in his early 30s.  When it was rumored, during the Battle of Hastings in 1066, that Duke William had been killed, he unstrapped his helmet in mid-battle and rode among his men to prove that he was still alive,

but, over 400 years later, bright-patterned and easily recognized heraldry, on shields, banners, and horse trappers, had made such potentially dangerous self-identification unnecessary. 

Thus, Richard would have had no need to doff his helmet to make himself known to his faltering followers.

Might we presume, then, that perhaps earlier blows had so damaged his helmet that he’d been forced to discard it?

This, or some other plausible explanation might tell us why Richard had lost his helmet at Bosworth, but what can we say about certain medieval-ish warriors in a number of popular films and television productions who always seem to appear totally fearless—and helmet-less–in battle? 

Aragorn, for example, faces an army of orcs like this–

And there’s a whole list of characters from A Game of Thrones—

Robb Stark,

Jaime Lannister,

Brienne of Tarth,

and Jon Snow.

This strikes me as especially odd when people in that series seem always to be talking about “sigils” which identify “houses”,

which is just like the heraldry which we see in the time of Richard III.

We even see Robb with such a sigil on his shield (but still no helmet)—

And I sense that this will also hold true for the latest series, “Rings of Power”, with its Galadriel looking more like Brienne of Tarth of A Game of Thrones

than the Lady of Lorien.

(the Hildebrandts)

This is not to criticize the new series—I have only seen a trailer or two and some stills—but the consequences in the real medieval world without a helmet could be deadly, as in the case of Richard III, or nearly so in the case of the young Prince Henry (1386-1422), son of Henry IV and, after his father’s death in 1413, Henry V.

Henry was with his father at the Battle of Shrewsbury, 21 July, 1403, when he was hit in the face by an arrow.  It’s highly doubtful that he was helmetless—at 16, he was seasoned enough that Henry IV had trusted him with command of part of the royal army—but perhaps had raised his visor

at what he had thought was a safe moment.  (This is a slightly later helmet, but it gives you the idea.  By the way, if you read that saluting is derived from this, just shake your head:  the gesture actually comes from the move to take off your hat and bow to a superior officer.)

The arrow sank deep in and it was only the genius of the surgeon/goldsmith, John Bradmore, who, with a combination of early antisepsis—the use of wine to wash out the wound and honey to prevent infection—along with an extractor of his own invention—

which saved the life of the prince.  (For more on Prince Hal and his terrible wound, see “Too Narrow Escapes”—a Doubtfulsea posting from 5 July, 2017.)

In his days in A Game of Thrones, Jon Snow suffers enough wounds to kill at least three people—and, in fact, is once actually killed, but brought back to life—

and yet, true to television and film, his head is always bare. 

I wonder what, seeing that, and even admiring his seemingly endless luck, Richard III might have told him?

Thanks for reading, as ever.

Stay well,

Keep your visor down,

And know that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC

O

ps

Perhaps Galadriel has overheard me and is choosing a better helmet?

As ever, welcome, dear readers.

I’ve just finished watching an ancient TV production

of Charles Dickens’ (1812-1870)

 The Old Curiosity Shop (first published 1841—although printed serially slightly earlier)

This is, in my view, one of Dickens’ gloomiest novels, mostly about a sadistic and physically-twisted character named Quilp,

who pursues a rather mentally-unstable elderly man with a gambling addiction and his granddaughter, called “Little Nell”.

There are a number of literary anecdotes related to this book, including one which says that people supposedly mobbed the wharf in New York when it was reported that the last installment, in which we find Nell succumbing to what appears to be a combination of exhaustion and perhaps tuberculosis, had just arrived by ship from London.  This reinforces the usual stereotype of the overly-sentimental Victorians, but there is another side to this, a later Victorian’s opinion, which may have been said or written by Oscar Wilde (1854-1900):  “One must have a heart of stone to read the death of Little Nell without laughing.” (For more on this quotation, see:  https://quoteinvestigator.com/2021/02/21/heart-stone/#more-439260 )

It is not my favorite Dickens (Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, Dombey and Son, David Copperfield, and Bleak House being those which I reread) but there is a scene here which recently caught my attention because of another work entirely.  Kit (surnamed “Nubbles”, a typical Dickensian last name, but hardly up there with “Mr Pumblechook” from Great Expectations) works as a kind of assistant in Little Nell’s grandfather’s antique store (or junk shop—it’s a little hard to tell).

Several times a week, he is instructed in writing by Nell, which affords much merriment all around, it seems, but perhaps not much actual learning–

“…when he did sit down, he tucked up his sleeves and squared

his elbows and put his face close to the copy-book and squinted

horribly at the lines how, from the very first moment of having the

pen in his hand, he began to wallow in blots, and to daub himself

with ink up to the very roots of his hair how, if he did by accident

form a letter properly, he immediately smeared it out again with his

arm in his preparations to make another how, at every fresh mistake,

there was a fresh burst of merriment from the child and a louder and

not less hearty laugh from poor Kit himself…” (The Old Curiosity Shop, Chapter 3)

(This is a well-known painting by Victorian painter by Robert Braithwaite Martineau, 1826-1869,

entitled “Kit’s Writing Lesson”, 1852.)

Just before I finished the Dickens, I had also viewed the finale of the last season of A Game of Thrones.  As I’ve written previously I did this reluctantly because I was aware that some of my favorite characters would not survive.  One of these was “Lord Varys”, the spy master for several Westeros kings in succession,

who, for all that he was an agent for espionage and potential assassination, was, in fact, one of the most humane of characters.

Another, who, fortunately, did survive, was Sir Davos Seaworth,

whose past career as a smuggler had lost him the fingers of his right hand and whose loyalty to the would-be king Stannis Baratheon,

 who had punished him, would lose him his son.

Seemingly always on the edge of execution, he is befriended by Stannis’ only child, Princess Shireen, who, when he is imprisoned, tries to cheer him by bringing him some of her books, only to have him admit that he can’t read.  She begins to teach him (he’s clearly a very rapid learner), moving from letters to words (ironically, he has trouble with “knights”, even though he is one) and here I saw reappear that same image:  the child helping someone older to become literate.

That Kit can’t read or write might not be surprising when The Old Curiosity Shop is supposed to take place, in the 1820s, but literacy grew rapidly throughout the 19^th century in Dickens’ England, pushed by the Industrial Revolution and helped in the latter part of the century by the government’s Taunton Report (1868) and the Elementary Education Act (1870).  (For a quick look at the history of British education, see:  https://www.schoolsmith.co.uk/history-of-education/ )

And, in real terms, that literacy can be seen in the amazing spread of newspapers and magazines throughout the century.  Just a rough count using the listing in the WIKI article “List of English 19^th Century Periodicals (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_19th-century_British_periodicals ) and starting the count in the 1830s (Victoria became queen in 1837), we can see just for the 1830s-40s, 78 publications, some of them, like the Illustrated London News (begun in 1842) surviving as late as 1971.

Westeros, in contrast, and true to its medieval roots, appears to have very limited literacy, restricted to the upper classes—Sir Davos originally came from the lowest slum in the capital city, Flea Bottom—and specialists, the “maesters”.  Messenger ravens travel from maester to maester for long-distance communication,

and there are a number of libraries stashed around the island under the control of the maesters, including this rather dazzling one at Oldtown.

This semester, I’m once more teaching a fun course about monsters and, in it, we read, among other things, The Odyssey, and The Hobbit, the one depicting an ancient world and the other a sort of medieval world a bit like that in A Game of Thrones and it’s interesting to see that one of the differences between these two is the appearance—or lack—of literacy. 

No one in The Odyssey ever reads or writes anything.  Information is conveyed entirely by word of mouth.  That news is highly valued when it comes is emphasized in Book 1, where, when Penelope complains that the aoidos (ah-oy-DAWS), Phemios, is singing about the (relatively) recent war at Troy—in the story, obviously treated as a real event–and its aftermath, her son, Telemakhos, replies:

“My mother, why, then, do you begrudge the distinguished singer

To sing in whatever way the spirit moves him?…

For men applaud more a song

[which is] the newest which floats around those listening.” (1.346-352)

These are not readers, then, but those who use their ears to gain knowledge (the Greek word I translated as “listening” is the present active participle akouontessi from the verb akouo, “to hear”).

In the opening chapter of The Hobbit, although Tolkien tells us that “By no means all Hobbits were lettered” (The Lord of the Rings, Prologue, 3 “Of the Ordering of the Shire”), what do we see Bilbo doing (besides smoking an enormous pipe and trying to fend off Gandalf)?

“Then he took out his morning letters, and began to read, pretending to take no more notice of the old man.” (The Hobbit, Chapter One, “An Unexpected Party”)

(Perhaps my favorite Hildebrandt Bros illustration)

The Prologue to The Lord of the Rings, gives us a bit more about the Shire’s postal system (see 3 “Of the Ordering of the Shire”, as well as does an earlier posting from this blog, “His Letters”, 25 May, 2016), and the very idea of such a system suggests a level of literacy far beyond that of the occasional raven.  As well, there are other references to the ability to read, such as the inscriptions, visible and invisible, on Thror’s map,

and even the written announcement of the auction of the (officially assumed deceased) Bilbo’s house and possessions in Chapter 19:

“There was a large notice in black and red hung on the gate, stating that on June the Twenty-second Messrs Grubb, Grubbe, and Burrowes would sell by auction the effects of the late Bilbo Baggins Esquire…” (The Hobbit, Chapter 19, “The Last Stage”)

Kit is laboriously acquiring literacy, as is Sir Davos, each being instructed by someone younger than himself.  That makes me wonder who taught Bilbo, let alone anyone else in the Shire—and beyond—to read and how?

As there are no schools in the Shire, we can only presume that it was done in an informal setting, as in the case of Kit and Sir Davos.  Beyond that, we can only guess, but we do have a hint in something which the Gaffer says in Chapter One of The Lord of the Rings about Bilbo himself:

“But my lad Sam will know more about that.  He’s in and out of Bag End.  Crazy about stories of the old days he is, and he listens to all Mr. Bilbo’s tales.  Mr Bilbo has learned him his letters—meaning no harm, mark you, and I hope no harm will come of it.” (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book One, Chapter 1, “A Long-expected Party”)

So, in the case of Sam, at least, we see the same instruction as that received by Kit and Sir Davos—one on one teaching.  For more on this, please see “Learned Him His Letters”, a posting here, from 4 November, 2020.

Thanks, as ever, for reading—and how wonderful it is that we all can do what I still find such a magical act:  stepping into other times and other worlds at the turn of a page.

Stay well,

Turn that page,

And remember that there’s always

MTCIDC

O

PS

File under “odd coincidence”–

Martineau’s best known work is this, entitled “Last Day in the Old Home”, painted in 1862.

 It is actually a portrait of a friend of the artist, John Leslie Toke, whose most distant ancestor came to England in 1066 with Duke William.  That ancestor came from Touques in Normandy and so the spelling and the pronunciation differ, as so often in English.  That being the case, the name should be said “Toook”.  Although Tolkien goes into a bit of detail about various Tooks in Letters (especially about “Lalia the Great”—see 294-5) and we are given tantalizing hints about Took propensities in Chapter One of The Hobbit, I have yet to see any information about the Tolkienian inspiration for the name, but perhaps the original Baron Touque was a forebear?  (For more on the historical family, see:  https://www.houseofnames.com/toke-family-crest )