As ever, welcome, dear readers.

The Russian dramatist and short- story writer, Anton Chekov  (1860-1904),

is recorded as remarking—more than once, in fact—that, if you mention a loaded rifle or pistol hanging on a wall early in a story or play, you should either use it later (in the second or third chapter, he says, of a story) or get rid of it as a distraction.  (There’s a useful little WIKI article citing all three times Chekov said this in various forms:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chekhov%27s_gun   The American writer, Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961), having read this, dismissed it in an unpublished essay entitled “The Art of the Short Story”.  For an introduction to that essay and the essay itself:  http://www.pfgpowell.plus.com/Pages%201/Resources/Art%20of%20the%20Short%20Story.pdf )

I’ve always felt this way about a scene from The Lord of the Rings which I discussed in a recent posting.  This is the moment when the Lord of the Nazgul is about to strike the brave Eowyn down with his mace, having just shattered her shield. 

Just as he swings his weapon:

“…suddenly he too stumbled forward with a cry of bitter pain, and his stroke went wide, driving into the ground.  Merry’s sword had stabbed him from behind, shearing through the black mantle, and passing up beneath the hauberk had pierced the sinew behind his mighty knee.”  (The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 6, “The Battle of the Pelennor Fields”)

Eowyn  then destroys the Nazgul by running her sword through what would have been his head, had anything been visible but his eyes.  Her sword is an ordinary one, but  s aided by the fact that she is a woman  just after the Witch King has announced that “No living man may hinder me!” (For more on this, see the posting “Echoes”) 

Merry’s is a different matter—and here’s Chekov’s loaded pistol.

Various adapters of The Lord of the Rings have had trouble over the years dealing with Tom Bombadil. 

He enters the story early, rescuing Frodo and his friends twice, once from Old Man Willow,

and a second time from a barrow wight. 

Most adapters have made what might appear to be an easy decision:  they’ve cut him out entirely.  I say “appear” because, in the process, they also remove that loaded pistol.  Not literally, of course—although it appears that gunpowder is available, at least for Orcs and their masters (it seems to be used at Helm’s Deep and again at the Rammas Echor, the great wall which surrounds the Pelennor)—the major missile weapon in Middle-earth is the bow.

It’s Merry’s sword.  After Tom and Frodo carry Sam, Merry, and Pippin out of the barrow,

Tom goes back in and brings out all sorts of treasures, including:

“For each of the hobbits he chose a dagger, long, leaf-shaped, and keen, of marvellous workmanship, damasked with serpent-forms in red and gold.

[This is what “damasked”—also called “damascened”– looks like.]

They gleamed as he drew them from their black sheaths, wrought of some strange metal, light and strong, and set with many fiery stones.  Whether by some virtue in these sheaths or because of the spell that lay on the mound, the blades seemed untouched by time, unrusted, sharp, glittering in the sun.

‘Old knives are long enough as swords for hobbit-people,’ he said.   ‘Sharp blades are good to have, if Shire-folk go walking, east, south, or far away into dark and danger.’  Then he told them that these blades were forged many long years ago by Men of Westernesse:  ‘ they were foes of the Dark Lord, but they were overcome by the evil king of Carn Dum in the Land of Angmar.’ “ (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book One, Chapter 8, “Fog on the Barrow Downs”)

It’s important to understand that last fact:  the “evil king of Carn Dum” is, in fact, the Witch King of Angmar, aka The Lord of the Nazgul.  Merry’s sword, then, was fashioned long before for a distinct purpose:  to deal with the forces of an ancient evil.  And, unlike its original owner, it has survived the final fall of the kingdom of Arnor. 

One of the great powers of The Lord of the Rings is that it is not a kind of one-off adventure, but set into a very long history.  The Ring itself is extremely old, Aragorn’s remade sword, Anduril, was actually the sword of Elendil, a shard of which Isildur used to cut the ring from the defeated Sauron’s hand centuries and centuries earlier.  Like Anduril, Merry’s sword was created to fit into the history of those wars which will finally end only with the destruction of the Ring.  In its own way, it is in the story for a purpose.

There is a moment, however, when it looks like it may disappear from that story.  When Merry and Pippin are captured by the Orcs,

it was seized, along with Pippin’s:

“ ‘Well!’ said Merry.  ‘I never expected to see those again!  I marked a few orcs with mine; but Ugluk took them from us  How he glared!  At first I thought that he was going to stab me, but he threw the things away as if they burned him.’ “ (The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 9, “Flotsam and Jetsam”)

But was it actually gone for good?

When the two hobbits are reunited with the surviving members of the Fellowship, Aragorn says to them:

“ ‘Here are some treasures that you let fall…You will be glad to have them back.’ He loosened his belt from under his cloak, and took from it the two sheathed knives.”

And Merry still has the sword when he climbs onto Dernhelm’s horse to join in Theoden’s last ride;

“ ‘No mail have we to fit you,’ said Eowyn, ‘nor any time for the forging of such a hauberk, but here is also a stout jerkin of leather, a belt, and a knife  A sword you have.’ “ (The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 3, “The Muster of Rohan”)

Tolkien doesn’t mention the sword’s pedigree in the scene between Eowyn and the Nazgul, but its effect, we can presume, is that for which its makers had designed it long ago, wounding the seemingly unwoundable, crippling him so that Eowyn can then bring him down:

“Then tottering, struggling up, with her last strength she drove her sword between crown and mantle, as the great shoulders bowed before her.  The sword broke sparkling into many shards.  The crown rolled away with a clang.  Eowyn fell forward upon her fallen foe.  But lo! the mantle and hauberk were empty.  Shapeless they lay now on the ground, torn and tumbled, and a cry went up into the shuddering air, and faded to a shrill wailing, passing with the wind, a voice bodiless and thin that died, and was swallowed up, and was never heard again in that age of this world.”  (The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 6, “The Battle of the Pelennor Fields”)

As I’ve said, most adapters have removed Tom Bombadil and thus the barrow wight and thus the power of Merry’s sword, but, when Peter Jackson’s Aragorn simply dumps a sack of swords on the hobbits,

saying something like “You’ll need these”, we have not only lost what Tom Bombadil himself may have  brought to the story, but we lose something more:  that sense which runs throughout the novel that, although things change over time, much is never lost, but remains to fulfill its historical purpose–and the loaded gun will go off.

Thanks, as always, for reading.

Stay well,

Examine your blade closely for runes,

And remember that there’s always

MTCIDC

O

As always, dear readers, welcome.

I’ve never polled anyone on this, but I’m willing to bet that most people are visually-oriented.  Certainly, in my experience, students always learn better when they have lots of images to go on and I know that this is true for me, as well.   It’s one thing, for example, to read Jonathan Harker’s description in Dracula of what he observed below him:

“What I saw was the Count’s head coming out from the window. I did not see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had so many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but I kept looking, and it could be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall.”  (Dracula, Chapter III)

It’s another to see it visualized in this Marvel Classics comic book—

or, even better done, I think, by Fritz Schwimbeck (1889-1972) in this early-20^th century depiction.

(If you don’t have a copy of Dracula, Project Gutenberg has one of the original 1897 American edition at:  https://www.gutenberg.org/files/345/345-h/345-h.htm .  If you would like to see more of Schwimbeck’s definitely odd work, the wonderfully-named Monster Brains has a selection:  https://monsterbrains.blogspot.com/2021/02/fritz-schwimbeck-1889-1972.html  )

Illustrations of Tolkien’s work interest me in particular.  There’s a huge amount of it—rather like fan fiction—with everything on-line from amateur drawings inspired by the Jackson films, some very skillfully done, to professional art.   Using last week’s posting, where I talked about two possible influences from earlier literary works on the scene between Eowyn and the chief Nazgul, as a basis, I thought that I would examine a few such depictions, thinking out loud about the artists’ choices of focus and elements to include in their presentation.

We should begin, as those artists did, with the scene as painted by the author.  There’s a lot to take in, so I’ll try to stick to the most important points, as I see them, from the standpoint of illustration.  So that I don’t need to repeat the references, with the exception of the depiction of the original lighting (from the end of The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 5, “The Ride of the Rohirrim”), all the rest of the detail is from Chapter 6, “The Battle of the Pelennor Fields”.

First, there’s the general setting:

“Theoden…had reached the road from the Gate to the River, and he turned towards the City that was now less than a mile distant…Ahead nearer the walls Elfhelm’s men were among the siege-engines…”

So, as a backdrop, there, potentially, are the walls of Minas Tirith.  What about the lighting?  Initially, it was this:

“For morning came, morning and a wind from the sea; and darkness was removed…”

But, suddenly:

“The new morning was blotted from the sky.”

This is the arrival of the chief of the Nazgul, who kills Snowmane, Theoden’s horse, and Theoden is pinned underneath him.  That chief is riding a very peculiar mount:

“…it was a winged creature:  if bird, then greater than all other birds, and it was naked, and neither quill nor feather did it bear, and its vast pinions were as webs of hide between horned fingers…Down, down it came…and settled upon the body of Snowmane, digging in its claws, stooping its long naked neck.”

Its rider is all menace:

“Upon it sat a shape, black-mantled, huge and threatening.  A crown of steel he bore, but between rim and robe naught was there to see, save only a deadly gleam of eyes…A great black mace he wielded.”

At first, we might think that Theoden is alone, trapped under his horse:

“The knights of his house lay slain about him, or else mastered by the madness of their steeds were borne far away.”

But there is one survivor:  “Yet one stood there still:  Dernhelm…”

And there is another: 

“Right through the charge Merry had been borne unharmed behind him, until the Shadow came; and then Windfola had thrown them in his terror, and now ran wild upon the plain.  Merry crawled on all fours like a dazed beast…”

Now the scene is set for the action to come:

“There some paces from him sat the great beast, and all seemed dark about it, and above it loomed the Nazgul Lord…A little to the left facing them stood she whom he had called Dernhelm.  But the helm of her secrecy had fallen from her, and her bright hair, released from its bonds, gleamed with pale gold upon her shoulders…A sword was in her hand, and she raised her shield against the horror of her enemy’s eyes.”

Merry isn’t long at center stage:  “Slowly, slowly he began to crawl aside…”

There is a brief pause, then:

“Suddenly the great beast beat its hideous wings…Again it leaped into the air, and then swiftly fell down upon Eowyn, shrieking, striking with beak and claw.”

This turns out to be an ill-judged move as:

“A swift stroke she dealt, skilled and deadly.  The outstretched neck she clover asunder, and the hewn head fell like a stone.  Backward she sprang as the huge shape crashed to ruin, vast wings outspread, crumpled on the earth, and with its fall the shadow passed away.  A light fell about her, and her hair shone in the sunrise.”

But

“Out of the wreck rose the Black Rider, tall and threatening, towering above her.  With a cry of hatred…he let fall his mace.  Her shield was shivered in many pieces, and her arm was broken; she stumbled to her knees.  He bent over her like a cloud, and his eyes glittered; he raised his mace to kill.”

And reenter the unnoticed Merry:

“But suddenly he too stumbled forward with a cry of bitter pain, and his stroke went wide, driving into the ground.  Merry’s sword had stabbed him from behind, shearing through the black mantle, and passing up beneath the hauberk had pierced the sinew behind his mighty knee.”

When Eowyn completes his downfall:

“Then tottering, struggling up, with her last strength she drove her sword between crown and mantle, as the great shoulders bowed before her.  The sword broke sparkling into many shards.  The crown rolled away with a clang.  Eowyn fell forward upon her fallen foe.  But lo! The mantle and hauberk were empty.  Shapeless they lay now on the ground, torn and tumbled…”

This is obviously too much to incorporate in one picture (it takes two minutes and twenty-three seconds in the Jackson film version), but here could be the major elements of such an image:

1. the mile-away city as a backdrop

2. Theoden under his horse

3. the Nazgul on his beast

4. Eowyn standing in front of him

5. Merry lurking to one side

What choices, then, will a selection of artists make and which part of the action will they portray?

There are, in fact, heaps of illustrations to choose from, but, in the interests of space—and maybe sanity—I’ve narrowed it down to about a half-dozen, which I’ve selected as a mixture of mostly early and later depictions and all but one of which I believe to be among the most convincing.   As is my usual policy, rather than criticize (there is much too much of that on the internet, so much of it uninformed ranting), I just want to observe and comment.

Let’s begin with this, which I’d guess is the oldest, by the Hildebrandts.

As you can see, it’s the moment when Eowyn is about to remove the flying beast from the scene.  In terms of the setting, it’s missing Theoden under Snowmane, as well as the city in the distance, and Merry isn’t visible, everything being focused upon the bravery of Eowyn—but you’ll notice that the light has already reappeared, when the text specifically says that it only did after the beheading of the beast.

Our second image, and probably the second oldest, is by Frank Frazetta, known now mainly for his depictions of very lush women.  I almost didn’t add this, fearing that some of my readers might think it a bit over the top, but, as I was determined to employ a number of professional artists, it seemed important to include it.

This seems to me one of the most basic depictions, focusing entirely on only two figures, Eowyn and the Nazgul, who has had his crown replaced with a helmet, and leaving out any background, Theoden under Snowmane, the beast, and Merry.  Eowyn is dressed in very impractical armor and is still wearing her (equally impractical) helmet.  In contrast to the Hildebrants’ heroic view, this appears to show a defeated Eowyn, which, to me, misses the main point of the scene as the author presented it.

A third early illustration is by Angus McBride, who was primarily a military artist with a strong interest in ancient and medieval wars and armies.  Here’s his depiction of a Celtic chieftain in his chariot, for example.

And here’s his version of our scene.

If we count up the elements—Theoden under Snowmane, the Nazgul on his beast, a helmetless Eowyn (with the most convincing armor and shield—a proper mail hauberk and the white horse of Rohan on that shield), and Merry crawling in the foreground—not to mention Eowyn’s defiant pose—this strikes me as one of the images which is most faithful to the text.

We are lucky to have not one, but two illustrations by Ted Nasmith.

It’s always the case with Nasmith’s work that he is a very careful reader of Tolkien and both of these illustrations show the care with which he approaches a scene.  Although Theoden isn’t visible in the first, or the city, you’ll see both in the second and in both the Nazgul with beast, alive or dead, a defiant Eowyn, and Merry, sword in hand, in the foreground, just in sight.

As I’ve said, there are numerous versions of this scene, but I’ll include two more.  The first is by Donato Giancola and fits very nicely into the same careful  approach as those of McBride and Nasmith.

Here we see the walls, Theoden and Snowmane, the Nazgul and dead beast, the helmetless Eowyn, and a small Merry poised to deliver his deadly blow. 

The last is by the prolific Russian illustrator, Denis Gordeev.

No Minas Tirith, no Theoden and Snowmane, but definitely the Nazgul and part of the beast, Merry slipping up behind and what I suspect was, for the artist, the point of his depiction:  the defiant, helmetless Eowyn. 

So, dear readers, which of these is—or are—most memorable for you?

Thanks, as ever, for reading,

Stay well,

Strike skilled and deadly strokes,

And know that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC,

O

As ever, dear readers, welcome.

In my last posting, which was about goblins,  I quoted a stanza from a poem which my grandmother used to recite, James Whitcomb Riley’s “Little Orphant Annie” (1885).  Riley wanted to sound like someone from rural Ohio, so the poem is written in late 19^th-century Midwestern US dialect:

“An’ one time a little girl ‘ud allus laugh an’ grin

An’ make fun of ever’one, an’ all her blood an’ kin;

An’ onc’t, when they was “company,” an’ ole folks was there,

She mocked ‘em an’ shocked ‘em, an’ said she didn’t care!

An’ jist as she kicked up her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,

They was two great Black Things a-standin’ by her side,

An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ‘fore she knowed  what she’s about!

An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you

Ef you

   Don’t

     Watch

        Out!”

(If you don’t know the poem, here’s a LINK to the whole text:  https://poets.org/poem/little-orphant-annie )

It was, for a small person, a fairly disturbing poem, and this stanza in particular, haunted me (pun definitely intended).   I was used to monsters of all types and sizes, from Frankenstein

to Godzilla,

to fairy tale dragons,

but somehow these goblins were especially troubling because, unlike those other creatures, who all had a distinctive look, these had no shape, being described as just “two great Black Things”. 

I forgot all about them, however—except for that warning at the end of the stanza—“And the Gobble-uns’ll  git ef you don’t watch out!” (always good to be watchful about the supernatural), until I was in grad school and I met this in Milton’s Paradise Lost:

“The other shape,

If shape it might be call’d that shape had none

Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb,

Or substance might be call’d that shadow seem’d,

For each seem’d either;  black it stood as Night,

Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell,

And shook a dreadful Dart; what seem’d his head

The likeness of a Kingly Crown had on.”

(Paradise Lost, Book II, 666-673)

It was a description of Death and there was that shapelessness again.  But there was another  shapeless something  in my life by then—and, I suspect for you, dear readers, as well:

“Upon it sat a shape, black-mantled, huge and threatening.  A crown of steel he bore, but between rim and robe naught was there to see, save only a deadly gleam of eyes:  the Lord of the Nazgul.”  (The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 6, “The Battle of the Pelennor Fields”)

(A wonderful image by Donato Giancola)

JRRT could be a little touchy about influences—see, for instance, this from a surviving draft of a letter to a “Mr. Drang”:

“As in the case with Moria.  In fact this first appeared in The Hobbit chap.1.  It was there, as I remember, a casual ‘echo’ of Soria Moria Castle in one of the Scandinavian tales translated by Dasent.  (The tale had no interest for me:  I had already forgotten it and have never since looked at it.  It was thus merely the source of the sound-sequence …”  (Letters, 384)

(Tolkien mentions  “Dasent”—who is actually Sir George W. Dasent—and “Scandinavian tales”—meaning his Popular Tales from the Norse (1859—actually a translation of a Norwegian work by Asbjornsen and Moe, 1843/4—and the two praised Dasent’s translation)—here’s a LINK for you for it:  https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/8933/pg8933-images.html –in which said castle appears, but I suspect that it’s more likely that he read it—or probably first had it read to him by his mother—in Andrew Lang’s 1890 The Red Fairy Book.  Here’s a copy for you—https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Red_Fairy_Book )

And there’s only one direct mention of Milton in Letters (see page 344), but Tolkien was a Victorian, if a late one, which meant that, even as a schoolboy, he would have been exposed to what would then have been considered the core of English literature (and, to a degree, morality), poems like Paradise Lost (1667/1674)

(This is the 1674 edition, in which Milton made some changes to the text and redivided it from the original 10 into 12 books, inspired, I suspect, by the Aeneid.  And here’s a LINK to a copy of that edition for you:   https://archive.org/details/ParadiseLost1674CopyB )

and books like John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678). 

(If you don’t own a copy, here’s a LINK to an 1878 facsimile of the first edition:   https://archive.org/details/pilgrimsprogress1878buny/page/n15/mode/2up )

There is also another echo, I think, in the same passage, where the Nazgul says to Eowyn:

“ ‘Hinder me?  Thou fool.  No living man may hinder me!’

Then Merry heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest.  It seemed that Dernhelm laughed, and the clear voice was like the ring of steel.  ‘But no living man am I!  You look upon a woman.  Eowyn I am, Eomund’s daughter.  You stand between me and my lord and kin.  Begone, if you be not deathless!  For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.’ “

(by Ted Nasmith)

In Act IV of Shakespeare’s Macbeth (1606?),

Macbeth is given a series of prophecies by the same witches who had appeared to him in Act I.

One of these prophecies (delivered by the “Apparition” of a “Bloody Childe”) is:

Be bloody, bold, & resolute:

Laugh to scorne

The powre of man:  For none of woman borne

Shall harme Macbeth.”

(Macbeth, Act IV, Scene 1, 1619-1622)

This makes Macbeth quite cocky as he polishes off one opponent, Seyward,  near the end of Act V, sneering at him as “borne of woman”.  But then he meets MacDuff (“MacDuffe” in the spelling of the First Folio (1623), from which my text comes) and to his boast:

“I beare a charmed Life, which must not yield

To one of woman borne.”

MacDuff replies:

“Dispaire thy Charme,

And let the Angell whom thou still hast serv’d

Tell thee, MacDuffe was from his Mother’s womb

Untimely ript.”

(Macbeth, Act V, Scene 7, 2451-6)

Needless to say, “Exeunt fighting”—“they leave [the stage] fighting”, but only MacDuff reenters—carrying Macbeth’s head.

Although Tolkien professes an early dislike of Shakespeare (Letters, 213), there is no doubt that he had read Macbeth, as he expresses his disappointment in Shakespeare’s employment of Birnam Wood.  Speaking of the Ents, he writes:

“Their part in the story is due, I think, to my bitter disappointment and disgust from schooldays with the shabby use made in Shakespeare of the coming of ‘Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane hill’. “

(Letter to W.H. Auden, 7 June, 1955, Letters, 212)

So, like it or not, somewhere in the back of JRRT’s capacious mind lay an image from Milton and an idea from Shakespeare, waiting to come together in a new and stirring scene.

Thanks, as always, for reading,

Stay well,

Avoid elderly ladies making suspicious stews in public,

And know that, as ever, there’s

MTCIDC

O

ps

But if Shakespeare was “disliked cordially” by JRRT, the present author loves him and perhaps you do, too.  If so, you might enjoy reading him as I do, in the earliest editions, which give you a clearer sense of how “chewy” Shakespeare’s speech was.  Here’s a LINK to the First Folio version of Macbeth so that you can see what I mean:  https://internetshakespeare.uvic.ca/doc/Mac_F1/complete/index.html   And, if you’d like to learn about the reconstructed pronunciation of south-central English in Shakespeare’s time, have a look at this:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gi7IyqOjarA

“Ding-dong!  The Witch is dead!

Which old Witch?  The Wicked Witch!

Ding-dong!  The Wicked Witch is dead.

Wake up you sleepy head, rub your eyes, get out of bed.

Wake up, the Wicked Witch is dead.

She’s gone where the goblins go–

Below, below, below.

Yo-ho, let’s open up and sing and ring the bells out.

Ding-dong the merry-oh, sing it high, sing it low.

Let them know the Wicked Witch is dead!”

(E.Y. Harburg, 1939—my additional punctuation where it seems to be needed)

Welcome, as always, dear readers.  This rather blood-thirsty ditty appears, as probably all readers know, after a house lands on an unsuspecting practitioner of magic, the Wicked Witch of the East.

She may be unsuspecting, but she is also an oppressor, having previously subjugated those now singing about her demise, the Munchkins.

(This desire to dominate seems to run in her family, as her sister, the Wicked Witch of the West,

is the terror of the Winkies—who also form her bodyguard.

If this is unfamiliar to you, here’s a map to help—

When I was very little and first saw The Wizard of Oz, something in this song, although one of rejoicing, puzzled me.  I knew what “goblins” were, sort of, from a poem which my grandmother used to recite, Jame Whitcomb Riley’s “Little Orphant Annie” (1885).  Those goblins were mentioned at the end of most stanzas, but it was this stanza that stood out for me (it’s written in late 19^th-century Midwestern US dialect, which is why some of the spelling might seem a little odd):

“An’ one time a little girl ‘ud allus laugh an’ grin

An’ make fun of ever’one, an’ all her blood an’ kin;

An’ onc’t, when they was “company,” an’ ole folks was there,

She mocked ‘em an’ shocked ‘em, an’ said she didn’t care!

An’ jist as she kicked up her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,

They was two great Black Things a-standin’ by her side,

An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ‘fore she knowed  what she’s about!

An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you

Ef you

   Don’t

     Watch

        Out!”

(If you don’t know the poem, here’s a LINK to the whole text:  https://poets.org/poem/little-orphant-annie )

But, if the goblins in the song went somehow “below”, where did those two “Things” come from which took the little girl through the ceiling?  My bedroom was at the top of the house, under the roof, and there were storage spaces tucked into the lower sides, each one closed by a little door,

and, when I went to bed at night, I began to be a little nervous:  did we have goblins in our house?  did the goblins live behind those doors?

We also had a small and very gloomy cellar, however, the dominant object being what seemed to me a gigantic coal furnace (yes, right out of the movie, Home Alone),

but away from its heat and light, there were nothing but dark, cobwebby corners.

I was as reluctant to go down there as I was to peek behind the little doors upstairs.  Was this “below”?

If so, it would certainly fit in with 19^th-century depictions of goblins, like those in fairy tales, both folk and literary, which my mother and grandmother read to me—and which I later read to myself– like George MacDonald’s The Princess and the Goblin (1870/2), illustrated by Arthur Hughes,

where the goblins live in an underground kingdom, but plan to tunnel to the surface to steal the princess of the book’s title and marry her to a goblin prince.  (May the idea of tunneling to the surface have been an inspiration for the gnomes of Underland in CS Lewis’ The Silver Chair (1953) and their mistress, the Lady of the Green Kirtle’s, plan to invade the upper world through a tunnel?

The goblins’ underground dwellings, however, were much larger and more elaborate than our little basement and so, as I grew, did my sense of those goblins, so that, by the time I first read The Hobbit, I could easily imagine, when Bilbo and the dwarves have been captured, that:

“…they stumbled into a big cavern.

It was lit by a great red fire in the middle, and by torches along the walls…There in the shadows on a large flat stone sat a tremendous goblin with a huge head, and armed goblins were standing around him carrying the axes and the bent swords that they use.”  (The Hobbit, Chapter 4, “Over Hill and Under Hill”)

Now this was a real “below”—and, just as in the song, the place was full of goblins.

And yet there was always the lingering question, even if “below” could be answered—or at least imagined—why “below” at all? Why didn’t goblins live in villages, or trees, or on beaches?  James Whitcomb Riley, after all, could suggest that some at least used a house’s upper floor (and my small  person fear easily agreed with that).

But I suppose that the answer is really a very basic one.  What was behind those little doors upstairs and what lay in the corners of the cellar was darkness.  As Tolkien described the goblins:

“Now goblins are cruel, wicked, and bad-hearted…”

to which Treebeard adds:

“It is a mark of evil things that came in the Great Darkness that they cannot abide the Sun…” (The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 4, “Treebeard”)

Above or below, then, the important element was avoiding the day and perhaps it’s instructive that, when I began to worry so much about those little doors that I couldn’t sleep, my mother bought me a flashlight.

As always, thanks for reading.

Stay well,

Always carry extra batteries,

And remember that, as ever, there’s

MTCIDC

O

ps

And, if you don’t have a copy of The Princess and the Goblin, here’s a LINK to an edition from 1907, which includes Hughes’ original illustrations:  https://www.gatewaytotheclassics.com/browse/display.php?author=macdonald&book=goblin&story=_front

As ever, dear readers, welcome.

As Gondor musters to defend itself, we can see that Gondor is a feudal state: 

“And so the companies came and were hailed and cheered and passed through the Gate…The men of Ringlo Vale behind the son of their lord…a long line of men of many sorts…scantily equipped save for the household of Golasgil their lord…Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth…and a company of knights in full harness…” (The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 1, “Minas Tirith”)

In the early feudal system, a lord got his land from a king and, in return, he owed that king military service, meaning that, not only did he have to show up upon royal command, but he had to bring his own men with him.

In the 20^th century, such a system was long gone, replaced in most of Europe in the mid-19^th century by a system called conscription.  In this system, laws were passed so that men from about 18 and at least into their early 30s were to be graded as to their suitability to become soldiers, the youngest being selected to serve a certain number of years of active duty

before going into various stages of reserves, who could then be called up in case of war.

The purpose of this was to swell armies, as each increasingly-industrialized state sought to keep its position of power and influence in pre-Great War Europe.

The exception was Britain, which relied entirely upon willing recruits to fill the ranks of its much smaller regular army.

(You can see, by the way, by the wording of this poster, that, even though their army was much smaller, the plan was still to build up reserves.)

Thus, when war actually came in August, 1914, although the other European countries involved called in masses of reservists,

the British government had to depend initially upon volunteers.

This worked surprisingly well in 1914 and into 1915, in part because of native patriotism, but also because of a view of the German enemy projected in popular literature and the popular press.  Here’s the Kaiser, the German emperor Wilhelm II, about to take a big bite out of the world, for example.

Unfortunately, the Germans themselves provided a good deal of ammunition for such a view with their march through neutral Belgium in 1914

and their subsequent occupation.  During their last war with France, in 1870-71, Prussian and their allied troops had occasionally found themselves the victims of what we would call “partisans” or guerrillas, but the French—and the Germans—called them “francs tireurs”, meaning armed men not belonging to a recognized military unit who would try to sabotage Prussian war efforts by everything from train derailments to ambushing individual soldiers.

In 1914, the Germans were convinced that they would face the same thing in Belgium and northern France, and so behaved mercilessly to civilians of those two countries, murdering, by some reports, over 7000 of them as well as destroying public buildings, including the priceless medieval library in Louvain/Leuven.

The destruction of Louvain/Leuven is well documented, but some of the stories about atrocities were undoubtedly simply exaggerations or even complete fictions, but, as we’ve seen in the internet age, rumors are sometimes more powerful than truth and Britain, in need of soldiers, was certainly willing to use any reports, as distorted as they might be, as a recruiting stimulus.  And so the Germans became everything from uniformed, bloated vampires  (the caption reads: “The ferocious beast feels hunger coming on”)

to maddened gorillas,

the Kaiser an ally of the Devil,

and all civilians and their homes everywhere would be endangered by them.

Although the British themselves instituted conscription in early 1916,

the grotesque propaganda continued, as the war ground into 1917 and then through most of 1918.

And the Germans, from the war’s start, projected their own image of the enemy.  A favorite was Britain as a blood-sucking spider, planning to bring all of Europe—

and perhaps beyond–

into its web.  Often in posters and on postcards, German soldiers are depicted as bigger than their enemies, as if they were adults and their adversaries were only little boys in uniform.

(The verses read:  “Strike, Michael/strike strongly/so that the sparks fly/so they have dread and gloom before the German blows”—it’s catchier auf deutsch)

I can never look at such artwork without thinking just how much at least of the English variety Tolkien must have seen.  It’s clear that, although he would have been 21 and over in 1914,

he wasn’t one to rush to a recruiting station as so many did,

so that I can imagine he would have had a skeptical reaction to such stuff, at best.

But, in a “what if” moment, I imagine a Gondor much more like 1914 Britain, where the feudal system has gone and there is general literacy:  can we imagine the posters Denethor’s administration would have turned out?  Orcs looting Osgiliath, Orcs burning the Pelennor, a mounted  Nazgul in the ruined gateway of Minas Tirith with the words,  “Will You Wait Till You See This?”

And, of course, there would be the other side’s propaganda, too—big red, staring eyes everywhere,

like that painted on the replacement for the fallen head of the unnamed king at the crossroads in South Ithilien,

and perhaps posters (to be read aloud by the few literate among the Orcs to the masses of others) like this,

with a slight revision of the words:  “If You Were a Horse Boy Aged 18-50, YOU Would Be Fighting for Theoden!   What Are You Doing for the Eye!”

Thanks for reading, as ever.

Stay well,

Don’t believe all you read,

And know that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC

O

As ever, dear readers, welcome.

Since Grima attempted to brain Gandalf with something he seems to have randomly picked up in Orthanc,

things have not gone well for Pippin.  Tempted to examine the makeshift weapon, he has suffered an interrogation from Sauron

and now is flying south at great speed on Shadowfax with Gandalf as his companion.

(a drawing by Anna Kulisz)

As they ride, Pippin:

“…heard Gandalf singing softly to himself, murmuring brief snatches  of rhyme in many tongues, as the miles ran under them.  At last the wizard passed into a song of which the hobbit caught the words:  a few lines came clear to his ears through the rushing of the wind:

‘Tall ships and tall kings

Three times three,

What brought they from the foundered land

Over the flowing sea?

Seven stars and seven stones

And one white tree.’

‘What are you saying, Gandalf?’ asked Pippin.

‘I was just running over some of the Rhymes of Lore in my mind,’ answered the wizard.  ‘Hobbits, I suppose, have forgotten them, even those that they ever knew.’

‘No, not all,’ said Pippin.  ‘And we have many of our own, which wouldn’t interest you, perhaps.’ “

(The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 11, “The Palantir”)

It’s not only wizards and hobbits who have such lore, however.   Treebeard

also has a stock, as we can see in his conversation with Merry and Pippin:

“  ‘What are you, I wonder?  I cannot place you.  You do not seem to come in the old lists that I learned when I was young.  But that was a long, long time ago, and they may have made new lists.  Let me see!  Let me see!  How did it go?

“Learn now the lore of Living Creatures!

First name the four, the free peoples:

Eldest of all, the elf-children;

Dwarf the delver, dark are his houses;

Ent, the earthborn, old as mountains;

Man the mortal, master of horses;”

Hm, hm, hm.

“Beaver the builder, buck the leaper,

Bear, bee-hunter, boar the fighter;

Hound is hungry, hare is fearful…”

hm, hm.

“Eagle in eyrie, ox in pasture,

Hart horn-crowned; hawk is swiftest,

Swan the whitest, serpent coldest…”

Hoom, hm; hoom, hm, how did it go?  Room tum, room tum, roomty toom tum.  It was a long list.’ “

(The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 4, “Treebeard”)

It’s interesting to note that both Gandalf and Treebeard’s lore is patterned in verse forms, Gandalf’s in a 6-line stanza of a/b/c/b/d/b and Treebeard’s, which has the suggestion of the common Old English four-stress, alliterative line which we see in poems like Beowulf.

Hwaet!  We Gardena    in geardagum

Theodcyninga    thrym gefrunon…

 Silence!  We Spear-Danes    in the so-long past time

Heard of the heroics    of high kings of the people…

(My translation—not strictly accurate, but I want to give the feel of the form.  For the original, as well as a more literal translation, please see one of my favorite Old English sites:  https://heorot.dk/beowulf-rede-text.html   For more on the form, see:   http://oe.langeslag.org/docs/s01c_verse.pdf  )

There’s a telling detail, by the way, in Treebeard’s “ Room tum, room tum, roomty toom tum”.   If we emphasize certain syllables, we can see that he’s trying to stir his memory of the next lines by doing the stresses of the poem:   ROOM tum  ROOM tum   ROOM-ty TOOM tum, as in DWARF the DEL-ver   DARK are his HOUS-es .

Keeping things in your memory is an ancient concern in Western culture, going back to the Greco-Roman world, particularly for public speakers—politicians and lawyers–and the Greeks even had a goddess for memory, Mnemosyne (Mnay-MAH-sih-nee, in modern—American—English pronunciation).

There were various ingenious methods created both for remembering and for developing the memory, some of them quite elaborate, such as that cited in our earliest-surviving Latin rhetorical text, the anonymous Rhetorica ad Herennium (c.80BC), in which the author explains a complex association system based upon loci, “places” and imagines, “figures/images”.

(Here’s the Latin with an English translation, if you’d like to learn more:  https://archive.org/details/adcherenniumdera00capluoft  You’ll want to turn to Book III, Section XVI and beyond, beginning on page 205.)

As well, just as appears to be the case in Middle-earth, the use of rhythm and/or rhyme is common in Western wisdom literature, even for remembering the most basic things.  In English, for example, with what can sometimes seem like a completely arbitrary spelling system, how do we remember which comes first, I or E in a word?

“I before E,

except after C—

Or, when sounded like AY,

As in ‘neighbor’ and ‘weigh’.

Or the Julio-Gregorian calendar—which months have how many days?

“Thirty days hath September,

April, June, and November.”

This, unfortunately, leaves out 28-day February, with its extra day, every four years, and so there is a little more:

“All the rest have thirty-one

Save February at twenty-eight,

But leap year, coming once in four,

February then has one day more.”

This starts out with a bounce, but stumbles, doesn’t it, at “Save February at twenty-eight”?  Perhaps if we rewrote it as something like

“Thirty-one the rest—but wait—

February’s twenty-eight

Except in leap year—one in four—

And then that month has one day more.”

(For an article which covers a good deal of ground on the subject of this little useful rhyme see:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thirty_Days_Hath_September

Mnemosyne was said to have been seduced by Zeus, who appeared to her disguised as a shepherd.

He slept with her over nine days and the fruit of that seduction was the 9 Muses,

who inspired all of the arts, which, although they require creativity to bring into being, also require their mother’s gift of memory to retain what is created.  Several goddesses are involved in the creation of poetry—Calliope,

Thalia,

and Erato–

so I wonder who may have inspired Merry and Pippin to suggest adding to Treebeard’s lore:

“ ‘We always seem to have got left out of the old lists, and the old stories,’ said Merry.  ‘Yet we’ve been about for quite a long time.  We’re hobbits.’

‘Why not make a new line?’ said Pippin.

Half-grown hobbits, the hole-dwellers.

Put us in amongst the four, next to Man (the Big People) and you’ve got it.’ “

As always, thanks for reading.

Stay well,

Keep your thoughts in order,

And know that there will always be

MTCIDC

O

As ever, dear readers, welcome.

We’ve seen this scene not long ago—

Merry and Pippin in the hands of the Orcs, both of them a bit roughed up in their capture.  And now things have gotten worse, as a scout for the Rohirrim has spotted them and pursuit will soon begin.  Ugluk, the leader of Saruman’s Uruk-hai—whom, if you read last week’s posting, you know that I can see as the equivalent of a tough old British sergeant—

now has to move his men along at a faster rate:  “Now we’ll have to leg it double quick.” 

He has two burdens, however, in Merry and Pippin, whom the Orcs have been carrying, as he says to Pippin:

“ ‘My lads are tired of lugging you about.  We have got to climb down and you must use your legs…’

He cut the thongs around Pippin’s legs and ankles, picked him up by the hair and stood him on his feet.  Pippin fell down, and Ugluk dragged him up by his hair again.  Several Orcs laughed.  Ugluk thrust a flask between his teeth and poured some burning liquid down his throat:  he felt a hot fierce glow flow through him.  The pain in his legs and ankles vanished.  He could stand.”

If we continue with the idea that behind the Orcs is the British Army of 1916, then we might imagine that what Sergeant Ugluk has just done is what was done on a daily basis:  he’s issued a rum ration, which came in large ceramic containers, like this one—

(SRD stood for “Supply Reserve Depot”, but soldiers had more creative—and sometimes bitter—translations, like “Service Rum—Diluted” or “Seldom Reaches Destination”.)

Rations were handed out

in very small portions—1/16^th of a pint—in the older system an ounce—roughly 30ml—here’s what that looks like.

(And here’s a useful article which will tell you more:  https://pointshistory.com/2014/05/29/world-war-i-part-2-the-british-rum-ration/ )

Having gotten Pippin onto his feet, Ugluk moves on to Merry.

“ ‘Now for the other!’ said Ugluk.  Pippin saw him go to Merry, who was lying close by, and kick him.  Merry groaned.  Seizing him roughly, Ugluk pulled him into a sitting position, and tore the bandage from his head.  Then he smeared the wound with some dark stuff out of a small wooden box.  Merry cried out and struggled wildly.

The Orcs clapped and hooted.  ‘Can’t take his medicine,’ they jeered.  ‘Doesn’t know what’s good for him.  Ai!  We shall have good fun later.’

But at the moment Ugluk was not engaged in sport.  He needed speed and had to humour unwilling followers.  He was healing Merry in orc-fashion; and his treatment worked swiftly.  When he had forced a drink from his flask down the hobbit’s throat, cut his leg-bonds, and dragged him to his feet, Merry stood up, looking pale but grim and defiant, and very much alive.  The gash in his forehead gave him no more trouble, but he bore a brown scar to the end of his days.”  (The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 3, “The Uruk-hai”)

This is Orc first aid and it made me think about the medical system which JRRT would have encountered in those bloody days at the Somme, in the summer of 1916.

The obstacles facing the British soldiers once they’d climbed out of their trenches

 are almost unbelievable.

First, there was the landscape itself, ruined by endless shell fire from both sides.

Then, as the Germans recovered from the initial British artillery bombardment, their guns might start up again, lobbing high explosives and shrapnel (metal balls spread by shells which were timed to explode overhead) at the oncoming troops.

In front of the advancing troops would be miles of barbed wire

which, it was hoped, had been cut by that initial bombardment, but was not always the case. 

And beyond the wire were the many German machine guns, each firing about 600 rounds (shots) a minute,

and sited so that each gun’s fire would cross that of at least one other, doubling the danger of being hit.  This would be combined with rifle fire from the enemy infantry

and hand grenades if the British soldiers managed to get close enough.

It is no wonder, then, that casualties were so high.  On the first day of the Somme, 1 July, 1916, the British lost nearly 60,000 men killed, wounded, or taken prisoner. 

If a soldier was wounded close to his own trenches, he might be able to limp or drag himself back, or he might be helped by another soldier, wounded or not,

although there was a certain suspicion among the higher command that this would be an easy way for unwounded men to slip away from the fighting and could be frowned upon.  Sometimes captured Germans might be pressed into service to help with the wounded.

(It was a fairly common fact that, once soldiers were wounded, they could be considered as somehow out of the war and both sides could be very gentle with the other side’s casualties.)  There were also military stretcher-bearers, whose job was to go out onto the battlefield behind the advancing troops to pick up casualties—which could be a very dangerous job if they got too close to the fighting.

Once back behind their own lines, the wounded came—or were brought—to a first aid station, for immediate treatment and a look-over, to see how badly wounded someone was.

If further treatment was required, wounded men would be conveyed by ambulance—either horse-drawn

or motorized

to the next medical stop, the casualty clearing station.

A very serious wound would necessitate further attention at a base hospital

(which could be in a converted hotel or chateau, as here) or even a transfer to Britain.

Here’s the whole process done wonderfully in silhouette.

It’s a blessing for those of us who love Tolkien’s work that, although he was involved in the Somme battle and subsequently went through the medical system, he wasn’t wounded by shrapnel

or a German sniper’s bullet,

but by an attacker who favored neither side and whose effects, if rarely fatal, could be long-lasting:  a human body louse.

In October, 1916, he was invalided out of his unit, suffering from a number of complaints linked to something called “trench fever”, and eventually shipped back to England, never to return to France.  The cause was that louse, which had crawled into the lining of his clothing

to lay eggs.

Within the louse or its eggs was a bacterium which could enter the body through a break in the skin and, once in, produced a wide series of symptoms very nicely depicted here—

With huge numbers of soldiers living so close together and very few chances until your unit was pulled back from the trenches to wash thoroughly and have your uniform properly cleaned, the best the men could do was to try to pick or burn the lice out of the seams, which, considering the huge numbers and persistence of lice, was never very successful.

Ugluk could treat exhaustion and surface head wounds with his rough medicine, but, in 1916, there was no cure for trench fever—in fact, it was only late in the War that lice were firmly identified as a major factor (here’s a copy of a major medical work of the period which seeks to understand what’s going on:   https://archive.org/details/medicaldiseaseso00hursuoft  see page 180 and following).  Mild cases—CS Lewis had one—seemed to cure themselves, but for severe cases, like Tolkien’s, the best that could be done was to send the patient home—which saved him from the bloodbaths to come and gave us The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings.

As ever, thanks for reading.

Stay well,

Avoid the trenches at all costs,

And remember that there’s always

MTCIDC

O

As always, dear readers, welcome.

It has been discussed, both elsewhere in print and on this blog, what an Orc is.

 Treebeard’s definition is often cited, saying of Saruman:

“ ‘He has taken up with foul folk, with the Orcs.  Brm, hoom!  Worse than that:  he has been doing something to them; something dangerous.  For these Isengarders are more like wicked Men.  It is a mark of evil things that came in the Great Darkness that they cannot abide the Sun; but Saruman’s Orcs can endure it, even if they hate it.  I wondered what he has done?  Are they Men he has ruined, or has he blended the races of Orcs and Men?  That would be a black evil!’ ”  (The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 4, “Treebeard”)

When asked about Orcs, JRRT offered several clues, saying:

1. “Also the Orcs (goblins) and other monsters bred by the First Enemy…” (letter to Milton Waldman, late 1951? Letters, 151)—so, somehow created by Morgoth, Sauron’s master

2.  “But since they are servants of the Dark Power, and later of Sauron, neither of whom could, or would, produce living things, they must be ‘corruptions’.” (letter to Naomi Mitchison, 25 April, 1951, Letters, 178)

3. “Treebeard does not say that the Dark Lord ‘created’ Trolls and Orcs.  He says he ‘made’ them in counterfeit of certain creatures pre-existing.  There is, to me, a wide gulf between the two statements…It is not true actually of the Orcs—who are fundamentally a race of ‘rational incarnate’ creatures, though horribly corrupted…” (draft of letter to Peter Hastings, September, 1954, Letters, 190)—in this same letter, he also quotes Frodo:  “ ‘The Shadow that bred them can only mock, it cannot make real new things of its own.  I don’t think it gave life to the Orcs, it only ruined them and twisted them.’ “ (The Return of the King, Book Six, Chapter 1, “The Tower of Cirith Ungol”)

4. “I have represented at least the Orcs as pre-existing real beings on whom the Dark Lord has exerted the fullness of his power in remodeling and corrupting them, not making them.”  (from the same draft to Peter Hastings)

5. “Elves may turn into Orcs, and if this required the special pervasive malice of Morgoth, still Elves themselves could do evil deeds.” (continuation of draft of letter sent to Rhona Beare, 14 October, 1958, Letters, 287)

As these are remarks by the creator (well, “sub-creator”, as JRRT would say), then they must be true, but I would offer another detail—not as to who or what Orcs are, but on whom they might be based.

Humphrey Carpenter, in his 1977 biography of Tolkien, quotes him as writing:

“My ‘Sam Gamgee’ is indeed a reflexion of the English soldier, of the privates and batmen I knew in the 1914 war…” (Carpenter, 89)

Such a soldier was called a “Tommy” (short for “Tommy Atkins”) in the Great War, and, although there is, as is often the case with nicknames (just try looking up the old name for a US soldier, “Doughboy”) controversy, it seems to have been a generic name for “infantryman” as early as the 1740s. 

JRRT’s Tommies in 1916 would have looked like this—

although very often more like this—

(A “batman”, by the way, isn’t what you might think

but an officer’s servant, called, it seems, after the pack saddle—in French “un bat”—on which rested an officer’s worldly goods in the field.)

Over the Tommies was a massive hierarchy, beginning with the army’s commander-in-chief—from late December, 1915, Douglas Haig,

down through a Tommy’s regimental commander, a colonel or lieutenant colonel,

to his company commander, a captain,

down to his platoon commander, a second lieutenant, like the one so often written about on this blog.

While a lieutenant might march at the head of the parade, however

the Tommy’s real boss was the man behind him, the sergeant, in the pre-Great War days, usually a senior soldier, with much experience, on battlefields and in barracks, who stood between the men and the officers, often as a kind of interpreter, and, to junior officers, as a kind of mentor.

At the beginning of the Great War, in 1914, senior officers were often men with long experience, many veterans of colonial wars across the globe,

and they commanded an all-volunteer army.

To meet the massive German army, swollen with reservists called up for active duty,

the British government initially relied upon patriotic calls for more volunteers, and got them.

So many soldiers needed many officers to control them and the government called in reservists and retired officers, but also depended upon boys who had been trained at their private schools in earlier student cadet organizations and then the OTC (Officer Training Corps), one such organization being formed at King Edward’s School, in Birmingham.

Such officers came from the middle and upper classes and therefore would have sounded very different from  their (mostly) lower class soldiers.  Officers were “gentlemen” and, even in the later years of the War, when replacements had to be found lower down the social scale, those promoted were coached in how to act as if they had come from much farther up that scale—hence the (really rather insulting) initials,“TG”, attached to them—“Temporary Gentlemen”.

Sergeants, however, were usually of the same social class as the men and would have sounded like them, as well as shared their values.

Which brings us to our Orcs.

Here is the sound of one of Sauron’s upper-class commanders—perhaps this is the Dark Lord’s Field Marshall Haig– on the field of battle:

“ ‘Come not between the Nazgul and his prey!  Or he will not slay thee in thy turn.  He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh will be devoured, and thy shriveled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.’ “ (The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 6, “The Battle of the Pelennor Fields”)

And here is what I would suggest is an Orc sergeant, Ugluk:

“ ‘You’ll run with me behind you…Run! Or you’ll never see your beloved holes again.  By the White Hand!  What’s the use of sending out mountain-maggots on a trip, only half trained.  Run, curse you!  Run while night lasts!’ “ (The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 3, “The Uruk-hai”)

And, if that’s an Orc sergeant, then, although they carry swords, spears, and bows,

rather than modern magazine rifles and bayonets

mightn’t we see those whom Ugluk is driving before him, as Tolkien says of Sam Gamgee, a “reflexion of the British soldier”, but now corrupted and twisted, as the Orcs were by Morgoth and Sauron, into the infantry of the Dark Lord?

Thanks, as always, for reading.

Stay well,

And in your ranks,

And remember that, as ever, there’s

MTCIDC

O

“ ‘What are they wanted for?’ asked several voices. ‘Why alive?  Do they give good sport?’

‘No!  I heard that one of them has got something, something that’s wanted for the War, some Elvish plot or other.’ “ (The Two Towers, Book  Three, Chapter 3, “The Uruk-hai”)

As ever, dear readers, welcome.

 Pippin and Merry are in a bad spot.  After Boromir’s death,

they have been dragged off by the Orcs who killed him.

The Orc leaders, Ugluk, of Isengard, and Grishnakh, of Mordor, had been given orders to capture Hobbits, but the orders are rather vague, which is not surprising, considering who gave them and their ultimate purpose.  On the one hand, there is Saruman,

who we know from his attempt at corrupting Gandalf is aware that the Ring exists and is associated with the Shire. (The Felllowship of the Ring, Book Two, Chapter 2, “The Council of Elrond).

On the other is the original owner of the Ring,

who has learned from a tortured Gollum of the name Baggins, also associated with the Shire,

and has dispatched not only a band of Orcs to find Hobbits, under Grishnakh, but also several of “the apple of the Great Eye”, as Grishnakh puts it, the Nazgul.

(a wonderfully atmospheric depiction by Anato Finnstark)

Each of these two, Saruman and Sauron, is determined to obtain the Ring for himself, but also very cautious about the kind of thinking expressed by one of the anonymous Orc voices quoted above: 

“ ‘Is that all you know?  Why don’t we search them and find out?  We might find something that we could use ourselves.’ “

Grishnakh’s orders, as he states them, reflect Sauron’s caution:  “The prisoners are NOT to be searched or plundered…”  And Ugluk’s are, basically, the same:  “Alive and as captured, no spoiling.”

With such lack of specificity even for those in charge of the operation, it’s not surprising that mostly what the ordinary Orc soldiers know can be summed up in the title of this posting, scuttlebutt, originally a naval term, for the gossip which sailors spread when they spent time around the ship’s water barrel, a butt being an old name for a big wooden container for liquids.

It’s a given that JRRT’s reading influenced his writing (we only have to think about how much of Beowulf appears in The Hobbit).  It’s also true that his life on the Western Front, brief as it was (June to October, 1916),

also had its influence and here, in this Orcish scuttlebutt, we have a good example, which is really as much derived from  his experience of the War in general as from his overseas service. 

Those in charge of waging the War were, from early on—and this was true for both sides—very aware of the influence of the media upon people’s opinions.  Although there was no internet yet, or television, or radio, there was still the press–books, magazines, and, most of all, newspapers–as well as film, though still in its infancy.   A hit movie of 1916, in fact, was the “documentary” (the British War Office was behind it, so it was hardly likely to be impartial) The Battle of the Somme.

(You can see this film for yourself here:  https://archive.org/details/TheBattleOfTheSomme1916Film  This comes from the Internet Archive, which has a large collection of silent films, all for free and is one of the best cultural resources on the planet, as far as I’m concerned.)

Censorship was practiced worldwide, and sometimes extremely aggressively:  penalties for anything from conveying government-controlled information to simply voicing opposition to the War could be severe.  And such censorship was comprehensive:

“Mail, telegrams, pamphlets and books, news and newspapers, plays, photographs, films, and speech were all subject to censorship – or restrictions – during the First World War.”

This is from a website called “JanetPanic” and is describing the situation in the US, but it sums up just how far governments, both of the Allies and the Central Powers, were willing to go both to protect not only militarily sensitive information, but also their citizens’ perception of what was going on at the Front, wherever that Front happened to be.

At the Front, soldiers in the British Army were forbidden to keep diaries (the public explanation being that, if captured, they might convey all sorts of military information to the enemy, but, the unspoken, which was also true, was that conditions in the trenches were so horrendous

that governments preferred to keep the public from knowing too much about day-to-day life in what many thought was Hell—or beyond).   Private cameras were forbidden by March, 1915 and those found taking pictures were to be arrested.  (See this very interesting article:  https://historynewsnetwork.org/article/173470 )

Soldiers’ mail was censored, beginning by their own officers (JRRT developed a private code to be used with Edith so that she might learn at least a little more),

 but, to ease the minds of those at home, this postcard was developed—a little piece of closely-monitored truth:

As well, informers were encouraged—just look at the sixth “DON’T” in this poster’s list—

And we can hear an echo of this in Grishnakh’s words to Ugluk:

“You have spoken more than enough, Ugluk…I wonder how they would like it in Lugburz.  They might think that Ugluk’s shoulders needed relieving of a swollen head.  They might ask where his strange ideas came from.  Did they come from Saruman, perhaps?  Who does he think he is, setting up on his own with his filthy white badges?  They might agree with me, with Grishnakh their trusted messenger; and I Grishnakh say this:  Saruman is a fool, and a dirty treacherous fool.  But the Great Eye is on him.”

When information about the real situation is closely guarded, rumor—scuttlebutt—is what soldiers—Tommies or Orcs—have to go on and, with heavy censorship, it would have been easy for JRRT, like his Orcs, to feel that the Great Eye was upon him, as well.

Thanks, as ever, for reading,

Stay well,

If you know anything about the Ring, do as this poster suggests—

And know as well that—and this, I hope, is no secret—there’s always

MTCIDC

O

ps

(Here’s a very good introductory article on the subject of censorship in the Great War:  https://encyclopedia.1914-1918-online.net/article/censorship  This is from the extremely useful  “1914-1918-Online:   International Encyclopedia of the First World War”.)

Welcome, as always, dear readers.

I’ve just finished teaching The Odyssey once more and, because it’s such a complex work (after all, it’s made up of a number of songs by a number of singers over generations, all then put together as a single poem in the Hellenistic world), that I always find new things to think about.

This time, I began with a recurring difficulty for Odysseus.

In the 19 years he’s been away from home, he’s had no end of other difficulties, beginning with the demand by Agamemnon that he join the expedition against Troy.

He tried to dodge that by pretending to be mad, plowing the beach, but that attempt was scuttled by someone almost as clever as he, Palamedes, who placed the infant Telemachos on the beach in front of the plow and, when Odysseus swerved to avoid him, Odysseus, clearly sane, was then forced to join the other Greeks.

After ten years and the final fall of Troy,

Odysseus’ problems had just begun, including such as the Lotos-eaters (although he himself did not indulge),

a very large humanoid with a taste for human flesh,

almost becoming pork luncheon meat,

visiting the dead in the Otherworld,

avoiding Sirens (while still listening to them),

and the twin dangers of snaky Scylla and shaky Charybdis,

as well as being shipwrecked not once, but twice.

Even when he reaches home, he will have to confront over 100 suitors, all pursuing his wife.

But, besides those problems, he has another:  proving to people that he is who he says he is.  

This shouldn’t be surprising, of course.  After all, he’s been gone almost 20 years, so he’s a little like Washington Irving’s Rip van Winkle,    

who fell into a deep sleep after drinking heavily during a game of bowls with some strange little men

and woke up 20 years later, only to find that the world had changed significantly, from the days of King George to those of George Washington.  People in his village think that he’s strange, if not mad, and his sanity is no longer doubted only when two elderly locals identify him.                         

(If you don’t know this story, here’s Arthur Rackham’s beautifully-illustrated version from 1905 for you:  https://archive.org/details/ripvanwinkle00irvirich or, if you’d prefer, here’s N.C. Wyeth’s equally beautiful 1921 edition:   https://archive.org/details/ripvanwinkle00irvi   I can’t resist adding this, which is the frontispiece to the Wyeth.)

For Odysseus, now back on his home island, and because he is potentially in great danger from those suitors, even if he has the goddess Athena on his side,

just revealing his identity is tricky, but proving it depends mainly upon two things:  his ability to remember the past and to encourage others to do the same, and a deep scar he had received as a young man in a boar hunt with his grandfather, Autolycus.

For his wife, Penelope, there is one more proof:  a very special bed he once made for them, which included part of an olive tree as a bedpost.

(This is someone’s clever modern reconstruction.)

Although he hasn’t been asleep or away from home for twenty years, Aragorn

(An Alan Lee illustration, at the moment when Eowyn gives Aragorn what’s called a “stirrup cup”.)

 would appear to have a similar problem of identification, but with a twist.  Unlike Rip van Winkle, who is a nobody, and more like Odysseus, who is the headman of Ithaka, if he is really who he says he is, he has a claim to the throne of Gondor, which has been vacant for 969 years.  But how to prove that?

He has Gandalf’s backing, of course,

(I would be glad to credit the author of this very good portrait, but the signature is just too small to read, unfortunately!)

who knows his—and his people’s—history, as he says to Frodo:

“ ‘But there are few left in Middle-earth like Aragorn son of Arathorn.  The race of the Kings from over the Sea is nearly at an end.  It may be that this War of the Ring will be their last adventure.’

‘Do you really mean that Strider is one of the people of the old Kings?’ said Frodo in wonder.  ‘I thought they had all vanished long ago.  I thought he was only a Ranger.’

‘Only a Ranger!’ cried Gandalf.  ‘My dear Frodo, that is just what the Rangers are:  the last remnant in the North of the great people, the Men of the West.’ “ (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book Two, Chapter 1, “Many Meetings”)

Gandalf’s word alone would never be enough, however, as the bitter words of Denethor much later in the story—though clearly poisoned by Sauron through the palantir—show us:

“Do I not know thee, Mithrandir?  Thy hope is to rule in my stead, to stand behind every throne, north, south, or west.  I have read thy mind and its policies…With the left hand thou wouldst use me for a while as a shield against Mordor, and with the right bring up this Ranger of the North to supplant me.” (The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 7, “The Pyre of Denethor”)

Aragorn, however, has a series of other proofs at hand.

First, he has the sword of Elendil, Narsil, broken under him when he was killed at the siege of the Barad-dur,

and which is the subject of a kind of prophecy made in a dream more than once to Faramir and once to Boromir, in which “I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

‘Seek for the Sword that was broken:

 In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

 Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

 That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,

 And the Halfling forth shall stand.’ “

(The Fellowship of the Ring, Book Two, Chapter 2, “The Council of Elrond”)

Aragorn then immediately confirms the first half of this prophecy:

“ ‘And here in the house of Elrond more shall be made clear to you,’ said Aragorn, standing up.  He cast his sword upon the table that stood before Elrond, and the blade was in two pieces.  ‘Here is the Sword that was Broken!’ he said.

‘And who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?’ asked Boromir, looking in wonder at the lean face of the Ranger in his weather-stained cloak.

‘He is Aragorn son of Arathorn,’ said Elrond; ‘and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil’s son of Minas Ithil…’ “

The second proof lies in his claim on the palantir tossed from Orthanc

by Grima:

“ ‘You have looked in that accursed stone of wizardry!’ exclaimed Gimli with fear and astonishment in his face…

‘You forget to whom you speak,’ said Aragorn sternly, and his eyes glinted…’Nay, my friends, I am the lawful master of the Stone, and I had both the right and strength to use it…’ (The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 2, “The Passing of the Grey Company”)

The third proof is derived from the first and second.  When Aragorn used the palantir to contact Sauron, he never spoke, but:

“ ‘And he beheld me.  Yes, Master Gimli, he saw me, but in other guise than you see me here…To know that I lived and walked the earth was a blow to his heart, I deem; for he knew it not till now. ..Sauron had not forgotten Isildur and the sword of Elendil.  Now in the very hour of his great designs the heir of Isildur and the Sword are revealed; for I showed the blade re-forged to him.  He is not so mighty yet that he is above fear; nay, doubt ever gnaws him.’ “

And by Sauron’s reaction, it would seem that Aragorn’s claim to be the rightful king is confirmed:  by the enemy.

The fourth proof is also confirmed by others.  In one of the grimmest chapters, for me, of the whole story, Aragorn and his company ride The Paths of the Dead and, deep in the mountain, Aragorn summons the Oath-Breakers, who had deserted Isildur and were cursed by him never to find peace until called upon once more to fulfill their oath.  Aragorn claims their aid, saying:

 “ ‘The hour is come at last.  Now I go to Pelargir upon Anduin, and ye shall come after me.  And when all this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, I will hold the oath fulfilled, and ye shall have peace and depart for ever.  For I am Elessar, Isildur’s heir of Gondor.’ “

The dead follow him, sweeping down upon the fleet of the Corsairs, and, again, that they do so, confirms once more Aragorn’s claim.

There may be other details throughout the text I haven’t thought of—there often are!—but I want to conclude with perhaps the gentlest proof. 

In the chapter entitled “The Houses of Healing”, Faramir, Eowyn, and Merry all lie at the point of death—and all are saved by Aragorn, and here is a final confirmation as Gandalf says:

“ ‘Let us enter!  For it is only in the coming of Aragorn that any hope remains for the sick that lie in the House.  Thus spake Ioreth, wise-woman of Gondor:  “The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known.” ‘ “ (The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 8, “The Houses of Healing”)

Proof enough for me.

Thanks for reading, as ever.

Stay well,

Let us all hope for healing in this troubled time,

And know that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC

O