(Not) Crossing Bridges

03 Wednesday Dec 2025

Tags

Anduin, Boromir, bridges, Etruscans, Horatius, Lars Porsena, Lays of Ancient Rome, Osgiliath, Tarquinius Superbus, The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien

Welcome, dear readers, as always.

We’ve been traveling along the roads of Middle-earth in the last two postings, but we’ve taken a pause at Osgiliath,

(from the Encylopedia of Arda)

before our trip across the Anduin and beyond.

Frodo and Sam had crossed the Anduin by boat, much farther upstream,

(John Howe)

(Encyclopedia of Arda)

but the bridge here is broken—

and the real reason why it’s broken may lie, not in this Middle-earth, but in our own Middle-earth and far in the past, in the early history of Rome.

The earliest Italic settlers of the area had been farmers, who built communities on seven hills to the east of the Tiber River and farmed the land below.

To their north was an older civilization, the Etruscans,

who were, culturally, a more sophisticated people.

They were also a more powerful military people

(Giuseppe Rava)

and eventually took over Rome for about a century (616-509BC).

Their last ruler of the city, Tarquinius Superbus (“Tarquinius the Arrogant”), was ejected, however, in 509BC, but did not leave quietly, going to the Etruscan king, Lars Porsena, in another Etruscan town, Clusium (Etruscan “Clevsin”),

for help. Porsena marched on Rome—

(Peter Connolly)

but, after this, ancient histories diverge—and so will we, as we pause once more at that bridge—the Pons Sublicius—the first bridge at the crossing of the Tiber. As Lars Porsena moved against the city, the Roman militia came out to fight and were defeated.

Their only chance to save Rome, they believed, was to break down the bridge and three Romans, led by a lower-rank officer, Horatius, held back the Etruscans with two higher-rank officers while that was done.

Under Etruscan pressure, the other two began to retreat, but Horatius stood his ground, even though wounded more than once, until he had word that the bridge had been broken. Upon that news, he turned, leaped into the Tiber, and swam to the other bank.

(Richard Hook)

At least one of our sources, Titus Livius (59BC-17AD), is doubtful about all of this, especially because Horatius was said to have done his swimming in full armor, but it fits into a regular story-pattern for Romans, in which a Roman suffers bravely—all for the sake of Rome. A favorite in this pattern was the story of Regulus, a Roman official, who, being allowed by his Carthaginian captors to return to Rome to deal with terms for a prisoner exchange, spoke against it in Rome, then returned to his captors to meet an unpleasant end. (For more on Regulus see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marcus_Atilius_Regulus_(consul_267_BC) )

Long after Rome’s empire was history—and legends—Horatius’ story survived and, in Victorian England, had become a literary staple because of the poem “Horatius ”, the first chapter in Thomas Babington Macaulay’s (1800-1859)

Lays of Ancient Rome (1842).

This also became a schoolboy staple, a popular favorite for memorizing and reciting in a world and time in which public poetic recitation was common. (Winston Churchill claimed that he had once won a school prize for doing so. See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horatius_Cocles You can have your own copy of the first edition of Macaulay to recite from here: https://archive.org/details/macaulaylaysofancientrome/page/n7/mode/2up )

As a Victorian schoolboy, Tolkien

would have had a double exposure to this story, then: first, in his copy of Livy’s history of Rome, Ab Urbe Condita, and then in Macaulay—which is why, rereading this passage, in which Boromir details Gondor’s rearguard action against Mordor, I saw what may have been the ultimate source for Tolkien’s bridge:

“ ‘Only a remnant of our eastern force came back, destroying the last bridge that still stood amid the ruins of Osgiliath.

I was in the company that held the bridge, until it was cast down behind us. Four only were saved by swimming: my brother and myself and two others.’ “ (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book Two, Chapter 2, “The Council of Elrond”)

Thanks, as ever, for reading. Next posting: the third and last part of the little series on Middle-earth roads, where we’ll leap over the Anduin and move east.

Stay well,

Building bridges is always better than breaking them–just ask a Roman,

And remember that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC

Mirror Image

03 Wednesday Jan 2018

Posted by Ollamh in Imaginary History, J.R.R. Tolkien, Narrative Methods

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Tags

ancient mirrors, Bag End, chiaroscuro, Claude Debussy, Egyptians, Etruscans, Georges de la Tour, Greeks, hall stand, Headington, Magic mirror, Maurice Ravel, Medieval, Miroirs, mirror, North Oxford, Parmigianino, Portrait of the Money-Lender and His Wife, Quentin Matsys, Reflections in the Water, Reflets dans L'eau, Renaissance, Romans, Snow White, The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien, Victorian

Welcome, as ever, dear readers.

In English, we have the expression “upon reflection”, meaning something like “I’ve looked back at something and have considered (or reconsidered)”. When we look at the word “reflection”, we see its Latin origin, re “back/again” and flection, from the verb flecto, flectere, flexi, flexum “to bend/turn/bow” (we show all four of what are called the “principal parts” of the verb so that you can see where words like “flexible”—and, together with that re—“reflex” come from) and can imagine that, originally, it was almost a physical act—as if a person were believed literally to have turned back to a thought, event, action, to think about it again.

But that made us wonder about a reflection in a different sense—when an image is repeated, in water, say.

(And here we provide a YouTube LINK for a beautiful piece of music “Reflets dans L’eau”—“Reflections in the Water” by Claude Debussy—1862-1918, from the set entitled, Images, Book One—1905.)

Or in a mirror.

(This haunting painting is by Georges de la Tour, 1593-1652—known for his chiaroscuro—shadow-versus-light effects—style.)

Fancifully, we might ask: does a “reflection” in this sense suggest that the image in the mirror was turning back to look at the viewer? More realistically, we might say that the image is bent/turned back upon the viewer—but we also wonder if the Latin word from which our word mirror comes might give a certain flavor of the uncanny about it. Miror, mirari, miratus sum in Latin means “to wonder/be amazed at something” (Put the Latin preposition ad– on the front of this and you’re looking at English “admire”—originally “to wonder at something”—our modern sense of this has lost something of the wide-eyed nature implied in the original, but that’s how language works—sharp things, like knives, become dull with use. In Spanish, for example, mirar comes to mean “to look at/watch/observe”.)

Certainly, folktales and folk customs once preserved something eerie about mirrors. Think of the wicked queen’s magic mirror in Snow White.

If you know the Disney version of Snow White, you probably expected us to show this image.

But this so creeped us out as children that it was not our first choice!

In various western European countries, looking into a mirror on New Year’s Eve (lots of extra things to do: while combing hair, eating an apple, taking a bath first so that the mirror is steamy) will show you the image of your intended spouse. And breaking a mirror can mean seven years of bad luck.

For Egyptians,

Greeks,

Etruscans,

Romans,

and western Medieval people, as well,

mirrors were not very breakable, however, being commonly made of a piece of polished bronze (although there were attempts, apparently, from late classical times on to do something with glass and a metal backing). Artists in the classical world, rarely missing a chance to do something more, used the backs of mirrors as surfaces for decoration, as well. Here’s a very interesting Etruscan mirror back, including an inscription (it’s the story of Icarus and Daedalus).

Mirrors with a silvered back and glass cover, the direct ancestors of modern mirrors, appeared during the Renaissance.

This is a little joke—a self-portrait of the painter—which has been included in Quentin Matsys’ (1466-1530) painting “Portrait of the Money-Lender and His Wife” (1514).

(And, speaking of Renaissance paintings with mirrors, we couldn’t resist including this famous little painting by Parmigianino (1503-1540), a self-portrait painted on a mirror-shaped convex panel.)

If silver-backed, glass-covered mirrors only appeared in the Renaissance, however, what can we say about this object on the left house wall in this picture?

We can tell it’s meant to be a mirror as, looking closely, you can just make out the reflection of a tree which is outside to the right of the open door on its surface. And is that another mirror, on the piece of furniture in the foreground on the left? If so, it fits the kind of thing called a “hall stand” which one might see in a later-Victorian house—like this piece from the 1870s.

This makes us wonder once again: how much of this entryway depicts a Middle-earth based not upon the Middle Ages, but upon the memory of houses JRRT grew up in or perhaps furnishings from his own homes in North Oxford or Headington as an adult?

But we’ll save what appears to be a Gothic Revival chair there on the right for another day…

In the meantime, thanks, as ever, for reading!

MTCIDC

We would like to take a moment and turn to the west to thank the Valar for the full recovery of our dear friend and fellow Tolkien enthusiast, EMH, from a serious operation. Get even well-er soon!

Caspar_David_Friedrich_-_Woman_before_the_Rising_Sun_(Woman_before_the_Setting_Sun)_-_WGA08253.jpg

PPS

If you enjoyed the Debussy in the link above, perhaps you might also enjoy Maurice Ravel’s (1875-1937) Miroirs (1906)—here’s a LINK.

And Whither Then?

25 Wednesday Nov 2015

Posted by Ollamh in Artists and Illustrators, Fairy Tales and Myths, J.R.R. Tolkien, Narrative Methods

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Adrien Guignet, Aeneid, art, bibliomancy, Bilbo, Birth of Venus, Bouguereau, chimp painting, Chinese, critics, Cumae, Delphi, Etruscans, Frodo, future, Genesis, Greeks, Homer, Impressionism, It's a dangerous business going out your door, Joseph, Kansas City Royals, Monet, New York Mets, Oedipus, plastrons, prophetic, prophetic books, Pythia, Romans, Scapula, Sibyls, Sortes Tolkienses, Sortes Vergilianae, the Bible, The Lord of the Rings, The New Testament, Tolkien, Vergil, World Series, Zhang Dynasty

“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your front door. You step onto the Road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book 1, Chapter 3)

Dear Readers,

Welcome, as always. In this posting, we want to propose an aid for that dangerous business to which Frodo is referring when he quotes Bilbo.

The desire to know what will happen next makes for good novel readers—and writers—but it’s also an ancient human desire.

The Old Testament gives us a pharaoh with dreams, which Joseph interprets (Genesis 41-44) and which provides us with this splendid picture by Adrien Guignet (1816-1854).

(This is an example of a whole world of painting which was devalued and declared stuffy and old-fashioned and pompous once Impressionism—which was originally mocked as just that, “impressions” rather than paintings—gained a foothold among art-buyers and the more progressive art critics. To us, although it may not have the wonderful fragmentations and color-freshness of those later painters, such older works have great importance historically—it’s the yin to the Impressionists’ yang, after all—and the over-the-top quality of some things—like this “Birth of Venus” by Bouguereau—1825-1905—has, we think, its own loopy charm.

You see what we mean about yin/yang, however, when we compare it with this Monet, painted in the same year—1879. If you were brought up on academic painters like Bouguereau, Monet’s work must have looked like chimp paintings!

)

The Chinese of the Zhang Dynasty (1500-1000BC) used turtle plastrons and cow shoulder blades to consult about the future.

The Greeks had a number of prophetic sites, like Delphi, with its Pythia.

And the Romans had several methods, beginning with what they inherited from their big brothers to the north, the Etruscans.

And, yes, this is a sheep’s liver, done in bronze. What does it do? Lots of discussion about that! It appears to have gods and perhaps constellations, or at least the sky, involved. (For more and some useful references, google “liver of Piacenza”)

The Romans consulted the insides of selected animals

and the flying patterns of birds

although this could lead to the occasional argument

as well as their own counterpart to people like the Pythia at Delphi, the Sibyls. One Sibyl, who was reputed to live at Cumae, even had a collection of prophetic books which talked about the future.

Later Romans also consulted a particular book, Vergil’s Aeneid, the idea being that you would open the book (a scroll, early on, a book—a codex—in later imperial times), close your eyes, run your finger along the lines and stop—and the line your finger was on would tell you something about the future. This is a form of bibliomancy, or telling the future by using a book. Ancients might choose Homer, or, in this case, Vergil (the Aeneid) or, for the Judeo-Christian tradition, the Bible. If you use Vergil, the practice is called Sortes Vergilianae (“Vergilian lots”—that is to say, not building sites—although one could build an interpretation upon one—but things used to determine the fate of something).

Today, we, as Tolkien fans, propose to add another text, suggesting Sortes Tolkienses (SOR-tes tol-kee-EN-ses). Pick up your copy of The Lord of the Rings, and ask it a question. Then close your eyes, open the book (make sure that it is rightsideup before you do this—although perhaps upsidedown would provide a greater-yet feel of randomness), run your index finger down the page, stop, open eyes, and read.

For our first try, we asked it who would win this year’s World Series, the New York Mets or the Kansas City Royals.

Hmm. Page 351 of the 2004 HarperCollins edition.

“…Frodo felt that he was in a timeless land that did not fade or change or fall into forgetfulness.”

Well, this is the 111^th World Series—that would certainly suggest a kind of timelessness, we supposed. Then there was that business about not fading or changing—which team had won the Series last? A quick flick through statistics gave us the Royals in 1985 and the Mets in 1986. Okay. Does that mean that, since the Mets won more recently, that wouldn’t change?

Should we try again? Influenced by the rash Oedipus, asking the Pythia only one question and not pausing for clarification, we decided that it meant the Mets.

But then the Royals won.

So, we leave it to you, dear readers. You consult the Sortes Tolkienses—just make sure that the course of your life—or your team—doesn’t depend upon it!

Thanks, as always, for reading.

MTCIDC

There is a very entertaining experiment with the more established Sortes Vergilianae to be found by googling timesonline.typepad.com/dons_life/2012/03/sortes-virgilianae.html—an essay by the ever-lively Mary Beard.

doubtfulsea

~ adventure fantasy

Tag Archives: Etruscans

(Not) Crossing Bridges

Mirror Image

And Whither Then?