Tag Archives: The Lord of the Rings

Homeric?

17 Wednesday Jun 2026

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As always, dear readers, welcome.

In my last posting, I returned to an old favorite, the Rohirrim,

(Bogi389)

whom Tolkien had described to Rhona Beare as “…not ‘medieval’ in our sense.” (letter to Rhona Beare, 14 October, 1958, Letters, 401.

I presumed, as he was referring to their armor, that “not medieval” meant not something like this—

(Graham Turner—see my last posting for more on him.)

but more like this—

(Gerry Embleton)

as his reference point was the Bayeux Tapestry—

In an earlier letter, to Milton Waldman, Tolkien had used another interesting phrase for describing the Rohirrim, “heroic ‘Homeric’ horsemen”.  (letter to Milton Waldman, “late 1951”, Letters, 221)

Although horsemen are briefly mentioned in The Iliad, (and one of the major Greeks, Nestor, is even regularly called “the “Gerenian horseman”)  the standard equine involvement is by chariot,

(This is Achilles dragging the body of the dead Hector around Troy, as described in Iliad Book 22, from line 395 on),

warriors sometimes leaping to the ground to confront their opponents, but, at other times, battling from their chariots, as we see Celtic warriors doing, both in their Irish mythological versions as well as in their real-life confrontations with the Romans in Britain.

(Peter Connolly)

JRRT says of himself:

“I was brought up in the Classics, and first discovered the sensation of literary pleasure in Homer.”  (letter to Robert Murray, SJ, 2 December, 1953, Letters, 257)

Thus, as someone who was a late-Victorian/Edwardian schoolboy, raised in the Classics, and who almost made a career in them himself, JRRT would have been well aware of this earlier warfare as reported by Julius Caesar, but, if “Homeric” doesn’t mean “horsemen”, what does it imply?

In that same earlier letter to Milton Waldman, Tolkien uses the word again, describing certain people of the Second Age:

“In the West—actually the North-West is the only part clearly envisaged in these tales—lie the precarious refuges of the Elves, while Men in those parts remain more or less uncorrupted if ignorant.  The better and nobler son [should this be “sort”?] of Men are in fact the kin of those that had departed to Numenor, but remain in a simple ‘Homeric’ state of patriarchal and tribal life.”  (Letters, 214)

So here “Homeric” is associated not with a military but with a social system:  “patriarchal and tribal”.

I’m presuming here that the operative word is “simple”—and, if we consider the Rohirrim as a horse people, rather like the Mongols in our Middle-earth’s history, who moved westwards from the Great Steppe–

but, unlike the Mongols, were not set upon destruction and conquest,

and, instead, helped to defeat the Wain-riders and became allies of Gondor,

then we might imagine them as remaining more like the horse-pasturing Mongols, even as they spread across Rohan and settled into permanent lodgings, like Edoras.

(Alan Lee)

As such, they have a king,

(the Hildebrandts)

whose power is passed down through his family—through male heirs—at the time of The Lord of the Rings through Theoden’s nephew, Eomer, as Theoden’s son, Theodred, is killed in the initial fighting against Saruman—and this is where “patriarchal”, might come in.

“Tribal”, however, puzzles me.  The Rohirrim appear to retain something of their horse-people origins, but Tolkien never gives us much of the further social structure of the Rohirrim, to suggest where this might be evident.

The Rohirrim don’t appear to be a feudal culture, however, of the sort which the Normans brought to England and imposed upon the Anglo-Saxons—that is, the pyramidal method of land-holding and population-controlling you can see in this illustration—

and which Tolkien might have thought of as “medieval” and, along with plate armor, might have distinguished for him the difference between the Rohirrim, with their Tapestry look, and the later Middle Ages.  (In case you’re not familiar with the term, there’s a useful article on feudalism here:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feudalism )

One more of his words might help us better to understand what he meant when he described the Rohirrim:  “heroic”.

In contemporary terms, “hero” is often used as the equivalent of “protagonist”, but the older Greek concept is of someone almost supernatural in his powers (possibly the child of a god and human, like Herakles or Achilles or even Aeneas) and, after death, might be given his own shrine—an heroon (he-RO-on) and honored there.

(for more on heroes and their worship, see:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hero%C3%B6n )

Although JRRT would not have wanted to suggest a religious element in his use of the word, we can imagine that what he intended was something more like “people given to bold, dramatic actions, even at the risk of death”, which would fit Achilles, for example, perfectly.

This is Achilles, binding a wound for his companion, Patroklos.  Against Achilles’ warning, Patroklos attempts to confront the Trojan hero, Hektor, but is killed and Achilles, although he himself is cautioned by his mother, Thetis, that, if he fights and kills Hektor, will soon die himself, does so anyway. 

This brings us back to that image earlier in this posting, of Achilles dragging Hektor’s body around the walls of Troy

and also leads to a further image:  Achilles, in turn, being killed by an arrow shot by the Trojan prince, Paris.

(In this scene, depicting the battle over Achilles’ body, you can see Achilles fallen, an arrow through the back of his leg.)

And, for the Rohirrim, the term would then fit Theoden perfectly, as well, as he says to Aragorn at Helm’s Deep:

“The end will not be long…But I will not end here, taken like an old badger in a trap.  Snowmane and Hasufel and the horses of my guard are in the inner court.  When dawn comes, I will bid men sound Helm’s horn, and I will ride forth.  Will you ride with me the, son of Arathorn?  Maybe we shall cleave a road, or make such an end as will be worth a song—if any be left to sing of us hereafter.”  (The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 7, “Helm’s Deep”)

(Alan Lee)

Potentially, an heroic—and Homeric—end.

Thanks for reading, as always.

Stay well,

If possible, avoid fell beasts while attempting heroic endeavors,

(Ted Nasmith)

And remember, that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC

O

Tennis, Anyone?

10 Wednesday Jun 2026

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Welcome, dear readers, as always.

The title of this posting is based upon a scene in 1920-30s country house plays where someone known as a “bright young thing”–no, not one of those—

bounds onto the stage in his whites, cheerily chirping “Tennis, anyone?”

But, lest you think that you’ve stumbled into the wrong blog, I’m actually not going to talk about tennis—except as Tolkien uses it analogically—in this quotation:

“The Rohirrim were not ‘medieval’, in our sense.  The styles of the Bayeux Tapestry (made in England) fit them well enough, if one remembers that the kind of tennis-nets [the] soldiers seem to have on are only a clumsy conventional sign for chain-mail of small rings.”  (letter to Rhona Beare, 14 October, 1958, Letters, 401)

Here’s a tennis net, in the unlikely event that you’ve never seen one—

and here’s a segment of the “Bayeux Tapestry” (actually a massive embroidery) with some warriors wearing what JRRT is talking about—

What’s going on in this scene is that a rumor during the battle of Hastings was spreading through the Norman army that William had been killed, so the Duke rode among his men with his helmet raised, and therefore anyone who knew him, at least by sight, would realize that the rumor was false (note also, in case you didn’t know about this event, the Latin caption—“Hic est Dux Will[helm”—“here is Duke William”, as well as the mounted Norman to the right who is pointing—and doubtless shouting “Iloc!”—“There [he is]!” –for something about Norman French, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norman_language )

Although he doesn’t explain “medieval”, I expect that what Tolkien means is that the Rohirrim shouldn’t look like this—

(Graham Turner—who has made a specialty of the 15th-century military—with a wonderful illustrated history of the Wars of the Roses, which I recommend highly.)

but rather like this—

If you read this blog regularly, you know that my favorite part of Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings films is the depiction of the Rohirrim—with the exception of Rohan, which should be a great, grassy plain,

but, as New Zealand doesn’t possess such, the best that could be done was this rather withered- looking landscape—

(For more on this, see “Plain and Grassy”, 24 September, 2025)

Now, however, I begin to think that, though the Rohirrim are still my favorite part, I want to add a second exception:  how the Rohirrim look.

Tolkien, after all, has given us a definite picture of what he wanted.  The Rohirrim were to be imagined as looking like the Normans (and Anglo-Saxons) we can see on the Tapestry:  wearing rather simple helmets, either hammered from one sheet of metal,

or made of a series of plates attached to a frame—called a “spangenhelm”,

and a long coat of chain mail,

which was pulled over the head, like some sweaters (“pullovers”), as you can see at the bottom of this scene from the Bayeux Tapestry–

The top part of this scene is labeled, “Harold Rex interfectus est”—“King Harold has been killed”, but there is some confusion here as to which figure is Harold.  There is an early account which says that he had been hit in the eye with a Norman arrow, so that would suggest the figure in the middle, but the arrow seems to have been a replacement for something else, so perhaps it’s the figure being struck down on the right?  (For more on this, see: https://historiamag.com/harold-death-truth/  )  In any event, we can see those same “tennis nets” on both the mounted Norman (winning) and the Anglo-Saxons on foot (losing).

In contrast, here’s Theoden, as portrayed in the Jackson films—

and add in his helmet.

What in the world is all of this?  Certainly not anything like the Bayeux Tapestry which JRRT suggested as a model and yet not the “medieval” I’m assuming he intended to steer Rhona Beare away from.  Instead, it seems like something patched together, with a leather coat underneath (?), lamellar (scale) armor below,

and other things attached—a very odd-looking breastplate in several sections, pauldrons (shoulder pieces), and vambraces (arm pieces).  There is also that helmet—

(This image comes from an amazing site:  https://www.blindsquirrelprops.com/theoden-helmet/  The Squirrel seems to be able to make/reproduce anything and, in this posting, he/she demonstrates how he/she made a reproduction of Theoden’s helmet, based upon a couple of screen captures.)

The Anglo-Saxon king, Harold,

and the Norman-king-to-be, William,

seem content with simple conical helmets—does Theoden really need more?  I’m also puzzled as to where Theoden is wearing his sword—on the right.  Soldiers on the Tapestry wear theirs on the left

and this is true for mounted men over the centuries in general, who then use the left as their bridle hand and their right to draw and use their swords (or spears as is often the case on the Tapestry).  Was Bernard Hill, who played Theoden in the films, left-handed and the director wanted him to feel comfortable? 

The mass of the Rohirrim, we mostly never see closely—

but, blowing up this image, it’s possible to determine that some attempt has been made to provide the extras with conical helmets, although what little armor one can see appears to be lamellar, rather than chain—probably for the budget’s sake—chain mail taking longer to make and the man-hours making it more expensive—for more on chain mail, here’s a very useful article—and site in general:  https://www.ironskin.com/faq-chainmail-weight-and-cost/

Tolkien was very clear as to what he intended—you have only to read his sometimes outraged comments about a proposed film to be made of The Lord of the Rings to see just how seriously he took his work and its interpretation—letter to Forrest J. Ackerman, June, 1958, Letters, 389-397—and this is an abbreviated form before he appears to have given up in frustration.

And yet, although Tolkien’s letter to Rhona Beare was certainly available to them, with its description, the director and designers of the films clearly paid little attention to his intentions when it came to the look of the Rohirrim.

So, will I still find the Rohirrim my favorite part of the films?  Well, there is that moment when we see them sweep against Sauron’s Orcs from behind—

which you can see here:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HVmWl7PrBcc

and that would be hard to give up, because, even if they don’t look like Tolkien’s idea of the Rohirrim, certainly the charge is as stirring as he described it.

At the same time, however, I’ll offer you this image, by “Bogi380”, of a very different view of the Rohirrim, much closer to Tolkien’s model—

Given the choice of what I would want the Rohirrim to look like, I know what I would choose, but, as the films are not about to be remade, I guess that I’ll stick with my favorites and, as in the case of the ungrassy Rohan, be glad for all that I do enjoy.

Thanks for reading, as always.

Stay well,

Imagine, however, what that scene might have looked like if they’d followed Tolkien’s model–

And remember, that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC

O

PS

For a practically frame-by-frame analysis of the attack of the Rohirrim and a sometimes zany one, see: https://www.extended-cut.com/p/the-charge-of-the-rohirrim-is-the

Making Money

27 Wednesday May 2026

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As always, welcome, dear readers.

In my last posting, “Blood Money” (20 May, 2026), I mentioned that, in early Western history, weregild, that is, compensation for a killing, might be paid in cattle,

or in money, more specifically, in the Merovingian/Carolingian kingdom, for which we have reparation lists, in a coin called a “denar” (more modern “denier”).

I think that we can assume that cattle might have been used before money, suggesting just how old such a custom must have been.

Money, in the Western world had first appeared in the 7th century BC, in Lydia, in western Asia Minor.

(you can read more about Lydian coinage here:  https://www.worldhistory.org/article/797/the-importance-of-the-lydian-stater-as-the-worlds/ )

This is a rather crude coin, but, picked up by the Greeks, coins became more sophisticated, commonly produced by city-states with emblems of that state and of its divine patron stamped on them, as in this Athenian coin, with Athena and her owl.

The first Western ruler to put his own head on a coin appears to have been Philip II of Macedon, the father of Alexander the Great, in the 4th century BC.

Philip has also put his name on the reverse, in the possessive case, saying “of Philip”, next to the horseman.  This is a big claim:  does he mean the horseman or the coin or maybe the silver of which the coin is made?   In fact, I think that it’s a greater claim:  that, because of the silver—and probably the horseman, as well—Philip has the backing—and therefore the right—to produce such coins, giving them their worth.

And this is an important claim:  anyone might produce a piece of metal with a decoration of some sort on it, but what is its worth unless there’s something—or someone—substantial behind it to guarantee that worth?

The reverse is true, as well:  if you can produce such coins, then you must have a certain worth, as well.

A perfect example of this thinking may be seen in this well-known coin from the last century, BC.

It is a coin issued by one of Caesar’s assassins, Brutus, and, on the reverse (the back), he’s stating his claim to be believed:  2 daggers, a liberty cap, and the date:  the Ides of March.  This implies that, on the Ides (the 15th–of March, in this case), with a knife, Brutus participated in the freeing of the enslaved Roman state (the cap was worn by a slave in a liberation ceremony)—when he was involved in Caesar’s murder. 

On the obverse (the front) is his family name, his portrait, his claim to be an official of the state (“IMP”—short for “Imperator”—that is, the holder of “imperium”, the state’s power of life and death over citizens,  given to magistrates, governors, and generals when they were sent out of Rome on a mission), and the name of the master of the government mint which issued the coin, Lucius Plaetorius Cestianus. 

Putting all of this together, it asserts both the claim that the coin has value and that the person under whom it was issued has the state’s backing to have done so—with the added claim that the person depicted on the coin had that authority because he was involved in the liberation of the state from a tyrant:  the coin, then, of a (self-appointed) hero of the Republic.

This is an unusual approach as, mostly, governments simply assert their power by issuing currency—often, in the later West, by modeling their coins on those of their illustrious predecessors, as Charlemagne clearly did on this coin, depicting himself as if he were a Roman emperor (that wreath on his head even goes as far back at Philip II) and making a Roman-style claim—

that he holds the imperium, as well as the title which the Roman Senate had awarded Octavian, “Aug”, “Augustus”, which, after Diocletian

had divided the Roman empire in 293AD, had been the title for the two senior rulers.

(“co-emperor” = Augustus and “Caesar” = each Augustus’ assistant)

In the Gallo-Celtic world, coins were first issued by tribes (probably through their kings)—this is a coin of the Lingones, a tribe from east central Gaul.

It would appear that the practice was extended to their Celtic cousins, in Britain, as we see here, in this coin from the Atrebates, who lived in the Thames valley.

(You can read more about British Celtic tribal coins here:  https://coinweek.com/the-ancient-celtic-coinage-of-britain/ )

When the Romans arrived after 43AD, these coins disappeared, to be replaced by standard Roman issues, but, through the centuries which followed, it was still a mark of authority that a ruler would issue coins, as in this of Alfred the Great, king of the Anglo-Saxons, 886-899AD,

or this of William the Conqueror (ruled England 1066-1087),

or this of Queen Victoria (ruled 1837-1901).

(Notice the rather grandiose contrast in what’s being told you on the obverse of this coin vs that of Charlemagne–not only is she Queen of Britain—by the grace of God—“Dei Gra-tia”—but Defender of the Faith”—”Fid-em Def—ensor” and, post-1877, Empress of India—“Ind-iae Imp-eratrix”)

Interestingly, the British government still used the ancient Germanic system of coin value (perhaps inherited from those same Merovingian/Carolingians who produced the “denar” from the beginning of this posting) until 1971, when it shifted to the decimal system used in much of the rest of the world.  (Here’s a really useful article on pre-decimal coinage:  https://www.royalmintmuseum.org.uk/journal/history/pounds-shillings-and-pence/   And I can’t resist this wonderful skit from Horrible History on Tudor money:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j0Qv9uSNWCk )

And this brings us to the point (at last) of this posting:  a new coin in the UK:  a 50p (that’s 50 pence or half a pound in post-1971 money)

with a special reference for those of us who read and enjoy Tolkien:  it’s a coin commemorating the 25th anniversary of the premier of the Lord of the Rings films (You can read more about it here:  https://www.bbc.co.uk/newsround/articles/cgmpneen13mo )–a fine gesture, but, note that, even as it has images from the Tolkien world on the reverse, on the obverse there’s all of this—

the King’s profile—just like Philip II’s from the 4th century BC–with the same D[ei] G[ratia] and even F[idem] D[efensor] you can see on Victoria’s coin, lacking only the claim to be IND[iae] IMP[erator].  Perhaps some things never change?

Thanks, as always, for reading.

Stay well,

Be glad that you don’t have to do arithmetic problems in pre-decimal coinage,

(This chart is from that Royal Mint Museum site listed above)

And remember that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC,

O

PS

In case, looking at them, you’ve wondered why those early coins seem so random and lumpy, see:  https://www.numisdon.com/ancient-coin-minting-techniques/

PPS

For more on coins and Mordor, see: “In Mint Condition”, 4 August, 2021.

Blood Money

20 Wednesday May 2026

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As ever, welcome, dear readers.

The Greek tragedian, Aeschylus, c.525-456BC,

was interested in murder—and revenge, and, in fact, wrote an entire trilogy of tragedies based upon the topic, the Oresteia.

In the three plays, Aeschylus gives us the initial murder of Agamemnon, high king of Greece, by his wife, Clytemnestra, and her boyfriend, Aegisthus, in Agamemnon,

Agamemnon’s son, Orestes’, revenge upon his mother and that boyfriend in The Libation Bearers,

which includes, at its conclusion, Orestes’ pursuit by the Furies, the supernatural avengers of kin-murder, and his final salvation, with the aid of Athena, in The Furies,

which includes both the pacification of the Furies and the first trial in Athens for murder, and also signals the beginning of the rule of law and the end of revenge as the way of dealing with murder—the old idea of “eye for an eye” justice being meted out by the family of the victim.

Other early societies lacked the Furies, but definitely had law and it’s interesting to see that their view of what to do about violent crime was decidedly different from ours, in which a murderer can be sentenced to a long term in prison or even executed, depending upon the country and the circumstances. 

A major difference lies both in the lack of prison or execution and in providing compensation for the victim’s family.

What is a person worth?  In modern terms, we probably think of life insurance and death compensation—

Early societies might have a kind of value scale.  Early Ireland, for instance, was an agricultural world, and so everyone’s worth could be based upon cattle.

(for more on this, see:  https://brehonacademy.org/cows-as-currency-in-early-ireland/ )

In the Germanic world, we see monetary compensation.  The Frankish “Salic Law” had, basically, tables which showed the worth of different levels of society and what would be owed in compensation for a murder.  Here is one portion so that you can see just how specific it is—

“Title XLI. Concerning the Murder of Free Men.

1. If any one shall have killed a free Frank, or a barbarian living under the Salic law, and it have been proved on him, he shall be sentenced to 8000 denars.

2. But if he shall have thrown him into a well or into the water, or shall have covered him with branches or anything else, to conceal him, he shall be sentenced to 24000 denars, which make 600 shillings.

3. But if any one has slain a man who is in the service of the king, he shall be sentenced to 24000 denars, which make 600 shillings.

4. But if he have put him in the water or in a well, and covered him with anything to conceal him, he shall be sentenced to 72000 denars, which make 1800 shillings.

5. If any one have slain a Roman who eats in the king’s palace, and it have been proved on him, he shall be sentenced to 12000 denars, which make 300 shillings.

6. But if the Roman shall not have been a landed proprietor and table companion of the king, he who killed him shall be sentenced to 4000 denars, which make 100 shillings.

7. But if he shall have killed a Roman who was obliged to pay tribute, he shall be sentenced to shillings.

9. If any one have thrown a free man into a well, and he have escaped alive, he (the criminal) shall be sentenced to 4000 denars, which make 100 shillings.”

(quoted from the Yale Law School “Avalon Project” and you could read more here:  https://avalon.law.yale.edu/medieval/salic.asp  A “Roman” is a citizen.  A “denar” is a penny in the Merovingian/Carolingian monetary system of what we might think of as Roman Gaul +.  Here’s an example—

12 of these made a shilling and 20 shillings made a pound.  For more on this system, see:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carolingian_monetary_system )

Payment for a death in this system was called “weregild”, or, depending where and when you lived, “mangaeld” or “leodardi”.  (for more, see:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weregild  For another valuation list, see:   https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nor%C3%B0leoda_laga )

We don’t know when or where Tolkien first encountered the term.  It is interesting, however, to see the concept used in one of his favorite medieval works, Beowulf,

where it suggests that the monster, Grendel,

(Alan Lee)

is uncivilized, seeming not to understand that, in Danish society, killing requires rebalancing through financial compensation—

“feorhbealo feorran, fea thingian             to desist in life-destruction,  to settle it with payment,

ne thear naenig witena   wenan thorfte    none of the counsellors   had any need to hope for

beorhtre bote  to banan folmum               noble recompense   from the slayer’s hands.”

(lines 156-158, text and translation from the Heorot site, which contains helpful notes, as well as the Old English text and a modern English translation.  Here it is:  https://heorot.dk/beowulf-rede-text.html  There’s a later mention of the Danish king, Hrothgar, paying weregild for a killing by Beowulf’s father, Ecgtheow, 456-472, and here the word used is “fee”—“feo”—which comes from a Germanic word for “cattle”, implying that, like the early Irish, the Germanic peoples were also once a cattle culture.  For more on “fee”, see:  https://www.etymonline.com/word/fee )

JRRT employs the term in a bit of ancient history about the Ring—

“ …and Isildur cut the Ring from [Sauron’s] hand with the hilt-shard of his father’s sword and took it for his own…

‘This I will have as weregild for my father, and my brother,’ he said…” (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book Two, Chapter 2, “The Council of Elrond”)

Isildur is aware that this isn’t a bit of costume jewelry, writing:

“The Great Ring shall go now to be an heirloom of the North Kingdom; but records of it shall be left in Gondor, where also dwell the heirs of Elendil, lest a time come when the memory of these great matters shall grow dim.”

In the same note, however, we see the signs that the Ring has already begun to exert its power over him:

“But for my part I will risk no hurt to this thing:  of all the works of Sauron the only fair.  It is precious to me, though I buy it with great pain.”  (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book Two, Chapter 2, “The Council of Elrond”)

It will bring about his death, riddled with Orc arrows in the Anduin, and I wonder if, even as he obviously valued it, at the moment it slipped from his finger, he realized that his “weregild” wasn’t just an expensive equivalent of coins or cattle?

Thanks, as always, for reading.

Stay well,

Perhaps best to leave anything you see glittering on the ground,

But know that, as ever, there’s

MTCIDC

O

Planting

29 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Welcome, as always, dear readers.

Recently, I’ve been thinking about plotting—not as in conspiracies, like Guy Fawkes,

who planned to blow up Parliament and James I with it,

but in the construction of fictional plots.  The worse kind is what I would call examples of “fiat” writing—from the Latin subjunctive “let it be”, as in “fiat lux”—“let there be light”.  In plots like this, things happen because the author wants them to and is too lazy or inept to work the details out in a systematic, believable way.  (As I avoid harsh criticism in this blog, I won’t mention any examples, but I suspect that, if you are a reader of this blog, you know exactly what I mean and can supply your own.)

So let me show you an example of good, if not downright elegant, plotting, instead.

It’s about to be spring here, with things reluctantly beginning to flower and bud and spread, and that makes me think of gardens—which, I hope logically, makes me think of gardeners and that makes me think of the Gamgees, who have been gardeners for the Baggins for at least two generations—

“No one had a more attentive audience than old Ham Gamgee, commonly known as the Gaffer [a dialect form of “grandfather”]. 

(my favorite image—there don’t appear to be many—of the Gaffer, by Denis Gordeev)

He held forth at The Ivy Bush,

(I imagine it—minus the modern road—as looking something like this, which is the White Lion Inn in Bartholmley, Cheshire—about which you can read a little here:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Lion,_Barthomley )

a small inn on the Bywater road; and he spoke with some authority, for he had tended the garden at Bag End for forty years, and had helped old Holman in the same job before that.  Now that he was himself growing old and stiff in the joints, the job was mainly carried on by his youngest son, Sam Gamgee.”  (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book One, Chapter 1, “An Unexpected-party”)

And here the plotting begins, which will end with Sam incorporated into Frodo’s adventure with the Ring—not by “fiat”, but by a careful planting (sorry!) of details.

So, we know that the Gamgees are long-established at Bag End, not only the Gaffer, but his son, Sam.

Now we’re given another detail—and a very important one:

“ ‘But my lad Sam will know more about that.  He’s in and out of Bag End.  Crazy about stories of the old days, he is, and he listens to all of Mr. Bilbo’s tales…

‘Elves and Dragons!’ I says to him.  ‘Cabbages and potatoes are better for me and you.  Don’t go getting mixed up in the business of your betters, and you’ll land in trouble too big for you.’ “

So now we know that Sam already has a taste for adventure, cultivated (sorry), if inadvertently, by Bilbo.

This is further developed in the next chapter—

“[Sam] believed that he had once seen an Elf in the woods, and still hoped to see more one day.  Of all the legends that he had heard in his early years such fragments of tales and half-remembered stories about the Elves as the hobbits knew, had always moved him most deeply.” (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book One, Chapter 2, “The Shadow of the Past”)

And now the scene is set:

“Sam sat silent and said no more.  He had a good deal to think about.  For one thing, there was a lot to do up in the Bag End garden, and he would have a busy day tomorrow, if the weather cleared.  The grass was growing fast.  But Sam had more on his mind than gardening.  After a while he sighed, and got up and went out.

…He walked home under the early stars through Hobbiton and up the Hill, whistling softly and thoughtfully.”

And here we even get the suggestion of a sound effect to come.

But there’s even more scene-setting:

“…It was over nine years since Frodo had seen or heard of [Gandalf]…But that evening, as Sam was walking home and twilight was fading, there came a once familiar tap on the study window.

…Next morning after a late breakfast, the wizard was sitting with Frodo by the open window of the study.

…There was another long silence.  The sound of Sam Gamgee cutting the lawn came in from the garden.”

There is a puzzle here.  Where were the lawn and garden of Bag End?  Here are two images by Tolkien—the first from a distance,

the second close up,

but I can’t make out where those items are supposed to be.  In the first, the road appears to run just below the house, with perhaps lawn and garden on the far side and down the hill?  In the second image, there appears to be a bench (where Bilbo would have sat, smoking and reading his mail when Gandalf turned up in the first chapter of The Hobbit) and, to the right, some garden? 

Let’s put this aside, however, to continue the action.

Gandalf has begun to talk about the Ring, and even closes the shutters and the curtains when he does so, but now the narrative inside and the action outside are about to be linked—as Gandalf begins to describe the search for Gollum—

“A heavy silence fell in the room.  Frodo could hear his heart beating.  Even outside everything seemed still.  No sound of Sam’s shears could be heard.”

Sam is still at work, however, as—

“[Gandalf] went to the window and drew aside the curtains and the shutters.  Sunlight streamed back into the room.  Sam passed along the path outside whistling.”

But is Sam really occupied with grass-cutting?

“Suddenly [Gandalf] stopped as if listening.  Frodo became aware that all was very quiet, inside and outside.  Gandalf crept to one side of the window.  Then with a dart he sprang to the sill, and thrust a long arm out and downwards.  There was a squawk, and up came Sam Gamgee’s curly head hauled by one ear.”

(Robert Chronister—I can find a few paintings by him, but no website or further biographic material than that he was born in 1933.)

Sam tries to defend himself—

“ ‘…I was just trimming the grass-border under the window, if you follow me.’ He picked up his shears and exhibited them as evidence.”

When pressed, however, he confesses that he had been listening:

“…I heard a deal that I didn’t rightly understand, about and enemy, and rings, and Mr. Bilbo, sir, and dragons, and a fiery mountain, and—and Elves, sir.  I listened because I couldn’t help myself, if you know what I mean.  Lor bless me, sir, but I do love tales of that sort…Elves, sir!  I would dearly love to see them.  Couldn’t you take me to see Elves, sir, when you go?”

And here we see how all of this has been patiently laid out:  the Gamgees and the Bagginses, the gardening, Sam and his interest—through Bilbo—in Elves and stories of adventure, Gandalf’s appearance and his narrative, which Sam overhears while gardening—and listening–only to be apprehended in his eavesdropping, with only one detail still needed and now mentioned:

“ ‘Get up, Sam!’ said Gandalf.  ‘I have thought of something better than that.  Something to shut your mouth, and punish you properly for listening.  You shall go away with Mr. Frodo!’ “

After all of the careful plotting, Sam’s reaction is no wonder, then—

“ ‘Me go and see Elves and all!  Hooray!’ he shouted and then burst into tears.” 

Elegant, and yet practical and completely convincing.

Thanks, as always, for reading.

Stay well,

How is your garden doing?

And remember that, as ever, there’s

MTCIDC,

O

PS

While working on this posting, I came across this very interesting and thoughtful piece:  https://thoughtsontolkien.wordpress.com/2024/04/14/gardens-in-the-lord-of-the-rings/

Subterranean

22 Wednesday Apr 2026

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As ever, dear readers, welcome.

I’m always amazed at how many kinds of phobias there are.

There’s the classic acrophobia—

and nyctophobia—

and trypanophobia

(of which George Lucas takes advantage in Star Wars IV

that needle is positively dripping!)

and one of my favorites, coulrophobia–

(and who wouldn’t be afraid of that?)

as well as the seemingly common arachnophobia,

of which Steven Spielberg took advantage in the first Indiana Jones movie—

Because of Shelob in The Lord of the Rings,

(Ted Nasmith)

Tolkien, perhaps suspected of this—after all, there are also those large spiders in The Hobbit—

(Alan Lee)

wrote to W.H. Auden in 1955:

“But I did know more or less all about Gollum and his part, and Sam, and I knew that the way was guarded by a Spider.  And if that has anything to do with my being stung by a tarantula when a small child,

people are welcome to the notion (supposing the improbable, that any one is interested).  I can only say that I remember nothing about it, should not know it if I had not been told; and I do not dislike spiders particularly, and have no urge to kill them.  I usually rescue those whom I find in the bath!”  (letter to W.H. Auden, 7 June, 1955, Letters, 316.  For more on this, see:   “Phobe” 24 May, 2023 here:  https://doubtfulsea.com//?s=phobe&search=Go )

So, as far as we know, then, JRRT makes no mention of any other fears and insists that he had no dread of arachnids, even if they make two major appearances in his works.  There is another possible phobia which he doesn’t discuss, however—claustrophobia—

and I’ve wondered:  could we perhaps see a mild form in his case?

I suppose that one might immediately point out that Bilbo, in effect, lives in a cave—

(JRRT)

but Tolkien’s illustration suggests that this isn’t a place for spelunking—

and his description of Bag End underlines this:

“Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat:  it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

…The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel:  a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats…”  (The Hobbit, Chapter One, “An Unexpected Party”)

But consider all of his adventures in the novel:  how many of them take place in adverse conditions under ground?

First, there’s the mention of the cave where the trolls

(JRRT)

kept their loot:

“There were bones on the floor and a nasty smell in the air; but there was a good deal of food jumbled carelessly on shelves and on the ground among an untidy litter of plunder, of all sorts from buttons to pots full of gold coins standing in a corner.  There were lots of clothes, too, hanging on the walls—too small for trolls, I am afraid they belonged to victims…” (The Hobbit, Chapter Two, “Roast Mutton”—there was also “bacon to toast in the embers of the fire”—but, considering a major troll protein source and remembering William’s remark—“Yer can’t expect folk to stop here for ever just to be et by you and Bert.  You’ve et a village and a half between yer since we come down from the mountains.”  I wonder that Bilbo and the dwarves would touch it!)

Then there was the network of caves cut by the goblins under the Misty Mountains,

(JRRT—but looking from the east westwards)

where Bilbo and the dwarves were briefly held prisoner by the goblins

(Alan Lee)

and where Bilbo had his encounter with Gollum.

(Alan Lee again)

Later, we have the halls of Thranduil, where the dwarves are again held prisoner,

(JRRT)

before the final underground nightmare, the Lonely Mountain.

IJRRT)

And those are just the subterranean terrors in The Hobbit.

Continuing to The Lord of the Rings, we have Moria,

(Alan Lee)

where, besides being temporarily trapped by orcs in the Chamber of Mazarbul,

(Angus McBride)

the Fellowship loses Gandalf to the Balrog.

(Angus McBride)

There are the caves at Helm’s Deep, about which Gimli is enthusiastic, but Legolas is not.

(JRRT)

Then there are the Paths of the Dead,

(Darrell Sweet—you can read about him here:  https://blackgate.com/2022/04/17/andventure-to-be-had-a-journey-through-the-art-of-darrell-k-sweet/ )

then the tunnels of Cirith Ungol, where Frodo and Sam encounter Shelob,

(Ted Nasmith)

and, finally, the cavern under Mount Doom, where Frodo almost changes the plot, before Gollum appears.

(Ted Nasmith)

All evidence of a deep-seated fear of being trapped underground? 

Bag End may mean comfort, but what about:

“a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell” and who knows what else?

As always, thanks for reading.

Stay well,

When possible, stick to the sunlight,

And remember that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC

O

Serendipity

08 Wednesday Apr 2026

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 Welcome, as ever, dear readers.

I am always glad for recommendations—for films, YouTube videos, and books.  Usually, these come to me in the form of conversations and e-mails, but this recommendation didn’t come from a person—well, directly—but from an image on YouTube.

I daily follow a number of language videos, both to increase my knowledge of old friends and to add new friends, and I was watching Easy Dutch on verbs of position (you can see it here:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5xEkwOo5Go ) when a Dutch children’s classic was mentioned and shown and I was immediately interested.

Tonke Dragt (TAWN-keh Dracht—with the g/ch in the back of the throat, like “Bach”, plus a T after it) is Antonia Dragt, 1930-2024, the author of a number of YA books in Dutch.

Her early life was a harrowing one:  born in 1930, she lived as a child in Indonesia and, along with her family, was held in a prisoner of war camp from 1942 to 1945, but, while a prisoner, she began a writing career which would continue till at least 2017, when she published Als de sterren zingen (“If/Supposing That/In the Event That/Whenever the Stars Sing”—as far as I know, this hasn’t been translated into English and my Dutch is limited, so, Dutch readers, please forgive the translation!)

It appears that, when she published her first novel, in 1961, Verhalen van der tweelingbroers “To Tell of the Twin Brothers”—published in English in 2021 as The Goldsmith and the Master Thief),

YA (that’s “Young Adult”) fantasy was not popular in the Netherlands, but she persisted, and her 1962 book, De brief voor de koning (“The Letter for the King”)

was a great success—and even became, in time, a Dutch film–

(It’s available on DVD in Dutch, but there are English subtitles.)

For more on the author, see:  https://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/sep/19/tonke-dragt-interview-i-was-born-a-fairytale-teller-letter-for-the-king as well as https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tonke_Dragt, so I’ll let you read about her there—although I can’t resist one story from an interview done by the English Guardian some years before her death in 2024:

“I once tried to write a very realistic story, so I wrote about a class of children who went somewhere on a bus and within two chapters they were flying in the air—it’s the way my mind works!  I’m a fairytale teller…I was born like that and I cannot do anything else.” 

But now to her books—that is, to the ones currently available in English—of which I’ve read four, a fifth, De torens van februari (“The Towers of February”)—published in Dutch in 1973 and in English in 1975—

is available only at a price beyond my current book budget, alas. 

Because I was originally drawn to her work by that image on Easy Dutch, I didn’t begin with the first of her books, but De Seven Sprong, 1966,

“The Seven Leap”, published in English in 2018 as The Song of Seven.

The fantasy element appears almost at the beginning, when we learn that a teacher, Frans Van der Steg, to keep an unruly class amused, has been telling outrageous adventure stories—about himself–and, in today’s episode, says that he’s expecting an important letter.  And, when he arrives at his landlady’s, that letter arrives, bringing the teacher into a complex adventure, including, among other things, a house so large and complicated as to be a kind of puzzle (which makes me wonder if Ms Dragt had read Mervyn Peake’s Titus Groan, 1946,

the scene of which is a gigantic, ruined castle, Gormenghast) a lost treasure, and—how not?—an evil uncle. 

It was set, surprisingly, knowing the author’s bent for fairytale-telling, in the present, but, even though there’s a motorbike, there’s also a carriage and coachman, a muzzle-loading cannon, a practicing magician, an orphan-heir, and that vast labyrinth of a house.  (The Dutch title, by the way, refers to a famous Dutch folkdance, which you can read about here:  ,https://www.lookandlearn.com/blog/26053/the-traditional-dutch-jumping-dance-may-come-from-a-pagan-crop-ritual/    Seven is also a magic number which keeps appearing and reappearing in the novel.)

Having read and enjoyed the book, I went backwards in time to Dragt’s first book, the one entitled, in English, The Goldsmith and the Master Thief.

Unlike The Song of Seven, which was a novel, this was really a collection of short stories skillfully stitched together, being about twin brothers and their adventures, including, as seems almost inevitable, the use of identical twins to puzzle and confuse and even to pose a riddle, as well as to complicate a plot or two.

One thing I much enjoy, when I have the chance to work my way through an author’s writing, is to watch the author develop—just think, for example, of the difference between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, completed about 20 years apart.  In reading The Letter for the King,

published only a year after The Goldsmith and the Master Thief, the author has made the leap (only 1, not 7), from what was, in a way, a short-story collection to a full-scale and long—506 pages, in the  English translation—adventure novel.  It’s the story of a squire, Tiuri, who, spending the night before the knighting service supposedly in prayer in a chapel, answers a knock at the door, is given the letter of the title, which he is supposed to deliver to a knight, only to discover the knight ambushed and dying, and then spends most of the rest of the book attempting to deliver it to the king of the kingdom to the west.

As one would expect, along the way he meets friends and enemies, acquires a squire of his own, as well as a potential sweetheart, and, because the book is a fairy tale, it has a happy ending—but with some things—like the sweetheart—in doubt.  (There’s a long plot summary here:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Letter_for_the_King  I would be wary, I might add, of the British NetFlix version, which has changed the story completely in the way in which The Hobbit was changed—as was Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials, the latter also by NetFlix.  I’m reminded, as I always am, of Tolkien’s letter to Forrest J. Ackerman about a proposal in 1958, to make films of The Lord of the Rings, in which he says of the adapter and others interested in the project:  “But I would ask them to make an effort of imagination sufficient to understand the irritation (and on occasion the resentment) of an author who finds, increasingly as he proceeds, his work treated as it would seem carelessly in general, in places recklessly, and with no evident signs of any appreciation of what it is all about…”  “from a letter to Forrest J. Ackerman”, June, 1958, Letters, 389)

This then sets the scene for the sequel, Geheimen van het Wilde Woud, 1965, translated as The Secrets of the Wild Wood, published in 2015.

In this sequel, we see now Sir Tiuri, and his squire, Piak (his would-be squire of the previous book) on a quest first to find a missing knight, but then become tangled in a complex plot which includes two princely brothers, one the next king-to-be in his own land, the other now king of the land to the south and planning to invade his own land and overthrow his father, the king, and his brother.  As well, there are the mysterious forest folk and a potential new sweetheart who is not quite what she seems to be.  Here’s a longer summary:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Secrets_of_the_Wild_Wood  For me, this is the best book yet—not only for the twists and turns, but for the grownup feel to it:  so much is not neat, characters are more complex, and there is a sort of happy ending, but not for everyone (although Tiuri does return to his first sweetheart from the previous book). 

Sometimes one does something for a reason only to benefit in a way unexpected while doing it.  I had no idea that Tonke Dragt and her engaging novels existed until Easy Dutch handed her to me.  Now I only wish that someone would translate her other novels—what might De robot van de rommelmarkt (“The Robot from the Flea Market”) be about, I wonder?

As always, thanks for reading.

Stay well,

When purchasing robots in flea markets, consider previous owners,

And remember that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC

O

Verisimilitude

01 Wednesday Apr 2026

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Dear readers, welcome, as always.

What makes The Lord of the Rings so convincing?  One might argue that it was simply good story-telling—convincing characters, fast-moving plot, surprises along the way, sad, but satisfying conclusion—and I would certainly agree.  For me, however, there is something more and I’ve come to think about it through what might seem a rather remote back door…

Several of the characters in Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado (1885),

are in trouble.  They have told a lie—in a song, of course–and were so convincing that they’re now about to be executed for it.  Inevitably, this leads to recriminations and one character, Pooh-Bah,

defends himself, saying that his part in the lie, was

“Merely corroborative detail, intended to give artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.”

 I thought of this line when an old friend sent me a piece from the BBC with the headline “Musketeer D’Artagnan’s remains believed found under Dutch church” (see the article here:  https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cm2rew2dgzzo   )

“Musketeer D’Artagnan” is the protagonist of Alexandre Dumas’ (1802-1870) historical adventure novel The Three Musketeers (1844),

as well as being a major character in two more, Twenty Years After (1845) and The Viconte of Bragelonne (1847).

He also happens to have been a real person, Charles de Batz de Castelmore (1611-1673), who had once been a member of Louis XIII’s Musketeers,

(Graham Turner)

one of the units of Louis’ bodyguard.

In 1673, he had been at the siege of the Dutch town of Maastricht,

during Louis XIV’s (son of Louis XIII—surprised?) interminable wars, where he was killed, perhaps by a sniper’s bullet—and may have been buried under the floor of this church—

(You can read about the real musketeer here:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_de_Batz_de_Castelmore_d%27Artagnan )

d’Artagnan had already appeared in a somewhat fictionalized form in an earlier book, Memoires de Monsieur d’Artagnan, (1700) by Gatien de Courtilz de Sandras (1644-1712). 

(A 1704 printing.  You can read about Gatien here:    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gatien_de_Courtilz_de_Sandras and read the first English translation of his fictionalized work here:  https://archive.org/details/memoirsofmonsieu01couruoft/page/n7/mode/2up  This is Volume 1 of 3, all being available at the Internet Archive, where you’ll find this volume.)

Dumas claimed, in fact, that he was only working from de Courtilz de Sandras’ account, along with a manuscript (which he himself had actually created), Memoire de M. le conte de la Fere (who is, in fact, Athos one of the three musketeers), implying, therefore, that the work isn’t really a novel, but a true story based upon documents from the 17th century. 

Why do this, rather than simply write an original novel and let it go at that?

This is where “artistic verisimilitude” comes in:  a novel is fun, but what if this weren’t really a completely-manufactured story, but real history—though much more exciting than simply dry accounts of political decisions and battles (“a bald and unconvincing narrative”)?

Dumas may have been inspired by Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832), whose first novel, Waverley (1814),

had done the opposite of Hugo, attaching a fictional character—the Waverley of the title—to actual events—the last Jacobite uprising of 1745-46,

in which a group of Scots (plus some English to the south) attempted to restore the Stuart family to the throne of the UK (if you’re a fan of the Outlander novels or tv series, you’ll be aware of this).  Scott’s novel was so successful that he kept using the method all the way to the end of his creative life, taking different periods in UK history as the basis.

(Here’s a copy of the novel for you, in case you haven’t read it:  https://www.gutenberg.org/files/5998/5998-h/5998-h.htm  You’ll notice that the notes are by Andrew Lang, whom, if you read this blog regularly, you will remember as the editor of the “Fairy” books, some of which Tolkien read or had read to him as a child.)

But what if you don’t have an historical period into which to place a character?  One answer would be to create the period, then add the character, and that’s exactly what we see Tolkien doing.  Much has been written about JRRT writing to “create a mythology for England” and he himself seems to have had an early plan for something like this, as he writes to a “Mr. Thompson”:

“Having set myself a task, the arrogance of which I fully recognized and trembled at; being precisely to restore to the English an epic tradition and present them with a mythology of their own…” (letter to “Mr. Thompson, 14 January, 1956, Letters, 335)

In time, Tolkien appears to have abandoned this goal (see this piece for more:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_mythology_for_England ), but all of the material which JRRT had created, however, remained in the form of the “Prologue” and the “Appendices” to The Lord of the Rings and here we see Pooh-Bah’s “corroborative detail” with essays on Hobbits, Pipe-weed, the ordering of the Shire, and “Note on the Shire Records”, as well as “Annals of the Kings and Rulers”, “The Tale of Years”, and even a section on Middle-earth calendars, all created by Tolkien, but written as if he’s merely an editor, filling in background to actual events.  Frodo and those around him, including the antagonists, have thus become 3-dimensional, their actions given an imaginary historical context, just as Waverley and d’Artagnan, one fictional character, one fictionalized actual person, when attached to history, are deepened and, potentially, more convincing, which, in turn, makes the whole story, for me, that much more believable.   In fact, it gains verisimilitude, at least while I’m reading it.

All of which makes that news story of the potential discovery of d’Artagnan’s tomb seem so much odder to me.  He was a real man turned into fiction in a real historical period.  Tolkien created a rich imaginary historical world and placed his characters in it:  now I’m wondering when archaeologists will announce that they’ve found the tomb—not of Frodo, who went off to Valinor—

(Ted Nasmith)

but perhaps of Aragorn, in Rath Dinen?

Thanks for reading.

Stay well,

Remember that great literary figures are, in fact, immortal,

And remember, as well, that there’s

MTCIDC

O

PS

Pooh-Bah survives, in case you were worried.

PPS

Here’s an English translation of Dumas’ novel, in case you haven’t read it (it’s fun in itself and, if you would like to see an ancestor of modern adventure novels and films, I would certainly recommend it): https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1257/pg1257-images.html For an introduction to the Musketeers, I would also recommend the old Richard Lester films, which mostly stick to the plot and have some of the liveliest dueling scenes after the Errol Flynn era.

Goblins and Goblin

25 Wednesday Mar 2026

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Welcome, dear readers, as always.

Villains with ambitious plans for world conquest need armies.

Emperor Palpatine

initially employs droids by the million to face the Republic’s clone armies, and not just ordinary foot soldier droids—

but super battle droids

and even commando battle droids

before, in his complex plan, he turns the Republic’s clones against his real target, the Jedi, in Order 66.

On a lighter level, Gru,

of Despicable Me, has masses of Minions to work his will (sort of)—

It’s clear that Sauron has similar plans—and similar armies—orcs—along with masses of humans.

(Alan Lee)

Orcs, we’re told, are a kind of distortion of actual living creatures—

“But Trolls are only counterfeits, made by the Enemy in the Great Darkness, in mockery of Ents, as Orcs were of Elves.”  (The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 4, “Treebeard”)

Orcs began, however, as something more traditional and, for Tolkien, begin with the works of George MacDonald (1824-1905),

and, in particular, with one of his fantasy novels, The Princess and the Goblin, 1870-2.

(First US edition, 1871)

For our purposes, the princess, although an heroic figure, can be removed, as we’re interested in those goblins.

(Arthur Hughes)

Later in life, Tolkien became disenchanted with MacDonald’s work, failing to complete a proposed preface for his The Golden Key, a short story from MacDonald’s Dealings with the Fairies, 1867—you can read it here:  https://archive.org/details/dealingswithfair00macd_0/page/n5/mode/2up

and you can read about his disenchantment in Carpenter’s J.R.R. Tolkien, page 244.).  Earlier, however, he had acknowledged MacDonald’s influence, writing to the editor of The Observer about The Hobbit:

“As for the rest of the tale it is, as the Habit [the pen name of a commentator on the book] suggests, derived from (previously digested) epic, mythology, and fairy-story—not, however, Victorian in authorship, as a rule to which George Macdonald [sic] is the chief exception.” (letter to the editior, February, 1938, Letters, 40-41)

Tolkien refers to this influence again in a much later letter to Hugh Brogan:

“Your preference of goblins to orcs involves a large question and a matter of taste, and perhaps historical pedantry on my part.  I personally prefer Orcs (since these creatures are not ‘goblins’, not even the goblins of George MacDonald, which they do to some extent resemble).”  (letter to Hugh Brogan, 18 September, 1954, Letters, 278)

And a little earlier, in a letter to Naomi Mitchison:

“They are not based on direct experience of mine [an interesting remark—did JRRT have supernatural experiences which he doesn’t discuss?]; but owe, I suppose, a good deal to the goblin tradition (goblin is used as a translation in The Hobbit, where orc only occurs once, I think), especially as it appears in George MacDonald, except for the soft feet which I never believed in.”  (letter to Naomi Mitchison, 25 April, 1954, Letters, 267)

Those soft feet turn out to be the Achilles’ heel (sorry!) of the goblins as we overhear in a conversation between a goblin father and son:

” ‘You say so, dad. I think myself I’m all right. But I could carry ten times as much if it wasn’t for my feet.’

‘That is your weak point, I confess, my boy.’

 ‘Ain’t it yours, too, father?’

‘Well, to be honest, it is a goblin-weakness. Why they come so soft, I declare I haven’t an idea.’  (The Princess and the Goblin, Chapter VIII, “The Goblins”  You can read more here:   https://archive.org/details/princessgoblin00macd/mode/2up  And you can read more about the author here:   https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_MacDonald )

Recently, however, I’ve met another goblin, to whom I was introduced by a dear friend.  This is Book Goblin.

Unlike the clones and droids and Minions and orcs, who only exist to do their master’s bidding, Book Goblin lives for books, stacking shelves full, longing for the mailman to bring more, even believing in “Bookhalla”, which is, basically, an immense library, where those who are gathered there read books all day and hold book clubs all night.  You can see and hear Book Goblin describing it here:  https://www.youtube.com/shorts/vkjErlwUA2A   Only brave readers are allowed to go there, including those who read “without bookmarks”!

Book Goblin is, in fact, the creation of the fantasy author Elizabeth Wheatley

and you can read more about her and her work here:  https://www.bookseriesinorder.com/elisabeth-wheatley/   And YouTube has many short features in which Book Goblin discusses likes and dislikes and often seems like the Id of all passionate readers, which is why I bring her to your attention.  Unlike droids, clones, Minions, and orcs, however, she is one of kind and, as for world conquest—I suspect that it would interfere with her reading.

Thanks for your reading, as always,

Stay well,

If you’re like me, you probably aren’t brave enough to read without a bookmark, so I guess no Bookhalla, sadly,

But remember that, as always, there’s

MTCIDC

O

Crowing and Raven

18 Wednesday Mar 2026

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Welcome, as always, dear readers.

“ ‘I greet you…and maybe you look for welcome.  But truth to tell your welcome is doubtful here, Master Gandalf.  You have ever been a herald of woe.  Troubles follow you like crows, and ever the oftener the worse….Here you come again!  And with you come evils worse than before, as might be expected.  Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?’ “  (The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 6, “The King of the Golden Hall”)

Theoden is being less than hospitable, although we soon learn that he’s being manipulated by Grima to be so,

(Alan Lee)

but his insulting name seems odd:  “Stormcrow”? 

If we were southerners in the US, we might imagine that Theoden is actually calling Gandalf a cuckoo, as the yellow-billed cuckoo, native there, is sometimes called that,

because, as the Wiki article says, the nickname perhaps comes from the fact of “the bird’s habit of calling on hot days, often presaging rain or thunderstorms”.  (For more, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yellow-billed_cuckoo )

Although we don’t hear of cuckoos in Middle-earth, certainly Gandalf appears in Meduseld in the middle of another kind of tempest, as Grima continues Theoden’s line of reasoning:

“ ‘It is not yet five days since the bitter tidings came that Theodred your son was slain upon the West Marches:  your right-hand, Second Marshal of the Mark.  In Eomer there is little trust…And even now we learn from Gondor that the Dark Lord is stirring in the East…Why indeed should we welcome you, Master Stormcrow?’ “

And there that word is again.  What does Tolkien have against crows?

There might be a clue in that line “troubles follow you like crows”, which reminds me of something which happened earlier in The Lord of the Rings when “Flocks of birds, flying at great speed”, appeared over the Fellowship.  Aragorn wakes and reports to Gandalf:

“ ‘Regiments of black crows are flying over all the land between the Mountains and the Greyflood…and they have passed over Hollin.  They are not natives here; they are crebain out of Fangorn and Dunland.  I do not know what they are about…but I think they are spying out the land.’ “  (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book Two, Chapter 3, “The Ring Goes South”)

It’s clear that, in Tolkien’s mind, crows do not get good press.  Here they are in The Hobbit, as well, as Balin says to Bilbo:

“ ‘Those were crows!  And nasty suspicious-looking creatures at that, and rude as well.  You must have heard the ugly names they were calling after us.’ “ (The Hobbit, Chapter 15, “The Gathering of the Clouds”)

So, crows are “nasty suspicious-looking creatures”, “rude”, and even possibly spies. 

They are also in contrast to another large black bird—

(I apologize to my non-North American readers for using North American birds in this chart, but this seemed the best choice and the European varieties are similar.)

“ ‘I only wish he was a raven!’ said Balin.

‘I thought that you did not like them!  You seemed very shy of them, when we came this way before.’

‘Those were crows!…But the ravens are different.  There used to be great friendship between them and the people of Thror; and they often brought us secret news…

‘They live many a year, and their memories are long, and they hand on their wisdom to their children.’ “  (The Hobbit, Chapter 15, “The Gathering of the Clouds”)

(Alan Lee)

Why the preference for ravens?

Possibly, as a small child, Tolkien was upset by this nursery rhyme—

“Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,
The birds began to sing.
Wasn’t that a dainty (or dandy) dish
To set before the king?

The king was in his counting house,
Counting out his money.
The queen was in the parlour,
Eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the garden,
Hanging out the clothes,
When down came a blackbird
And pecked off her nose.”

(This is by Winifred Smith from her 1895 collection of nursery rhymes—all of which you can read here:  https://archive.org/details/nurserysongsrhym00smit/page/n7/mode/2up )

and he associated blackbirds with crows?  (For more on this rather mysterious rhyme, see:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sing_a_Song_of_Sixpence )

Crows are also linked to the death of the Irish hero, Cuchulain,

the Morrigan, 3-formed battle goddess, who brings about the hero’s end , sometimes employing that form as “the Badb” (“Bath-v”, where the  “a” is that in “father” and “th” is like the “th” in “either”, the name meaning “crow”).  And Tolkien was not fond of Old Irish literature, writing:

“I do know Celtic things (many in their original languages Irish and Welsh), and feel for them a certain distaste:  largely for their fundamental unreason.  They have bright colour, but are like a broken stained glass window reassembled without design.”  (letter to Stanley Unwin, 16 December, 1937, Letters, 35— I would strongly disagree with JRRT.  Raised in Classics and fond of medieval chivalry, Tolkien, I suspect, found the Irish stories in particular full of an earlier, more chaotic, world-view, as well as sometimes wild violence, which, to him, meant “unreason”.   But this is one of those times when I wish that we could e-mail him and ask him to say more!  For the death of Cuchulain, see:   The Cuchullin Saga in Irish Literature here:   https://archive.org/details/cu31924026824940  beginning on page 251)

The real reason for his choice of ravens might actually be completely different:  an association with Gandalf.

In a letter to Stanley Unwin in which he discusses potential illustrations by Horus Engels for a German translation of The Hobbit, he says:

“He has sent me some illustrations (of the Trolls and Gollum) which despite certain merits, such as one would expect of a German, are I fear too ‘Disnified’ for my taste:  Bilbo with a dribbling nose, and Gandalf as a figure of vulgar fun rather than the Odinic wanderer that I think of…”  (letter to Stanley Unwin, 7 December, 1946, Letters, 172)

Odin is the Germanic high god and has not only a many-legged horse, Sleipnir,

(from the Tjaegnvide Image Stone—about which see:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tj%C3%A4ngvide_image_stone )

but also two ravens, Huginn and Muninn,

(bronze helmet plate from one of the Vendel period helmets—550-800AD–see for more:  http://early-med.archeurope.com/iron-age-scandinavia/the-late-iron-age-in-scandinavia/helmets-from-the-vendel-period/ )

whom he sends around the world every day to seek information about world events.  (You can learn more about Odin here:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Odin  and about his ravens here:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huginn_and_Muninn )

If Tolkien sees Gandalf as “Odinic”, then we can imagine that his preference for ravens over crows may not come from dread of a nursery rhyme or dislike of a Celtic warrior, but from his strong attachment to things northern Germanic and, if so, then Theoden and his puppeteer, Grima, were right in picking a bird to label Gandalf, but wrong in choosing which one—although “stormraven” sounds a little clunky in comparison with “stormcrow”.

Thanks, as ever, for reading.

Stay well,

Avoid birds with a one-word vocabulary,

And remember that there’s always

MTCIDC

O