Welcome, dear readers, as always.

“ ‘I am sorry,’ said Frodo.  ‘But I am frightened and I do not feel any pity for Gollum.’

‘You have not seen him,’ Gandalf broke in.

‘No, and I don’t want to,’ said Frodo.  ‘I can’t understand you.  Do you mean to say that you, and the Elves, have let him live on after all those horrible deeds?  Now at any rate he is as bad as an Orc, and just an enemy.  He deserves death.’

‘Deserves it!  I daresay he does.  Many that live deserve death.  And some that die deserve life.  Can you give it to them?  Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement.’”  (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book One, Chapter Two, “The Shadow of the Past”)

(Alan Lee)

I’ve always thought that this was one of the most striking passages early in The Lord of the Rings.  Gandalf has been telling Frodo about his meeting with Gollum, including the unwelcome thought that Sauron, who has found out from Gollum that the Ring wasn’t lost and, in fact, was in the hands of someone called “Baggins” and may even be aware that “Baggins” and “Shire” are linked.  Frodo’s natural reaction is to panic and to blame Gollum, turning vindictive in his fear.  In contrast, Gandalf, whose more humane reaction was probably a product of his Maia nature and his long experience of events and people in Middle-earth (having arrived there in TA 1000, 2000 years before the joint birthday party which sets The Lord of the Rings in motion—TA 3001—see Christopher Tolkien, Unfinished Tales, 405,    “The Istari”), opposes Frodo’s sentence of death with one of compassion, so, when Frodo says, “What a pity that Bilbo did not stab that vile creature when he had a chance!”  Gandalf replies, “Pity?  It was Pity that stayed his hand.  Pity, and Mercy:  not to strike without need.”

I’ve also wondered where such a humane sentiment came from in Gandalf’s creator.  His deep Christian faith must have played a part, but I think another element was his experience in 1916,

when, as he writes to his son, Michael:

“Bolted into the army:  July 1915.  I found the situation intolerable and married on March 22, 1916.  May found me crossing the Channel…for the carnage of the Somme.”  (from a letter to Michael Tolkien, 6-8 March, 1941, Letters, 73)

This was the beginning of Tolkien’s short experience of actual combat in what was called, at the time, The Great War—meaning “the Big War” in British English, as it was the biggest war in any contemporary’s experience and, without World War II, it obviously couldn’t be called “World War I”.  At the same time, I think that JRRT’s time at the front, although really only measured in a few months (June to November, 1916—see Carpenter, Tolkien, 90-96 for details) might have made him find that other meaning of “great” ironic and I suspect that he would have agreed with Yoda’s reply to Luke’s “I’m looking for a great warrior.”—“Ahhh!  A great warrior…Wars not make one great.” in Star Wars V .  (You can read the script for this scene, pages 55-58, at:  https://assets.scriptslug.com/live/pdf/scripts/star-wars-episode-v-the-empire-strikes-back-1980.pdf )

The new second lieutenant

belonged to one of the battalions (sub-units) of the Lancashire Fusiliers,

one of the oldest infantry regiments in the British Army (begun as “Peyton’s Regiment” in 1688—you can read more about it here:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lancashire_Fusiliers ).  It was only one of the many units designated to be part of what would become known as “The Somme”, a battle which lasted from 1 July to 18 November, 1916—and which would cost the British alone 57,470 casualties on the first day and a total of 415,690 by 18 November.  (You can read a very detailed article about it here:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_the_Somme )

The battlefield was huge—

and Tolkien would have seen only a tiny portion of it, but what he saw should have terrified any sensible person.

We begin with the trench he would have crouched in, waiting for the order to attack (going “over the top”, which means climbing up over the forward lip of the trench).

In front of the trench was a long stretch of barbed wire, which had to be negotiated before any further forward motion was to be made.

Ahead lay the wilderness called “no man’s land”.

This varied, depending upon what had been there before the War, but, since it was often pounded by one side or the other’s artillery, whatever had been there before—farms, villages, forests—had been turned into a beaten-down desert of ruins.

Beyond there, lay the enemy’s wire entanglements.

And, beyond there were the enemy’s trenches—as many as three lines of them.

These could look like the trench Tolkien had crawled out of, but they could also be much more elaborate, with pillboxes made of concrete, reinforced with steel girders, and buried under a layer of soil both to conceal them and to help to protect them from the shells which the enemy would attempt to drop on them.

(This is the rear entry of a German pillbox.)

In those trenches would be multiple machine guns, placed to sweep the wire which lay before them.

Each of these guns could fire 600 rounds per minute, to which would be added the rifle fire of the infantry who were the trenches’ garrison.

(Peter Dennis)

Behind the trenches would be artillery, whose job was, when an attack began, to fire as many shells as possible into the enemy trenches and into no man’s land, to slow down, if not stop, the enemy attack, forcing the attackers back with heavy casualties.

Before the attack on 1 July, the British had used their heavy artillery

to destroy enemy entrenchments and, hopefully, to cut apart those deep fields of barbed wire in front of them.

Unfortunately, on 1 July, the artillery—even after a massive bombardment—failed to disrupt the wire and soldiers were simply pinned to it, perfect targets for machine gunners and the casualties mounted—and mounted

so that one can easily see why Tolkien would refer to his experience in 1916 as “the carnage of the Somme” with its British 57,470 casualties on its first day and 415,690 by its final one.

In later years, he might have a somewhat ambivalent view of what he had gone through, writing to his son Michael that

“War is a grim hard ugly business.  But it is as good a master as Oxford, or better.” (letter to Michael Tolkien, 12 July, 1940, Letters, 61)

and yet could also write this about the end of the second war:

“The appalling destruction and misery of this war mount hourly, destruction of what should be (indeed is) the common wealth of Europe, and the world, if mankind were not so besotted, wealth the loss of which will affect us all, victors or not.  Yet people gloat to hear of the endless lines, 40 miles long, of miserable refugees, women and children pouring West, dying on the way.  There seem no bowels of mercy or compassion, no imagination, left in this dark diabolic hour.”  (letter to Christopher Tolkien, 20 January, 1945, Letters, 160)

Having experienced one of the bloodiest periods in the Great War, it is no wonder, then, that JRRT could sound like Gandalf, speaking of mercy, on the one hand, and, on the other, like a changed Frodo near the end of his adventures:

“ ‘Fight?’ said Frodo.  ‘Well, I suppose it may come to that.  But remember:  there is to be no slaying of hobbits, not even if they have gone over to the other side.  Really gone over, I mean;  not just obeying ruffians’ orders because they are frightened.  No hobbit has ever killed another on purpose in the Shire, and it is not to begin now.  And nobody is to be killed at all, if it can be helped.  Keep your tempers and hold your hands to the last possible moment.’ “ (The Return of the King, Book Six, Chapter 8, “The Scouring of the Shire”)

As always, thanks for reading.

Stay well,

Consider what, had Bilbo done what Frodo wished, might have been Frodo’s fate—and Middle-earth’s,

(Ted Nasmith)

And remember that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC

O

Welcome, dear readers, as always.

Although the hero of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, 1883,

is the young narrator, Jim Hawkins, the other major character is a rascal, Long John Silver.

If you haven’t read the book, it’s a story about buried treasure (surprised?), a map,

and a voyage to find that treasure—with a crew the half of which are, unknown at first to the protagonists, (temporarily) retired pirates, led by the cook, Silver, of the pirate captain who buried the treasure, Flint.

It’s easy to see why Silver is the other major character:  charming and cold-blooded by turns, he dominates those pirates and yet clearly has a soft spot in his heart for Jim Hawkins.  At the book’s end, while the other pirates are defeated and killed or marooned on the island, we hear that:

“Silver was gone…But that was not all.  The sea-cook had not gone empty-handed. He had cut through a bulkhead unobserved, and had removed one of the sacks of coin, worth, perhaps, three or four hundred guineas, to help him on his further wanderings.

I think we were all pleased to be so cheaply quit of him.” 

The other protagonists, like Squire Trelawney and Doctor Livesey,

are sympathetic, but pale in comparison with Silver, one moment genial, the next, treacherous. (Treasure Island, Chapter XXXIV “And Last”)

And so at least I, as a reader, have always been pleased as well.  (If you want to read the story in my favorite edition, from 1911, illustrated by N.C. Wyeth, here it is:  https://archive.org/details/treasureisland00stev/page/n5/mode/2up )

There is a tradition of having, at worst, a sneaking affection for a villain which dates in English literature at least as far back as the Romantics, when the Satan of Milton’s Paradise Lost, 1667/1674, is seen as other than the destroyer of Paradise.  Shelley, in his introduction to his Prometheus Unbound, 1820, almost casually refers to Satan as “the Hero of Paradise Lost” and Blake, in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, 1790-1793, says of Milton that

“The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels and God, and at liberty when of Devils and Hell, is because he was a true poet, and of the Devil’s party without knowing it.” (“The Voice of the Devil” 3. “Energy is Eternal Delight”—But I hasten to point out that there has been an enormous amount of scholarly ink spilled over what Blake may actually have meant by this—for my purpose, however, we’ll leave it as a kind of “sympathy for the Devil”.)

Both of these Romantics found Satan more interesting than Adam and angels—in his adversarial relationship to Heaven, he’s simply more developed, and therefore not only more realistic, but, in his way, more dangerous—and tempting.

And this is why I have a soft spot for Orcs.  It’s not that I admire their behavior, from murdering Boromir

(Inger Edelfeldt)

to murdering each other,

(Alan Lee—this is the pre-murder stage—very soon the archer will shoot an arrow into the other’s eye—see The Return of the King, Book Six, Chapter 2, “The Land of Shadow”)

but that Tolkien has brought them to life through his use of dialogue:  these are real foot soldiers in a real war and vivid because of it, even if they’re villains.

In the draft of a letter from 1956, he had written:

“My ‘Sam Gamgee’ is indeed, as you say, a reflexion of the English Soldier, of the privates and batmen I knew in the 1914 war, and recognized as so far superior to myself.”  (draft of a letter to H. Cotton Minchin, not dated, although JRRT noted that some version was sent 16 April, 1956, Letters, 358)

Although I would worry if Tolkien thought that the Orcs were superior to anyone, starting with himself, I would suggest that they are also modeled on the soldiers he knew in the Great War (note, by the way:  “batmen” here means “officers’ servants” not Bruce Wayne and descendants).

Consider, in comparison, the dialogue of the two Gondorian soldiers, Mablung and Damrod, we overhear when they are keeping an eye on Frodo and Sam—it seems more like an ancient history lesson than the talk of men in the trenches:

“ ‘Aye, curse the Southrons!’ said Damrod. ‘  ‘Tis said that there were dealings of old between Gondor and the kingdoms of the Harad in the Far South; there was never friendship.  In those days our bounds were away south beyond the mouths of Anduin, and Umbar, the nearest of their realms, acknowledged our sway.’ “ (The Two Towers,Book Three, Chapter 4, “Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit”—I might add that “acknowledged our sway” sounds more like William Morris, 1834-1896, a strong influence on Tolkien, and one who revived archaic language in his writings, than the speech of ordinary infantry of any age.)

Now here are two Orcs, Grishnak and Ugluk, who sound more like Great War sergeants than historians:

“At that moment Pippin saw why some of the troop had been pointing eastward.  From that direction there now came hoarse cries, and there was Grishnakh again, and at his back a couple of score of others like him:  long-armed crook-legged Orcs.  They had a red eye painted on their shields.  Ugluk stepped forward to meet them.

‘So you’ve come back?’ he said.  ‘Thought better of it, eh?’

‘I’ve returned to see that Orders are carried out and the prisoners safe,’ answered Grishnakh.

‘Indeed!’ said Ugluk.  ‘Waste of effort.  I’ll see that orders are carried out in my command.  And what else did you come back for?  Did you leave anything behind?’

‘I left a fool,’ snarled Grishnakh.  ‘But there were some stout fellows with him that are too good to lose. I knew that you’d lead them into a mess.  I’ve come to help them.’ “  (The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 3, “The Uruk-hai”)

And what about this bit of reminiscence and wary conversation between Gorbag and Shagrat:

“…What d’you say?—if we get a chance, you and me’ll slip off and set up somewhere on our own with a few trusty lads, somewhere where there’s good loot nice and handy, and no big bosses.’

‘Ah!’ said Shagrat.  ‘Like old times!’

‘Yes,’ said Gorbag.  ‘But don’t count on it.  I’m not easy in my mind.  As I said, the Big Bosses, ay,’ his voice sank almost to a whisper, ‘ay, even the Biggest, can make mistakes.  Something nearly slipped, you say.  I say, something has slipped.  And we’ve got to look out.  Always the poor Uruks to put slips right, and small thanks.  But don’t forget:  the enemies don’t love us any more than they love Him, and if they get topsides on Him, we’re done too…’ “ (The Two Towers, Book Four, Chapter 10, “The Choices of Master Samwise”)

You won’t love them, considering their behavior towards Merry and Pippin, Frodo and Sam, you’ll probably be glad that at least 3 out of 4 are killed (Shagrat, though wounded by Snaga, escapes to report to the Barad-dur—see The Return of the King, Book Six, Chapter 1, “The Tower of Cirith Ungol”), but, perhaps, like me, you might remember Tolkien’s description of the Orcs to Peter Hastings:

“…fundamentally a race of ‘rational incarnate’ creatures, though horribly corrupted, if no more so than many Men to be met today.” (draft of letter to Peter Hastings, September, 1954, Letters, 285)

and find that, like “many Men to be met today”—and even for fictional men, like Long John Silver—you can have, as JRRT seems to, a brief moment of sympathy for them in their corruption as well as admitting that they can often be a lot more engaging than their virtuous Gondorian and Rohirric opponents.

Thanks, as always, for reading.

Stay well,

Beware the temptation of the Dark Side, even if it makes you want to turn the page and read on,

And remember that there’s always

MTCIDC

O

Welcome, as always, dear readers.

If you read this blog regularly, you know that one thing which always interests me is Tolkien’s sources, both direct and indirect.  In my last, for example, you would have read about one which he directly acknowledged, S.R. Crockett’s 1899 historical novel, The Black Douglas.

(See “Wolfing”, 11 September, 2024 for more)

In this posting, however, I want to begin with a source which prompted my writing this.

It is a pair of stanzas from Theophile Gautier’s (1811-1872)   

poem “L’Art”, which I read just the other day (my translation)–

“Toute passe—L’art robuste

Seul a l’eternite;

   Le buste

Survit a la cite.

Et la medaille austere

Que trouve un laboureur

   Sous terre

Revele un empereur.”

“Everything passes–only sturdy art

To eternity;

The bust survives the city

And the austere medallion

Which the workman finds

Under the ground

Reveals an emperor.”

Gautier belonged to the beginnings of a 19^th-century movement which was called “Art for Art’s Sake” and this poem is a declaration, directed towards artists themselves, of his belief that art survives—and should survive—the ages. 

What really caught my attention was the second of these two stanzas, first because the medallion reminded me of this medallion, which I use to teach the Germanification of the later western Roman Empire–

It was minted for the first Ostrogothic king, Theoderic (454-526), who controlled Italy and some areas to the east from 493-526AD, ruling as an ostensible agent of the eastern Roman Empire, but actually a kind of smaller version of the former western Roman emperors.  I’ve always found this image useful because it suggests several things at once:

1. although it’s in Latin (“Theodericus Rex Pius Princi[p]s—for “Princeps”—originally “Headman”—primum caput—in Roman Republican terms, the speaker of the Senate—later an imperial honorific—now the basis of our word “prince”), “Theoderic, king, religious, prince”, underneath that name is the Gothic language which, along with Latin and Greek, Theoderic (or the older spelling, Theodoric) spoke, his Gothic name being something like “Thiudareiks”.  The Greco-Roman name would mean “Gift of God (theo- god, originally Zeus, + dor- gift)”, whereas the Gothic name is a compound of thiuda, “people” and reiks, “ruler”, so “ruler of the people”.   And the name, being in two languages at once, would seem to suggest, perhaps inadvertently, that Theoderic is the ruler of both the older Roman population and the newer Gothic.

2. this message is underlined by the portrait of the king himself–although he has the general look of a later Roman ruler—his lamellar armor (armor made of overlapping metal plates) and the little Nike (not sneaker, but the angelic figure in his left hand, symbolizing victory)—his haircut and the mustache are definitely not, being Germanic.

(For more on this medallion, see:  https://pancoins.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/Theorodoric-entire-article.pdf and https://cccrh.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/05/the-coins-of-theoderic-the-ostrogoth.pdf )

The second reason that stanza caught my attention was Gautier’s suggestion that the medallion, along with the bust, are archaeological finds which have survived as emblems of a previous age, itself long lost.

Sometimes, as in the case of Gautier’s workman, finds are simply stumbled upon. The famous Rosetta Stone, for example,

was found built into a wall by French engineers from Napoleon’s 1798 invasion of Egypt,

who were, in fact, not looking for antiquities (although Napoleon’s expeditionary force actually had a scientific element attached—here’s an image of one of the volumes which, eventually, they published),

but were improving some fortifications at the time.

As time went on, however, scientific archaeology developed and began very carefully recording discoveries brought from the ground layer by layer, which is called stratigraphy, and is used by geologists and paleontologists, as well.

The thinking behind this is simply logical:  that which you find below something else is older (unless the ground is disturbed, which can and does happen), that which you find above is newer.

Something I’ve always loved about Tolkien’s work (and Tolkien himself) is the careful, patient way he’s built up Middle-earth, which is, in fact, stratigraphically designed.  For an easy example, look at Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings:

“Annals of the Kings and Rulers”,

which is then divided into:

“I  The Numenorean Kings”

which is then subdivided in turn into:

“(i) Numenor

(ii) The Realms in Exile

(iii) Eriador, Arnor, and the Heirs of Isildur

(iv) Gondor and the Heirs of Anarion

The Stewards”

to which is added

(v) Here Follows a Part of the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen”

before we move on to

“II. The House of Eorl”

Layer by layer, JRRT piles on time and its events—and this isn’t just in annalistic form—that is, a date is provided, then an event is briefly recorded (although we see this form at the beginning of Appendix B in“The Tale of Years”)—instead, we find whole short stories, like that of King Arvedui, which occupies about 2 full pages in the 50^th anniversary edition which I use in these postings (1041-1043).

The consequence of this is always a sense that Middle-earth is extremely old, inhabited, colonized, with stratum after stratum of human/elvish/dwarfish activity laid on top of each other—and sometimes standing long after those originally involved are long gone.  Consider, for example, the “Pukel-men”:

“At each turn of the road there were great standing stones that had been carved in the likeness of men, huge and clumsy-limbed, squatting cross-legged with their stumpy arms folded on fat bellies.  Some in the wearing of the years had lost all features save the dark holes of their eyes that still stared sadly at the passers-by…

Such was the dark Dunharrow, the work of long-forgotten men.  Their name was lost and no song or legend remembered it.  For what purpose they had made this place, as a town or secret temple or a tomb of kings, none in Rohan could say.  Here they laboured in the Dark Years, before ever ship came to the western shores, or Gondor of the Dunedain was built; and now they had vanished, and only the old Pukel-men were left, still sitting at the turnings of the road.” (The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 3, “The Muster of Rohan”)

On its own, this careful, detailed building of the past gives tremendous power to present events:  for ages, other people have struggled, built, fought, and perished in Middle-earth and left behind a long record of their deeds—although sometimes only nearly-forgotten monuments are all that survives.

But I think that we might also see a larger picture here, as well.

Middle-earth was not chosen just because Tolkien, as a medievalist, had it in his vocabulary.  As he tells us:

“I am historically minded.  Middle-earth is not an imaginary world.  The name is the modern form (appearing in the 13^th century and still in use) of midden-erd >middel-erd, an ancient word for the ‘oikoumene’, the abiding place of Men, the objectively real world, in use specifically opposed to imaginary worlds (as Fairyland) or unseen worlds (as Heaven and Hell).  The theatre of my tale is this earth, the one in which we now live, but the historical period is imaginary.  The essentials of that abiding place are all there (at any rate for inhabitants of N.W. Europe), so naturally it feels familiar, even if a little glorified by the enchantment of distance in time.” (“Notes on W.H. Auden’s review of The Return of the King, 1956?, Letters,345)

To which we might add:

“May I say that all this is ‘mythical’…As far as I know it is merely an imaginative invention, to express, in the only way I can, some of my (dim) apprehensions of the world.  All I can say is that, if it were ‘history’ it would be difficult to fit the lands and events (or ‘cultures’) into such evidence as we possess, archaeological or geological, concerning the nearer or remoter part of what is now called Europe…I could have fitted things in with greater verisimilitude, if the story had not become too far developed, before the question ever occurred to me.  I doubt if there would have been much gain; and I hope the, evidently long but undefined, gap in time between the Fall of Barad-dur and our Days is sufficient for ‘literary credibility’, even for readers acquainted with what is known or surmised of ‘pre-history’. “

And Tolkien has footnoted this with:

“I imagine the gap to be about 6000 years:  that is we are now at the end of the Fifth Age, if the Ages were about the same length as S.A. and T.A.  But they have, I think, quickened; and I imagine we are actually at the end of the Sixth Age, or in the Seventh.”  (Letter to Rhona Beare, 14 October, 1958, Letters, 404)

In other words, what Tolkien has done for his version of our world is to create a simulacrum of what humans in time have done for our version of our world and, as we read The Lord of the Rings, including its appendices, we are acting as something like literary archaeologists, beginning at the surface of the Third Age in its last years and reading slowly down through its strata, just as archaeologists in our world work their way down through the historical layers, recording the strata as they dig.  Although I’m admirer of good fan fiction, I don’t think that I would ever write it, but I can imagine a story which begins with an archaeologist in our world (6000 years after the Third Age) digging more deeply than ever and coming upon

“…a tall pillar loomed up before them.  It was black; and set upon it was a great stone, carved and painted in the likeness of a long White Hand…” (The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 8, “The Road to Isengard”)

Where might the story go from there?

Thanks, as ever, for reading.

Stay well,

When excavating always keep a careful record,

And remember that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC

O