Tolkien and the Study of His Sources: Critical Essays 0786464828, 9780786464821

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Tolkien and the Study of His Sources

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Tolkien and the Study of His Sources Critical Essays Edited by Jason Fisher

McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers Jefferson, North Carolina, and London

Portions of the chapter by Mark T. Hooker originally appeared as “Tolkien and Buchan: Huntingtower” in Beyond Bree (September, October and November 2008), the newsletter of the J.R.R. Tolkien Special Interest Group of American Mensa.

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Tolkien and the study of his sources : critical essays / edited by Jason Fisher. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-7864-6482-1 softcover : 50# alkaline paper 1. Tolkien, J. R. R. ( John Ronald Reuel), 1892–1973 — Criticism and interpretation. 2. Tolkien, J. R. R. ( John Ronald Reuel), 1892–1973 — Sources. I. Fisher, Jason, 1970– PR6039.O32Z8397 2011 828'.91209 — dc23 2011025104 BRITISH LIBRARY

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© 2011 Jason Fisher. All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. On the cover: Ted Nasmith, A Conversation with Smaug, gouache on illustration board, 2010 Manufactured in the United States of America

McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers Box 611, Jefferson, North Carolina 28640 www.mcfarlandpub.com

For Jennifer — Without your love and support, your many sacrifices, and your tolerance of my eccentric and sometimes obsessive interests (not to mention my ego!), this book would never have been possible. Every breath of inspiration I have had I owe to you. Quar vos etz arbres e branca On fruitz de gaug s’assazona... For you are the tree and the branch Where the fruit of joy finds its season...

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Table of Contents Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi Preface Jason Fisher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Introduction: Why Source Criticism? Tom Shippey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Source Criticism: Background and Applications E. L. Risden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Tolkien and Source Criticism: Remarking and Remaking Jason Fisher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 The Stones and the Book: Tolkien, Mesopotamia, and Biblical Mythopoeia Nicholas Birns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Sea Birds and Morning Stars: Ceyx, Alcyone, and the Many Metamorphoses of Eärendil and Elwing Kristine Larsen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 “Byzantium, New Rome!” Goths, Langobards, and Byzantium in The Lord of the Rings Miryam Librán-Moreno . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 The Rohirrim: “Anglo-Saxons on Horseback”? An Inquiry into Tolkien’s Use of Sources Thomas Honegger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 William Caxton’s The Golden Legend as a Source for Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings Judy Ann Ford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 vii

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She and Tolkien, Revisited John D. Rateliff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Reading John Buchan in Search of Tolkien Mark T. Hooker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162 Biography as Source: Niggles and Notions Diana Pavlac Glyer and Josh B. Long . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193 About the Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 215 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219

Acknowledgments It has been said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step — a cliché, but like most clichés, it happens to be true. In the same way, a book of many thousand words begins with one word — a word of thanks. This is an editor’s cliché, I suppose, but I hope my “fellow conspirators” will humor me. Foremost, I owe a profound debt of gratitude to the contributors to this volume — for their stimulating ideas, diligent execution, painstaking revision, and especially their patience during the long gestation of this project. In addition, I gratefully count Ted Nasmith among the contributors, for the singular honor of placing his painting, A Conversation with Smaug, on the cover of the book. The dragon Smaug is just such an image — comprising diverse sources woven together, then augmented by Tolkien’s imagination — as I hope the following pages will elucidate. My deepest appreciation also to the J.R.R. Tolkien Estate for its generous consent to quote from unpublished letters and lecture notes written by J.R.R. Tolkien. These unpublished materials are protected by the J.R.R. Tolkien Copyright Trust and are now published here with explicit permission. And my further thanks to the journals Beyond Bree and Mythlore for their permission to reprint portions of previously published essays. I am also grateful to many friends and colleagues for their assistance and encouragement, both within and outside the world of Tolkien studies. Merlin DeTardo read the entire manuscript twice, each time asking probing questions and offering valuable suggestions. I would also like to thank Tom Shippey, Diana Glyer, Verlyn Flieger, Marjorie Burns, Doug Anderson, Doug Kane, and John Magoun for their generous and helpful feedback on various aspects of this book. To my friends in the Mythopoeic Society, the C.S. Lewis and Inklings Society, the Tolkien Society of Great Britain, and the Deutsche Tolkien Gesellschaft, my gratitude for so many rewarding conversations that I’ve long since lost count — it is at least eleventy-one, with no sign of abating. Thanks also to the readers of my blog, Lingwë— Musings of a Fish (http:// lingwe.blogspot.com), where I have exhibited early research, tested out theories, and trumpeted what small discoveries I have made. ix

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Finally, I know that most of the people who take the time to read an editor’s acknowledgments are those same people who hope or expect to find themselves named therein; and so, to anyone I may have carelessly forgotten, please accept my apologies and gratitude in equal measure.

Abbreviations Because of the frequency of citation of many of Tolkien’s principal works, and a few by other authors, I have elected to employ the abbreviations shown below. Please note that the specific editions cited by each contributor may vary. Refer to the “Works Consulted” following each essay for details. Author . . . . . . . . J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century (Tom Shippey) Biography . . . . . . Tolkien: A Biography (Humphrey Carpenter) FR . . . . . . . . . . . The Fellowship of the Ring Gawain . . . . . . . Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Pearl, and Sir Orfeo H . . . . . . . . . . . . The Hobbit (including The Annotated Hobbit) Letters . . . . . . . . The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien Lost Road . . . . . . The Lost Road and Other Writings LotR . . . . . . . . . The Lord of the Rings LT1 . . . . . . . . . . The Book of Lost Tales, Part I LT2 . . . . . . . . . . The Book of Lost Tales, Part II MC . . . . . . . . . . The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays Morgoth . . . . . . . Morgoth’s Ring Peoples . . . . . . . . The Peoples of Middle-earth Question . . . . . . A Question of Time (Verlyn Flieger) RK . . . . . . . . . . . The Return of the King Road . . . . . . . . . The Road to Middle-earth (Tom Shippey) S . . . . . . . . . . . . The Silmarillion Sauron . . . . . . . . Sauron Defeated Shadow . . . . . . . The Return of the Shadow Shaping . . . . . . . The Shaping of Middle-earth Smith . . . . . . . . . Smith of Wootton Major TL . . . . . . . . . . . Tree and Leaf TT . . . . . . . . . . . The Two Towers UT . . . . . . . . . . Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle-earth xi

Qui petit seme petit quialt, Et qui auques recoillir vialt, An tel leu sa semance espande Que fruit a cent dobles li rande, Car an terre qui rien ne vaut Bone semance i seche et faut. — Chrétien de Troyes, Perceval, ll. 1–6 (He who sows little reaps little, and he who would gather the best crop must scatter each grain into the sort of soil where it can grow a hundredfold; for even good seeds are worthless in dry and barren ground.)

R What thousands of grains of good human corn must fall on barren stony ground, if such a very small drop of water should be so intoxicating! But I suppose one should be grateful for the grace and fortune that have allowed me to provide even the drop. — J.R.R. Tolkien (Letters, 98)

Preface Jason Fisher “We must be satisfied with the soup that is set before us, and not desire to see the bones of the ox out of which it has been boiled.” So said Sir George Dasent in the introduction to his Popular Tales from the Norse (xlvi). So too said J.R.R. Tolkien, borrowing Dasent’s words (and slightly modifying their context) in his landmark essay “On Fairy-stories” (39). But must we? Why or why not? And how much depends on how we answer? At the risk of straining the metaphor, if an author’s work is the soup and the collection of sources out of which he prepares it are its various ingredients, then perhaps the preceding questions may serve as a preprandial sherry over which to consider the meal to come. Dasent meant that readers “must be content with results rather than processes and steps” (op. cit.), and Tolkien seems to have agreed, yet processes and steps are a scholar’s bread and butter. There is a very great deal we can learn by examining an author’s sources, to which countless source studies of Beowulf, Chaucer, Shakespeare, James Joyce, and many others stand as proof. But this book is about examining Tolkien’s sources, and if Tolkien wished to proscribe our rooting around among “the bones of the ox” out of which his works were made, what right do we have to gainsay him? Finding a satisfactory answer to that question is partly the subject of this collection, and I and others will have further comment on this in due course. For the moment, suffice it to say that I believe scholars have every right, and moreover, that the value of what we can learn about an author and his works, as well as the greater appreciation this engenders, both outweigh any discomfort their subject might have experienced. With all due respect to the author, we can, and should, proceed. This collection of essays is concerned with both the theory and the practice of source criticism, as applied to the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien. Over the past forty years or so, source study has emerged as one of the most popular approaches in Tolkien studies. And with good reason, for it has long been 1

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known that Tolkien drew from a wide range of disparate sources in the construction of his legendarium — from The Book of Lost Tales to The Hobbit to The Lord of the Rings, and beyond. An understanding of the sources Tolkien utilized, as well as how and why he incorporated them, can enhance readers’ appreciation of his works immeasurably. But the fruits of such source study have frequently suffered from two difficulties. First, they have been very widely scattered, seldom collected or categorized, and therefore, often forgotten or overlooked.1 Second, there has been too little understanding of the proper scope, limits, and methodology for successful source study, leading to many poor examples. As a result, source study has sometimes been derided as facile, misguided, or overreaching.2 Such derision, however, is too hasty and discards essential work in the field. At the risk of appearing defensive, I intend this book as something of an apology for source criticism; however, by the time the final page is turned, it is my hope that readers will agree that the discipline really needs no apology — at least, not when it is carried out properly. There has long been a need for a carefully constructed book that addresses two basic aspects of this specialized field of Tolkien studies. First, it should describe the theory and methodology for proper source criticism of Tolkien’s works. Second, it should demonstrate source criticism, translating theory into praxis. Until now, no such book has ever been published. The need for a cogent theory is addressed by a general discussion on source criticism followed by two chapters on the methodology behind the approach. This includes answering fundamental questions about the technique. How should source study be undertaken, and more importantly, why? What are its limits? What did Tolkien, and what do other literary critics, have to say about the practice? The need for practical demonstrations is represented by the bulk of the collection, comprising a series of source studies of Tolkien’s works. These studies have been written by a constellation of luminaries in the scholarly community, representing different parts of the world with accordingly different backgrounds and approaches to Tolkien. The studies themselves range widely across Tolkien’s works, as well as across the periods and genres from which he took inspiration, to provide the most balanced and comprehensive demonstration of source criticism ever collected in a single volume. Moreover, many of the essays in this collection address lacunae in Tolkien source criticism. Rather than covering old ground, these essays plow new fields. At the same time, they remain rooted in the scholarly traditions that have emerged over the past several decades. Indeed, between them, the essays which follow refer to more than three hundred other works, both primary and secondary. In addition, I hope that the collection will inspire other scholars to peer into new corners as yet un- or under-explored.

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To set the table, I am very pleased to present an introduction by Tom Shippey. It was Shippey who first brought Tolkienian source criticism to real prominence and he who developed the approach into a serious and reputable discipline. It was his work, furthermore, that inspired me to begin source studies of my own, and his published works on Tolkien still represent the standard against which effective source criticism should be judged. In his introduction, Shippey begins with Tolkien’s own dismissal of source criticism. He explains why Tolkien’s stated distaste for source study need not preclude anybody from engaging in it — nor has it ever done so — and shows that Tolkien’s statements cannot always be taken at face value. Equally important, he explains why the discipline is still going strong today. Next, two chapters bookend the methodology of source criticism. E.L. Risden has less to say about Tolkien himself; rather, Risden explains the history, background, evolution, and use of source study in a more general sense. But this is valuable for two reasons. First, it establishes that we are not dealing with “fad criticism,” aimed by amateurs or semi-professionals at Tolkien alone; rather, source criticism has a long and respected history. Second, over the course of the development of literary criticism in the past century, source criticism has fallen somewhat out of favor (replaced, one after the other, by a whole litany of other approaches); but as Risden demonstrates, there is no reason to throw source criticism out, nor should it be looked down on when it is done well. The approach has unearthed many valuable treasures and deepened readers’ appreciation of many authors and their works. In my own chapter on the methodology of source criticism, I pick up where Risden leaves off. My subject is source criticism as applied specifically to Tolkien, with an emphasis on the right as well as the wrong way to go about it. How do we establish that Tolkien used a particular source? And why would he do it in the first place? We must be able to demonstrate that Tolkien knew the work in question, so how do we do that? My essay serves to set the stage and establish a set of ground rules for the source studies that follow. These make up the remainder of the collection, and I have arranged them in chronological order by source. We begin at the very dawn of history, both real and fictive. The Silmarillion, clearly Tolkien’s most mythical work, is often compared to the Bible. The comparison is usually made in a negative sense: the diction is archaic, a dizzying array of one-dimensional characters come and go, it deals with gods and monsters, and so on. But this is not really fair, and Nicholas Birns takes up the comparison in earnest. Birns is concerned to demonstrate that Tolkien’s own mythopoeic fiction was strongly influenced by Biblical mythopoeia more generally, including not just the Hebrew Old Testament but also other writings of Mesopotamia. These influences are manifest in many areas, including the

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storylines, nomenclature, language, and religious and moral ingredients. Of particular interest are the two “great tales” of Biblical antiquity, the Creation and the Flood, both of which Tolkien has recast into his own legendarium. Next, Kristine Larsen reminds us that Tolkien was before all else a student of the Classics, fluent in Latin and Greek. Her subject is Tolkien’s tale of Eärendil and Elwing. Other scholars have documented Tolkien’s use of Germanic sources for the story of Eärendil (e.g., see Hostetter); however, Larsen unearths an exciting new source for Eärendil and Elwing in the Greek myth of Ceyx and Alcyone. Larsen’s professional specialization is physics and astronomy, and she deploys that expertise in a more interdisciplinary study than is usual with Tolkien. She looks not solely at the canonical Silmarillion, but also at the various drafts and recensions in The History of Middle-earth to make her case that Tolkien’s source-borrowings were manifold and layered. Miryam Librán-Moreno takes up a complex and neglected area of source study in Tolkien’s works: the so-called “barbarian histories” of Late Antiquity. Apart from having provided a few proper names, the Goths, Vandals, Huns, Franks, Langobards, and other related tribes of Continental Europe have not often been put forward in Tolkien source criticism; however, it is lately becoming clearer there are reasons for doing so. In this exhaustive and authoritative study, Librán-Moreno makes the case that Tolkien borrowed elements at “both the macroscopic and the microscopic level,” centering her study on an extended comparison between Gondor and Byzantium. From here, we move into the Middle Ages. This period of history, for many reasons, has spawned a disproportionate number of source studies (including many of my own), but in the interest of balance I offer just one essay to represent it here. It takes as its starting point a perennial question and the subject of protracted debate: whether Tolkien’s Riders of Rohan are or are not modeled on the Anglo-Saxons — and even if so, to what extent? Tolkien himself claimed that the resemblance was only incidental. But Thomas Honegger takes up the debate and seeks to demonstrate that we must question some of Tolkien’s claims when we closely examine what he actually did in his fiction. Honegger’s essay is one of all too few that illustrate that it is indeed possible to second-guess Tolkien. In the end, Honegger shows that Tolkien’s words and his actions need not be seen as incompatible, if one examines his use of sources from the correct angle. In fact, Honegger may have solved once and for all the long-standing problem of why Tolkien ever disavowed the resemblance of his Rohirrim to the Anglo-Saxons in the first place. Judy Ann Ford takes up another neglected niche in Tolkien source criticism: English literature at that liminal point where the late Middle Ages blossomed into the Early Modern period. The centerpiece of Ford’s essay is Caxton’s Golden Legend, a hagiography which she suggests left an imprint on

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The Lord of the Rings. To take one example, it is well-known that Tolkien’s Rings of Power have connections to ancient Greek and medieval Germanic literature, but Ford shows that they may also owe something of their conception to a ring described by Caxton. This is but one case in a series proffered as evidence that Tolkien may have been inspired by The Golden Legend. Perhaps even more importantly, in a discipline dominated by “pagan” legendaria, Ford’s essay serves as a countervailing example from the Christian tradition. Moving forward in time, but continuing the exploration of underrepresented works in Tolkien source criticism, John D. Rateliff updates a classic comparative study of Tolkien and H. Rider Haggard. The original form of this essay predates even the publication of Tolkien’s letters, and Rateliff demonstrates just how much we have learned since then. Rider Haggard is one of a handful of Victorian and Edwardian writers whom Tolkien acknowledged by name, yet in spite of this, surprisingly little extended study has been made of what influence their works had on Tolkien as a storyteller. Rateliff remedies that in his essay, looking at how Tolkien may have borrowed elements like the Sherd of Amenartas, the character of Ayesha (reflected in Tolkien’s Galadriel), the city of Kôr in Tolkien’s Book of Lost Tales, and more. The essay also serves the important function of demonstrating how source studies can grow over time as new material emerges. Another modern writer for whom Tolkien expressed a liking is John Buchan, a liking fortunately shared by Mark T. Hooker. Several scholars have made passing comparisons between Tolkien and Buchan, but Hooker makes the first extended demonstration of just how much influence on Tolkien Buchan is likely to have had. In fact, the vein is so rich that Hooker had to limit himself to just three of Buchan’s novels: Midwinter, The Blanket of the Dark, and Huntingtower. These novels are little read today, so Hooker’s essay has the added value of bringing them back to readers’ attention. Each of the three shows striking similarities of plot device, episode, character, and nomenclature to Tolkien’s writings in the decades following. Finally, we conclude our survey of sources in Tolkien’s present. Diana Pavlac Glyer’s area of expertise is the interaction and mutual influences of the Inklings (in spite of their occasionally defensive claims to the contrary). She and Josh B. Long seek to demonstrate in their essay that source criticism need not be limited to dusty literary works published long before an author’s own. They show how Tolkien borrowed elements from his own life — most notably his personal experiences and the “characters” of his fellow Inklings (and himself )— as sources for his fiction. This is a more unconventional kind of source study, but it demonstrates one of many new directions in which the field may develop. It is my sincere hope that this collection of source studies has something

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to interest all admirers of Tolkien’s work. Malcolm Godden, who now holds the same academic chair at Pembroke College once occupied by Tolkien himself, has written that “it is clear that the scholarly implications of names, languages, allusions, and quotations form a very real part of the pleasure and substance of [Tolkien’s works] and that one of the most useful things that Tolkien-criticism can do is to explain them” (493). I could not agree more, and I am optimistic that by the time readers reach the end of this book, they will have gotten a greater feeling of the pleasure and a deeper appreciation for the substance than they had before. And for those readers who wish to undertake source studies of their own, it is my hope that this book should stand as both blueprint and encouragement.

NOTES 1. Tolkien Studies has made this much better. Since its second number (2005), the journal has included an extensive “Year’s Work” essay by David Bratman, each one featuring a subcategory on “Sources and Comparative Studies.” It has been more difficult to keep track of the 20th-century source criticism, as the standard bibliographies (e.g., Richard West’s Annotated Checklist and Judith Johnson’s Six Decades of Criticism) are not arranged in a manner conducive to easy discovery. A desideratum for the field is an annotated online bibliography of source criticism, one which it is my hope to launch alongside this volume. 2. To give but one example: “It is not at all certain that the game of Quellenforschung (‘source-hunting’) is worth playing with The Lord of the Rings, or indeed with most literary creations” (Lobdell, 3).

WORKS CONSULTED Dasent, George Webbe, Sir. Popular Tales from the Norse. 2d ed. Edinburgh: Edmonston and Douglas, 1859. Godden, Malcolm. “J.R.R. Tolkien, Scholar and Storyteller: Essays in Memoriam” (book review). The Review of English Studies, New Series, Vol. 32, No. 128 (November 1981): 488–93. Hostetter, Carl. “Over Middle-earth Sent Unto Men: On the Philological Origins of Tolkien’s Eärendil Myth.” Mythlore, Vol. 17, No. 3 (Whole No. 65; Spring 1991): 5–10. Johnson, Judith. J.R.R.Tolkien: Six Decades of Criticism. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1986. Lobdell, Jared. England and Always: Tolkien’s World of the Rings. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1981. Tolkien, J.R.R. Tolkien on Fairy-stories. Ed. Verlyn Flieger and Douglas A. Anderson. London: HarperCollins, 2008. West, Richard C. Tolkien Criticism: An Annotated Checklist. Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 1981.

Introduction: Why Source Criticism? Tom Shippey Tolkien’s dismissals of source-criticism as a valuable mode of enquiry are well-known, and are referred to several times by contributors to this collection, especially Fisher, below. To begin with, when in 1938 the Observer published a letter which offered well-meaning, if slightly ridiculous, suggestions about the origin of hobbits, and asked politely enough for further information, Tolkien’s reply was good-humored, and as Fisher notes even in one respect encouraging, but still fairly brusque: “I do not remember anything about the name and inception of the hero.... I have no waking recollection of furry pigmies ... nor of any Hobbit bogey in print by 1904” (Letters, 30). Almost thirty years later, though still polite, he was more dismissive about what seems to have been a similar attempt to explain some of the names in The Lord of the Rings, in a letter sent to him by a Mr. Rang: “I remain puzzled, and indeed sometimes irritated, by many of the guesses at the ‘sources’ of the nomenclature, and theories or fancies concerning hidden meanings” (Letters, 379). He generalized the point further in a letter a few years later to a Mr. Wrigley: “I fear you may be right that the search for the sources of The Lord of the Rings is going to occupy academics for a generation or two. I wish this need not be so” (Letters, 418). Meanwhile, his most damning comment on the search for sources is his adaptation of Sir George Dasent’s remark that “[w]e must be satisfied with the soup that is set before us” (by which Tolkien, though not Dasent, meant “the story as it is served up by its author”), “and not desire to see the bones of the ox out of which it has been boiled” (by which Tolkien meant “its sources or material — even when (by rare luck) those can be with certainty discovered”) (MC, 120).1 Faced with these dismissals or rejections, given consistently over a period of more than thirty years, one has to ask what is the justification for ignoring the writer’s own views about how to critique his writings. One may begin an answer by observing that Tolkien — a controversialist 7

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all his life, and professionally often in a minority of two (or one when his friend C.S. Lewis happened to disagree with him)— made something of a habit of exaggerating in order to make a particular point. In his foreword to the second edition of The Lord of the Rings he stated firmly, “I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done so since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence” (LotR, xvii). However, his famous 1936 lecture on Beowulf starts with an allegory: “I will here only attempt, for brevity’s sake, to present my view of [the history of the subject] allegorically” (MC, 6). It continues with “yet another allegory” (MC, 7), that of the man who built a tower; and leads into what I would consider a third, though this is not overtly flagged as allegory, the “conflicting babble” of many critical voices (MC, 8–9). And the allegories did their job, which was — just as it was in Orwell’s Animal Farm— to present an image of what the author believed had really happened in such a way as to bring out its ludicrous quality: argument by reductio ad absurdum. Allegory can be used in other ways, but there is an element of the reductio ad absurdum even in “Leaf by Niggle,” which almost all readers of Tolkien are prepared to see as an allegory. But there is no sign of it in The Lord of the Rings, and Tolkien’s reasons for dismissing the whole mode in his foreword are obvious: he was concerned to dismiss beyond recovery the startlingly foolish idea that his work was an allegory of World War II, even if the Ring might have one element of similarity (viz., decisiveness) with the Bomb. In a similar way, Tolkien explicitly denied that “the Rohirrim closely resembled the ancient English otherwise, in culture or art, in weapons or modes of warfare” (LotR, 1136), though it is obvious that in many respects they do (see Honegger below for his reasons for the denial). He further expressed strong dislike for Shakespeare (Letters, 212n and 213), though we can be sure that he read him with the close attention now largely vanished from university English courses (see Croft); and in his 1936 lecture did his very successful best to present the search for historicity in Beowulf as a fool’s errand. His reason for doing so was, once again, to make a series of particular points: that the search for history had diverted attention from fantasy, that fantasy was a valuable and legitimate literary mode, and that there were people who still found pleasure and instruction from it (these being, though he did not say so explicitly, himself and Lewis once again). In fact, as we can see from his neglected work Finn and Hengest (1982), when not “batting for his side” Tolkien took the historicity of Beowulf very seriously indeed, and would no doubt regret the way in which his forensic skills have diverted attention from it for three scholarly generations (see Drout, “Beowulf ” and Shippey, “Tolkien’s Two Views”). Quite why Tolkien rejected biographical studies of authorship —“One

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of my strongest opinions is that investigation of an author’s biography ... is an entirely vain and false approach to his works” (Letters, 414; and see Glyer and Long below)— is not so clear. Possibly there may be a reason in his professional life, which could be uncovered if we knew more about it. In the 1920s and 1930s Freudianism was making its way into British intellectual circles, and into the English language, as the Oxford English Dictionary only rather slowly came to recognize and record, and Lewis at least was unhappy about it (see his essay “Psycho-Analysis and Literary Criticism,” in Selected Literary Essays). Freudian explanations of literary figures may have become fashionable in the Oxford English School of the time, which Tolkien hoped would not become models for any study of himself. That last thought is pure speculation, but it does offer one good reason for source studies. All literary works bear some relation to the milieu in which they are composed and received, but we often do not realize how quickly elements of those milieux are forgotten. One generation’s common knowledge becomes a later generation’s historical footnote, if it is lucky enough to find a footnoter. But the knowledge may be important, and has a fair chance of being interesting. Tolkien, like his friend Lewis something of a “dinosaur,” a man old-fashioned even in his own time, has suffered especially severely from the cultural gap between himself and many of his critics, though it is all credit to him that the cultural gap has meant nothing at all to scores of millions of delighted readers and viewers. But there is reason enough to try to fill it just the same, as several of the contributions below do in valuable ways. As Fisher says below, to turn one’s back on source study is “to risk stripping a text of its context”— and Tolkien’s many contexts, personal, professional and cultural, now need a good deal of explanation for most contemporary readers. Tolkien’s reasons for rejecting source studies in the way he appeared to are, moreover, obvious, and as in the cases given above, quite particular. One can single out at least three reasons for his growing annoyance with a string of correspondents and commentators. The first — naturally annoying for any creative artist — is the conviction that he must have “got it out of ” some earlier work. Wagner is a frequent culprit here, put forward by those aware that there are Rings in both men’s works, aware of little else about either, and anxious to demonstrate a fancied cultural superiority. But it is not surprising that Tolkien was a little impatient with people who supposed hobbits must have a source outside his own imagination. A second reason stems from Tolkien’s professional life, and is seen especially clearly in his 1967 response (never sent) to Mr. Rang. We no longer have the letter Mr. Rang sent, but from Tolkien’s reply it looks as if Rang had made a series of guesses as to the sources of Tolkien’s characters’ names, based on similarities he thought he had detected, of which one may have been the

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derivation of “Sauron” from the Greek word for “lizard,” saura, familiar as the last element in “dinosaur.”2 Tolkien rejected the connection, but such guesses were especially annoying to him as being “pre-philological.” If there was one discipline dear to Tolkien’s heart, it was that of Comparative Philology, one of the great discoveries of the nineteenth century, and perhaps its central statement was that similarities of sound meant nothing, unless they were embedded in a coherent and consistent system of phonetic change. Two words in different languages with the same sound and meaning might well prove nothing about connection. Conversely, two words in different languages with the same meaning and utterly different sound could be proved to be connected. Italian cinque and English five do not share a single phoneme, but they can be shown to derive from the same root, with perfect regularity and the support of thousands of parallels. Tolkien spent much of his life, of course, constructing similar systems for his Elvish languages. It is hard to express the disgust he must have felt at the old, pre-philological habit of snatching at coincidental similarities. Writ large, this could be extended to many forms of similarity-spotting. Similarity does not prove connection. Thirdly (though this list could be extended), while perhaps no one in the world was as aware as Tolkien of the Tree of Language, there were also few who were as conscious as he was of the vast extent of the worldwide Cauldron of Story. Those who have read little are liable to think that the little they have read must in some way be connected. But as Tolkien said of “the intricate web of story,” “[i]t is now beyond all skill but that of the elves to unravel it,” though he did add in a footnote “[e]xcept in particularly fortunate cases” (MC, 121). This consideration too must make the source-hunter cautious. Having said so much, what are the reasons for going on? My own motive for doing so has seemed to some an eccentric one, though of course I do not think it is: what I think is that Tolkien had a different center from most people. My motive was a conviction that the main source for “Middle-earth” was not a text, not even a number of texts, but a process, and the process was the centuries-long attempt to recover the “lost world” of Northern and in Tolkien’s case specifically English mythology. We know (Letters, 144) that Tolkien felt this loss keenly, especially as he saw it not as an accident but as deliberate suppression, imposed first by the Christian religion and then by foreign military occupation and cultural dominance. He was not the only one to feel such a loss or to try to redress it, for in their different ways Grundtvig in Denmark and Grimm in Germany had tried to recapture the lost world mythologically, while Lönnrot in Finland did something similar poetically, and William Morris had done so in England, fictionally, two generations before Tolkien, though his interests were historical rather than mythical.

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Tolkien had less to work with than any of those mentioned, and he responded by what my old mentor Professor G.T. Shepherd called, “feeling your way back through the language.” That is exactly what Tolkien did, first in his work with the Oxford English Dictionary and then in his early scholarly articles on individual words and cruces in the “AB language” of medieval Herefordshire. Words, names, fragments, survivals of all sorts (sayings and folk-tales and riddles and nursery-rhymes): these were his “sources,” but all of them, note, had to be processed to become useful. I will not try here to repeat my findings, but the results of them, to my mind, were these. First, I learned to appreciate the great imaginative skill with which Tolkien “saved the evidence.” He rejected nothing. Where his sources appeared to be contradictory — as they were over the nature of elves (fascinating? dangerous? soulless?), or over the uncertain relationships between “light-elves,” “dark-elves,” and dwarves — he did not take one and discard the others, he imagined a situation from which both or all the views preserved could have been derived. Second, I realized slowly how very realistic much of his fantasy was, even in the smallest details. Names are one area. Why is Barliman Butterbur called “Butterbur”? It is the name of a plant, and the men of Bree do indeed prefer “botanical” names, as Tolkien noted (LotR, 152). But in W.E. Haigh’s New Glossary of the Dialect of the Huddersfield District (1928), which Tolkien encouraged and for which he wrote a foreword, it is noted that round Huddersfield local names beginning with Butter- do not derive from the obvious source but possibly from Old English botl “a dwelling” (17). Where do hobbits or holbytlan dwell (hol-bytlan = “hole-dwellers”) if not in “bottles”— or as they would be called in Northern English, “butters”? As for the -bur, surely this is Old English ge-bur, surviving in Modern English “neighbour,” “someone who lives nigh you, or near you.” And that is exactly what Butterbur is: someone who lives near a hobbit botl. When Fisher remarks below that “new material is still coming to light,” I would add only that some of the material has been available, if unrecognized, for many years, and there is no doubt yet more to find. Every one of the names on the map of the Shire could probably stand explanation similar to that offered here for “Butterbur,” from Nobottle (“new botl ”) to Scary — which, I suggest, might be Old English scearu, pronounced share-oo, “a boundary,” which being in the north of the Shire has undergone the common Northern English sh > sk phonetic change (as in Skipton, Scarborough), and marks the Shire’s northern boundary, perhaps even, punningly, the “Shire-share.”3 In a sense, none of this matters. Almost no one (this writer apart) has ever bothered his or her head about Butterbur and Scary, and no-one needs to know the explanations above to appreciate The Lord of the Rings. But it was one of Tolkien’s deepest convictions (and Grimm’s before him) that people

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could sense what was linguistically genuine and what felt right, and he built that sense of rightness into Middle-earth in every way he could. Who can say it didn’t work? And having some idea of how it works, and how it was made to work, makes this writer at least appreciate all the more the way in which Tolkien managed to blur the boundaries between reality and fantasy. It has been said, by Brian Rosebury, that I believe that “instruction in Tolkien’s (and Shippey’s) philological interests is actually a prerequisite for a full recognition of Tolkien’s literary merits” (Rosebury, 7), and Rosebury is absolutely correct: that is what I do believe. At the same time, I would be crazy if I did not recognize that hundreds of millions of readers have come to a perfectly adequate recognition of Tolkien’s literary merits without knowing anything at all about philology. It’s just that I think they could come to recognize those merits even more if they did. I also know full well that there are other approaches, even other prerequisites, of which I likewise know nothing. No recognition or appreciation is ever going to be a “full” one. There are many insights possible, and each of us has to speak up for ours.

What Kinds of Source Criticism? It is entirely fortunate, then, that the essays in this collection take three different routes, corresponding roughly with, and in the process rebutting, the three objections listed a couple of pages above. Thus, some provide cultural background for Tolkien’s own time (especially valuable as it slides from memory). Some provide professional background, which is my own impulse. And some remind us more generally of the Cauldron of Story, and incidentally of the wide reading with which Tolkien’s dinosaur-education had certainly equipped him. I begin with the first of these. Both Mark T. Hooker on Buchan and John D. Rateliff on Rider Haggard remind us of works which Tolkien had certainly read and very probably remembered. Neither author, one might note, has ever got anywhere near the literary syllabus of schools of English studies, though if one were to count democratically, by number of readers, both would be in the first flight, at least for the twentieth century. However, in this area the “cultural gap” is not between Tolkien and his critics, but between the critical profession as a whole and the rest of the English-speaking community. In this writer’s time as an undergraduate at Cambridge (1961 to 1964), the leading figures of the English school were C.S. Lewis and F.R. Leavis, but there was no doubt as to who controlled the syllabus, heavily oriented towards Leavis’s “Great Tradition” of the English novel. The trouble with Leavis’s Great Tradition was that there were very few writers in it, and the

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rest were viewed with something like contempt. The situation in Tolkien’s Oxford was not far different, if less bitter. But both Buchan and Haggard had something to say, and very marked qualities as narrators (ability to tell a story was also not highly regarded at Cambridge; witness E.M. Forster’s famous, “The novel tells a story, oh, dear me, yes”). Adding to Messrs. Hooker and Rateliff here is a trifle impertinent, but I would remark that Buchan had two qualities dear to Tolkien. One is that although he was a Scot, he was sometimes almost embarrassingly Anglophile — see for instance Chapter 19 of The Free Fishers (1934). Two, Buchan’s novels embody Tolkien’s own deep belief in Scottish, and English, and British class-solidarity. The hero of Huntingtower (1922) is the archetypal grocerbourgeois Dickson McCunn, backed by the upper-class John Heritage and by the Gorbals Die-Hards, who come from the bottom reaches of the proletariat, all combining to foil the plots of the Bolsheviks. The whole book is a massive and comic refutation of the Marxist notion of “class-consciousness,” to which the Die-Hards have indeed been exposed but of which Wee Jaikie at least has understood, quite literally, not a single word. Rider Haggard’s qualities are harder to sum up, but one might note Lewis’s commendation of him for creating a sense, in King Solomon’s Mines, of the “deathly” (see “On Stories,” in Of Other Worlds, 6). Tolkien remembered this and repeated it in his critique of film-scripts. Fear, as he remarked, is not created by “screams and rather meaningless slashings” (Letters, 273). It has to be built up, and Haggard knew how to do that. Tolkien did not have to copy him, but he could have learned from him. Our reading can affect our imaginations in ways of which we are not consciously aware. It is quite common (in this writer’s experience) to re-read something after a gap of many years and realize that it has been there all along, without any memory of where it was first encountered. But it may have been working away all the time. Tolkien’s professional background, meanwhile, is well presented in the pieces by Thomas Honegger and Miryam Librán-Moreno. I value especially Professor Honegger’s explanation of the apparent contradiction between what Tolkien said about the Riders and what both I and Christopher Tolkien concluded. As an Englishman, I might add that Old English literature was always a disappointment for English patriots. Beowulf has nothing to say about Saxons and very little about Angles, while the Jutes are presented in a thoroughly bad light: so much for the traditional three constituent tribes of Anglo-Saxondom. This hole in heroic legend is one reason for focusing on a “common Germanic ethos,” while the Christian nature of all recorded Old English literature is also an obstacle to finding in it the “unalloyed heroic spirit,” which some, including Tolkien’s friend and collaborator E.V. Gordon, would have wished for.

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A connected thought, which has a bearing on Librán-Moreno’s valuable essay, is that while one English reaction was to borrow Old Norse tradition where their own was insufficient, another was, so to speak, to elevate Goths to the position of “honorary Englishmen.” William Morris’s The Roots of the Mountains (1889) is certainly about Goths and Huns, a subject, one might note, also dear to the heart of Christopher Tolkien. But the names at the start, Burgdale, Rosedale, Burgstead, etc., are designed to make the Gothic realm sound just like Northern England. And this was not just Morris’s delusion, for there was a genuine similarity: a name like Marhwini, noted as Gothic by Librán-Moreno, looks like Gothic and is embedded in a list of Gothic names, but is good Mercian/Northumbrian as well: Charlemagne’s minister Alcuin must have called himself *Alhwini, when he was at home in Yorkshire. This tradition does indeed suggest that Tolkien might have fantasized a “contrafactual history” in which Goths and Angles had a better relationship with Rome, and had also not grown apart. The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrún (2009) notably alters the Nibelung story to give the Goths a more prominent and honorable role. A third strand, which leads us into the Cauldron of Story (and which incidentally takes us on from the first and second tiers of source study, as identified by Fisher, to the more problematic third) is represented by Nicholas Birns on Biblical mythopoeia, Judy Ann Ford on the Golden Legend, and Kristine Larsen on the stories of Ceyx and Alcyone. One point of which they should remind us collectively is just how widely Tolkien read. This is often disguised by the fact that he read “outside the syllabus,” and had a habit of minimizing his reading, but his education at King Edward’s, Birmingham, would have left him with at least as much grasp of Greek and Latin as a modern Classics major (probably, in these degenerate days, far more), and a very good understanding of the Bible (the same comment applies); while his whole professional life, not least as a lexicographer, depended on using all the information one could gather, unimpeded by any notion of “canonicity.” All was grist that came to the philological mill. Caxton’s “Golden Legend” should remind us of the vast resources of story circulating unchecked in medieval Europe. The variant versions of Ceyx and Alcyone furthermore give us a fine example of what Tolkien valued so highly, and tried so hard to recreate, the notion of “complex retellings” continually reworked. Finally, while Birns’s discussion of Creation, (Fall), and Flood explains much about The Silmarillion, it also indicates another “new space” which was opened up for fictional colonization during Tolkien’s lifetime, namely that made available by archaeology — like Comparative Philology, another new discipline devised during the course of the nineteenth century, and still producing dramatic revelations in Tolkien’s youth and maturity, including Sir Leonard Woolley’s excavations at

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“Ur of the Chaldees” in the 1920s and 1930s, which gave a startlingly new slant on Biblical history, as well as myth. Tolkien has long been a disappointment for ambitious biographers — no scandals, no hidden secrets, cupboard after cupboard opened without revealing a skeleton. Modern biographers of literary figures, however, often seem determined to do anything but the obvious, which is of course to read their subject’s books. Diana Pavlac Glyer and Josh B. Long have taken this drastic step in their essay on biography as source, and shown just how striking and detailed may be the self-identifications expressed in some of them. But what did Tolkien mean to do with his two attempts at fulfilling his “time-travel” bargain with Lewis? E.L. Risden, in his essay on source criticism itself, notes the way in which the novel “bricolates” other genres, a comment especially true of The Lord of the Rings, which deliberately contains and alludes to many genres in prose and poetry. Possibly the “Lost Road” story, if ever completed, would have exemplified yet another genre for which we have no agreed name, the thematically-linked but chronologically-separated short-story collection — of which John Buchan’s The Path of the King (1923) is a prominent example. Perhaps that may serve as a final apology for source criticism. No one can ever tell for sure what someone has thought or is thinking, but in practice we all operate, often successfully, on our best guesses, and degrees of probability are possible, in some cases, as Tolkien conceded, approaching 100 percent. In spite, then, of the uncertainty which inevitably attends source study — again noted by several of the contributors here — there is a rather better chance than Tolkien’s phrase “rare luck” suggests of discovering at least some of the “bones of the ox” that went into the “soup” of story. What this leads to (and these are the final justifications for the exercise) is recognizing something about the soup, and furthermore (though Tolkien was too modest to suggest this as a motive) learning something about the mind of the master-chef. It is true, as they say, that you do not have to have the recipe to appreciate a cake: but it is also true that you can learn a lot from seeing what a great cook has in his kitchen.

NOTES 1. I consider what I take to be the multiple meanings of this warning in my Mallorn review of Lewis and Currie 2009, though the fourth and last of these is my fear rather than Tolkien’s. 2. It may be that Mr. Rang took the idea from Edmund Wilson, who comes to the same conclusion in his infamous review of The Lord of the Rings, saying that the name Sauron has a “learned reptilian suggestion — doesn’t it give you a goosefleshy feeling?” 3. Obviously the hobbits did not speak English, but Tolkien was concerned to suggest that the language they did speak, the “Common Speech,” had undergone the sort of changes found in English, including changes which rendered old names incomprehensible or comically misleading.

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WORKS CONSULTED Croft, Janet Brennan, ed. Tolkien and Shakespeare: Essays on Shared Themes and Language. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2007. Drout, Michael D.C. “‘Beowulf, the Monsters and the Critics’: The Brilliant Essay that Broke Beowulf Studies.” 2010. www.lotrplaza.com/forum/forum_posts.asp?TID=237825&PN=1. _____, ed. J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical Assessment. New York: Routledge, 2006. Lewis, Alex, and Elizabeth Currie. The Epic Realm of Tolkien, Part One: Beren and Lúthien. Moreton-in-Marsh, UK: ADC, 2009. _____. “May the Source Be with You” [response to Shippey, “A Question of Source”]. Mallorn 50 (2010): 7. Lewis, C.S. “On Stories.” Of Other Worlds: On Stories, and Other Essays in Literature. Ed. Walter Hooper. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1982. 3–21. _____. “Psycho-Analysis and Literary Criticism.” Selected Literary Essays. Ed. Walter Hooper. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969. 286–300. Rosebury, Brian. Tolkien: A Cultural Phenomenon. 2d ed. Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003. Shippey, Tom. “A Question of Source” [review of Lewis and Currie 2009]. Mallorn 49 (2010): 10–12. _____. “Tolkien’s Two Views of Beowulf, One Hailed, One Ignored: But Did We Get This Right?” 2010. www.lotrplaza.com/forum/forum_posts.asp?TID=238598&PN=1. Tolkien, Christopher. “The Battle of the Goths and Huns.” Saga-Book of the Viking Society 14 (1955–56): 141–63. _____, ed. and trans. The Saga of King Heidrek the Wise. London: HarperCollins, 2010 [1960]. Tolkien, J.R.R. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien. Ed. Humphrey Carpenter, with the assistance of Christopher Tolkien. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1981. _____. The Lord of the Rings. 2d ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1994. _____. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: HarperCollins, 1983. Wilson, Edmund. “Oo, Those Awful Orcs!” The Nation 182 (April 14, 1956): 312–4.

Source Criticism: Background and Applications E.L. Risden Though “Tolkien himself did not approve of the academic search for ‘sources’” (Road, 220; see also Letters, 418, 379), discussion of sources and influences has always played a significant role in Tolkien criticism. Source criticism as a concept or method, while popular and pervasive in the history of literary criticism, has eluded firm definition or specific theorization, perhaps because at first thought it seems intuitively obvious: what sources have influenced the book or author in question, and what other authors or works has he or she alluded to, drawn from, or incorporated in the work in hand? A simple search for “source criticism” on Amazon.com will turn up more than 12,000 entries, many of which comprise “sources and criticism” volumes directed as study companions for students who are taking up famous works or authors. But the enterprise of determining sources and influences presents its own difficulties both practical and theoretical. For instance, as Northrop Frye notes, our freedom, as of artistic choice, “is inseparably bound up” with our acceptance of “cultural heritage”; not just works, but everything that has built the culture in which writers live and work necessarily contributes “source” material to anything one writes (349). Or, as Bakhtin suggests, the novel, that chameleon of genres, “parodies other genres (precisely in their role as genres); it exposes the conventionality of their forms and language; it squeezes out some genres and incorporates others” (5) at whim or through playfulness or even in perversity. Any production within the field that we label “novel” begins as a playful response to or critique of other texts, and the “sources” may include a range as large as all the members of the genre. As Frye says that literary works have myriad cultural sources, Bakhtin adds that, not only other novels, but all literary genres bricolate the novel: “source” need not imply direct borrowing, but merely the stimulation or inflection of response. Source criticism thus becomes not just a multifaceted search for direct influences, but a nearly endless attention to background noise, generating innumerable 17

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mysteries, resonances, problems. This chapter will address some of the more persistent and solvable of those problems. How far may we extend the idea of source criticism? Tolkien’s profession, a professor of the early periods of English language and literature, and his own scholarly orientation as a philologist, had an especially strong influence on his choices and methods for writing fiction and poetry — probably a much stronger influence than had any particular literary work. Tolkien confirms this point in a letter of 1955, where he affirms that his work is “fundamentally linguistic in inspiration” (Letters, 219), with the genesis of names and places, and thus of the narratives that expand from them, in the pleasure of “audible forms” (383). But how can we avoid also such powerful factors as his family background and the deep sense of his own Englishness, his war experience (though he denies its direct influence on The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings: see Letters, 303), and his devotion to Catholicism, not to mention his native wit, expansive imagination, and a school curriculum that valued and even foregrounded the study of languages ancient and modern? We may move then from source criticism to biographical and historical criticism and even genealogy, but those enterprises inevitably link as we look for origins and development. Tolkien’s professional essays, editing, and translation, along with his letters, plus the energetic research of such scholars as Tom Shippey, call attention to the profoundest influences on his “creative” work: Beowulf and everything else in Old English (especially “The Battle of Maldon,” Exodus, “The Wanderer,” and “The Ruin”); the Norse Eddas and sagas (especially Völuspá, Fáfnismál, Skirnismál, Völsungasaga, Snorri Sturluson’s Prose Edda); medieval Romance, Arthurian and otherwise, but specifically Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (and Sir Orfeo) as well as other literary products of the English Northwest Midlands (including Ancrene Wisse); Mandeville’s Travels; Kalevala; Mabinogi; Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and Saxo Grammaticus’s Historia Danica, but those examples only slightly less than the Bible (perhaps more in Latin and Gothic than in English); fairy tales, fables, and folksongs, such as those collected by the Grimms and by Svend Grundtvig and border ballads such as those edited by F.J. Child; William Morris and George MacDonald, and perhaps Kipling; Classical myth (though he may have found much of it unappealing); and the readings and discussions with his fellow Inklings. Noticing such sources may not, as Shippey points out, change one’s reading of Tolkien, but it “always brings out Tolkien’s extremely keen eye for the vital detail,” and it may lead a reader to other pleasurable reading (Road, 220). It can also help us understand how one imagination processes and responds to the imaginative, historical, and religious work of others. Specifically we must add and emphasize that the languages Tolkien stud-

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ied, especially those of northern Europe, exerted as great if not greater influence than the literature: their sounds, structures, and native peculiarities fueled his imagination from childhood on. The “appeal of the pagan,” its “flavour of rootedness,” and the Germanic “theory of courage,” along with its “endemic good humor” (Shippey, Roots and Branches, 19, 24, 27, 28), indelibly marked his fiction and contribute to the effects his audiences cherish. And the proper names of England, both familial and geographical, along with the etymology of English words — Tolkien did early in his adult life work for the Oxford English Dictionary— may have exerted the greatest influence of all; while they fit into few narratives as such, names suggested narratives in their relations to landscape, history, and economy, and they found ways of informing and even creeping into his fiction (see Shippey, Roots and Branches, especially “Tolkien and the West Midlands: The Roots of Romance,” 39–59, and “History in Words: Tolkien’s Ruling Passion,” 157–73; and Gilliver, et al., The Ring of Words: Tolkien and the Oxford English Dictionary). Of course source criticism implies more than just naming an author’s influences, though the latter provides a good start for the former. No formal method or school has grown up around source criticism as it has done around textual criticism and as philology always firmly implied (and as so many recent theoretical cadres have done, sometimes interestingly, always argumentatively, often quarrelsomely). M.A.R. Habib’s excellent and comprehensive A History of Literary Criticism and Theory in over 800 pages doesn’t mention it by name. Yet nearly everyone uses source criticism, assuming that we know what we’re doing. Textual criticism, closely related, aims to construct (or reconstruct) complete, readable, and studiable texts as free as possible of errors and intrusions. “All current textual critics,” Jerome McGann asserts, “whether they work on Homer, Langland, Shakespeare, or ... Byron, agree that to produce a critical edition entails an assessment of the history of the text’s transmission with the purpose of exposing and eliminating errors” because “all acts of information transmission produce various sorts of corruption from the original material” (15): the original text is the source of any contemporary text, and we aim to produce more faithful and trustworthy versions of the original text to present it as accurately as we can. Textual criticism assumes that we owe at least some fidelity to the author, and without it we would have no place to begin: no text to read. Philology, also closely related, aims by the study of languages to permit the detailed study of literatures; it begins with study in the language of the literary work and pursues other languages and literary works that may have influenced the work in question. “If Tolkien had ever been asked to describe himself in one word,” Shippey argues, “he would have chosen ... ‘philologist’”

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(Author, xi); “the essence of philology” appears in the “study of historical forms of a language or languages, including dialectal or non-standard forms, and also of related languages” (xii), so philology deals explicitly with the linguistic sources behind the production of a text. Biographical criticism seeks through the details of authors’ lives to elucidate influences on them and thus to gain a better understanding of their works, and historical criticism broadens the context beyond individual lives to the historical events that contextualize works and the creative and interpretive communities that gave them birth — New Historicism simply adds that we dare not feel too certain of what must inevitably constitute historical reconstruction of context rather than anything dependably exact. Those approaches all represent close cousins — source criticism as it applies to literature combines with them elements of historicism, biographical criticism, and philology to determine how other works have somehow directed the course of those one is seeking to elucidate. The process is chancy: one may discern clear resonances or even find direct references to or quotations from other works. We may uncover structural similarities, allegorical parities (or parodies), lexical echoes, or thematic correspondences — or in some cases downright filchings. We may do well to note what works the author says influenced or guided his or her thoughts, but authors can mislead us on that score and have done so: Tolkien himself was notorious for telling inquisitive and sometimes impolite callers what they wanted to hear to get them to go away, and after a good deal of continual bother, who can blame him? So since we may not always trust the author’s own assertions, we cannot always call the process of identifying sources easy or the results certain. We can, though, through careful and effective sourcehunting provide useful or even necessary keys to illuminating texts and guiding us to satisfying readings. For all the warnings of postmodernism, I don’t think we can do better as critics than to follow Horace’s model that literature should be dulce et utile. Literally the words mean “sweet and useful.” English writers have often translated them as “to teach and delight,” but that rendering shows a specific bias for the didactic purpose that characterizes so much of early literature. To treat them more exactly we may say that Horace believed that literature has value — and reaches a level of proper quality — when it pleases readers and gives them some means of living a better life. A.E. Housman suggested in “Terence, This Is Stupid Stuff ” that poetry inures us to the painful, poisonous experiences of life; Adrienne Rich suggests in “Diving Into the Wreck” that it acquaints us with the tools we need to dig inside ourselves to determine and face our backgrounds, motivations, and desires. Finding writers’ sources allows us to see what they studied, what they brought from those studies directly into their own work, what they used but

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changed, and what they wanted to challenge or correct. Harold Bloom, aiming to expand on “source study,” wrote about the anxiety of influence — how each generation feels the looming weight of previous generations in its own creative endeavors — but we may also explore the same idea under a friendlier rubric, as the productivity of influence: anxiety toward the work of one’s forebears may prod or may stultify; love of one’s forebears, if it doesn’t scare the writer from the attempt, may lead to the desire to add to a tradition, just as distaste for past work can lead to the desire to revise and improve upon what one has read. Mickey Spillane, when asked why he wrote what he did, responded that he wrote what he wanted to read but couldn’t find1: reading creates a space, a desire for more, that circumstance may not allow us to fill, so we produce to fill a gap. Samuel Johnson wrote that while everyone admires Paradise Lost, no one ever wished it any longer, but who wouldn’t wish for more Canterbury Tales, more plays by Shakespeare, more of John Keats’s poems, more fantasy novels of the quality and power of The Lord of the Rings? Our favorite works not only give us joy, but also move us to respond to them creatively: they take their place among our sources inevitably. We don’t write because we hate what we’ve read, but because we want to contribute to the tradition in which our reading lives. In The Anxiety of Influence, Harold Bloom sees poetic history as the equivalent of poetic influence, “since strong poets make that history by misreading one another, so as to clear imaginative space for themselves” (5). But, Bloom continues, the “profundities of poetic influence cannot be reduced to source study, to the history of ideas, to the patterning of images. Poetic influence, or ... poetic misprision, is necessarily the study of the life-cycle of the poet-as-poet,” which includes context and relations among poets (7–8). A poet’s “revision” of precursors may take any of six patterns, as Bloom enumerates them (14–15): clinamen, a “swerve” away from the influence as a “corrective movement”; tessera, completing something from the influence, but with the intent to change the result; kenosis, “a movement toward discontinuity with the precursor”; daemonization, “a movement toward a personalized Counter-Sublime,” rather than toward the sublime the original sought; askesis, a “self-purgation” to separate oneself from other writers or influences; apophrades, a return to or reacceptance of the influence of the precursor. This model presents a dynamic of movement toward and away from sources with moments of personal preference, of emotional and spiritual leaps, and of moral and philosophical judgment. We may use it to consider not only poetic process, but also critical method as we compare related texts. The source may or may not appear determinably in the work, but it always remains peripherally if not centrally — but always powerfully — present. In The Burden of the Past and the English Poet, Walter Jackson Bate had made much the same

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point, although without the theoretical schematic, suggesting that poets feel their lives and work “crazily split down the middle by two demands ... the natural human response to great examples ... viewed as prototypes ... exercised through education, encouraged, and gradually absorbed into the conscience and bloodstream” along with the simultaneous “injunction that you are forbidden to be very closely like these examples.... [For you are] enjoined to admire and at the same time to try, at all costs, not to follow closely what you admire” (133). The pressure to acquire and absorb the great sources and yet steer clear of them places the writer under a nearly immovable burden; the writers who can best manage the burden while firing the imagination (theirs and ours) in new and powerful ways become the “authors of their century.” “Source criticism” in current parlance implies different notions in different fields: often less a struggle with the past and more of a feel for the dangers of the present. It began as a subset of biblical criticism, to discern the various sources behind canonical (or non-canonical) books and stories, in part to understand the process of canonization and in part to understand the movement of story and the cultural influences of the ancient world. But as with exegesis, the process spread to other disciplines. In a sense the Greeks had already practiced it, if not formally: Plato’s Cratylus is in a sense linguistic source-hunting, particularly morphological source criticism. Historians, whether aiming for “accuracy” or truth to events or to legitimize a people or a government or a way of life or an idea of moral and ethical behavior, have always depended on sources they could call authoritative. Today source criticism constitutes an essential concern when one engages in internet research or when in academe we try to teach students the process of incorporating sources into their written and spoken arguments: among electronic sources, what can one trust, and how does one most helpfully cite them? Journalists must feel confident in their sources and must document them — except when confidentiality (or public safety?) prohibits making them public. Anthropology and archaeology begin with the artifact: the source that allows analysis to move toward an understanding of cultural values and change. In literary studies we cite sources to improve our arguments, to provide a point of departure for our own assertions, and to establish the background of interpretive discussions — but most often simply to understand how and why an author wrote what and as she did. Source criticism has found firmer ground — and more explicit definition — in religious studies. Pauline Viviano notes that when source criticism arose in the eighteenth century, writers called it “literary criticism,” and some still do. In the nineteenth century, with the work of Julius Wellhausen and the rise of the “documentary hypothesis,” came the suggestion that the Pentateuch comes from chronologically independent sources, a blow to the belief

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that Moses wrote the five books, but a much more defensible idea. As Norman Habel explains the method, after the scholar has “assembled and assessed” evidence, including the “internal structures of the document(s) in question, including themes, patterns, and literary units, common motifs or plot instances, parallel passages, chronological connections, digressions, grouping of sections, points of view, and stylistic peculiarities, then he may be in a position to propose a hypothesis concerning the origins and composition of the document under scrutiny,” noting such documentation problems as the fact that in “ancient times sources of an oral or written nature were normally used without reference to their origin” (6–7)— or their authors. For Bible scholars source criticism now largely implies that kind of specific enterprise: it “analyzes the biblical text in order to determine what sources were used in its formation. Once sources are isolated, the source critic considers issues of authorship, date, style, setting, and intent of each source,” and while scholars work primarily with written sources, they may use oral as well (Viviano, 29–30). From early on source critics “assumed that the biblical authors did not make up the stories they tell but that these stories were already in circulation” and that the authors “incorporated, rewrote, and reinterpreted traditional material — whether they explicitly say so or not — to produce their versions of Israel’s past for their own audiences” (30). To document their judgments they used specific techniques: observation of characteristic elements of style, such as repetition; comparison of vocabulary, such as the use of Elohim or Yahweh as terms for the Deity; noting the use of different (theological or cultural) perspectives, for instance the depiction of God as a “majestic, transcendent being” or more anthropomorphically; careful attention to contradictions and inconsistencies (e.g., how many pairs of animals did Noah take on the ark?); the occurrence of interruptions, such as the genealogies in Genesis; the appearance of narrative repetitions and duplications, as in the Creation or Flood stories (36–41). While, as Viviano warns, source criticism has it limitations, it offers biblical scholars an additional powerful tool to interpret and to understand the generation of their text. And, as do textual scholars in literature, Bible critics must turn to manuscript study, the stalwart approach in any field of early studies and with many modern writers (such as Tolkien) who wrote many versions of their stories, often by hand. We may find “sources” within an author’s own work, not exclusively in the works of others. While it has remained a common method for the study of the Hebrew Bible, New Testament source criticism has taken most energetically to the problem of the order of composition of the first three gospels. The methods work the same way, but with the goal tending toward understanding how the gospel writers influenced one another and determining what readers can

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understand as the unfolding of the most complete and trustworthy account of Jesus. John Crossan notes a “wide but not unanimous scholarly agreement that the Gospels of Matthew and Luke used as their two main sources the narrative Gospel of Mark and a discourse Gospel usually referred to as Q” (xii); he appends his own case for an earlier text that he calls the Cross Gospel that influenced all four of the gospels and is partially extant, “imbedded in the Gospel of Peter” (xiii). Both Q and the Cross Gospel — as “source for the Passion and Resurrection narrative” (404)— remain hypothetical, but likely, a significant and persistently interesting problem for understanding the nascence of the New Testament. Crossan makes his argument “on three separate fronts”: “narrative integrity” based on the texts of the extant gospels; “generic integrity” in the gospels’ use of the wisdom tradition, and “theological integrity” in the web of echoes among Old and New Testament parallels (404). The method follows that of Old Testament source criticism, but with a particularly energetic hypothesis. To summarize methods and intent, then, we may say that source criticism, once we can establish readable texts for analysis following manuscript and language study, consultation with authors and editors, and careful consideration of context, considers relative chronology, authorship, and intention (if we can determine them), settings of the works, themes, patterns of organization of the whole works or of plot, common literary units such as borrowed characters, motifs, or “memes” (e.g., linguistic elements or even “narremes,” repeated sections of narrative or similar digressions), parallel passages, points of view, and stylistic peculiarities. We may note if an author, having made touch with a previous work, swerves his or her work toward or away from it thematically or stylistically, whether he or she completes something “unfinished” in the previous work, personalizes it, or returns clearly and even nominally to it specifically as a source or influence. The process may begin intuitively, but it proceeds inductively, and one may choose or not to accept earlier assertions about sources made by previous critics — or even those made by the author. Documenting sources provides readers a powerful tool to gain insight into authors, how they thought and worked, and to use in the interpretation of texts, so that we may find, enjoy, appreciate, and teach better and fuller (though not exclusive) readings. It helps us understand how all writers experience the pressures of the past as well as contemporary exigencies. Many of those methods have significant implications for Tolkien criticism, though the chief sources for Tolkien’s work lie in his own work, either the philological scholarship or the myths of “The Silmarillion” and the posthumous volumes of “lost” tales. Tolkien created not just characters and stories, but a world, and that world as much as any other factor determines his enormous popularity. He continually mined his own earlier work, concepts, and

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languages for new steps in his fiction and poetry. And like so many of the other post–World War I writers, he drew from the needs of his generation to confront what they had experienced, the enormous changes in the world, and the Waste Land that opened indefinitely before them. Some of the most profoundly energetic source criticism in literary studies has undertaken to enumerate where Shakespeare found his plots, ideas, and even phrases: one may spend a great deal of useful time in Geoffrey Bullough’s eight-volume Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. A more convenient, single-volume study on the comedies and tragedies is Kenneth Muir’s The Sources of Shakespeare’s Plays.2 The Internet has a plethora of sites often with detailed information on the sources of Shakespeare’s plays, though a number of troubling questions remain for new generations of detectives. One of the most interesting problems with respect to Shakespeare and sources arises in those very few plays that appear to have no or minimal sources: The Tempest, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Love’s Labour’s Lost. We can keep hunting, probably fruitlessly, for sources, read the plays for what they are and do without worrying about possible sources, or consider authorial motivation for them: of all the ideas for all the plots in all the world, why did he walk alone into those? Another problem arises with Hamlet, which has elicited some of the most persistent, detailed, and problematic source hunting. The “Hamlet problem,” as critics of the past often termed it, amounts to interpretive difficulties which understanding the sources of the play can only partially mitigate — but even that partial helps us to experience and express new levels of richness in the play. Hamlet makes a good example for the study of source criticism both because of the story’s history and because the play draws the continual attention of teachers, students, and audiences for its quality, intensity, and mystery.3 Scholars have long recognized some likely sources and a possible, even probable, but no-longer-extant source — therein lies the rub. Gollancz provides not only a generous introductory essay, but also Northern material from such sources as Ambales Saga, “The Story of Brjám,” and the lengthy section from the major medieval source, Saxo’s Historia Danica, plus a side-by-side (French 1582, with the English translation of 1608) text of François de Belleforest’s The Hystorie of Hamblet, from his Histoires Tragiques, which the French writer adapted from Saxo. As early as 1907 Charlton Lewis was arguing that from Belleforest’s “novel” Thomas Kyd had made “a pre–Shakespeare Hamlet,” and that play served as Shakespeare’s chief source — but “Kyd’s Hamlet is now lost” (38–39). Lewis includes an excerpt from Thomas Nashe’s introductory epistle to Robert Greene’s 1589 Menaphon that punningly hints at Kyd’s authorship. Nashe refers obliquely to Kyd’s father’s trade, to his use of Seneca and his skill with Latin, and to his Italian translations, he puns on his name,

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and — most important for our purpose — he mentions Hamlet specifically (and derogatorily). While that evidence alone may not suffice, and while Lewis may go too far in his claims for Kyd, he makes at least a case, one that strengthens with the likely co-eval influence of The Spanish Tragedy. Scholars have long discussed the infamous Ur-Hamlet, but, despite its likelihood, no one has found it — perhaps the single greatest difficulty with source criticism. Muir concludes that we must “remember that the main source of Hamlet was the lost play, and that echoes of books published before 1589 may have been present before Shakespeare took a hand” (170), though Shakespeare may have been echoing, even “unconsciously,” his own reading, such as Erasmus’s Praise of Folly (169), while relying on other material for specifics, such as Reginald Scot’s Discovery of Witchcraft and L. Lavater’s Of Ghosts and Sprites for supernatural elements, Thomas Nashe’s Pierce Penilesse for hints of the “drinking habits of the Danes” (167), and Timothy Bright’s Treatise of Melancholie to help him create Hamlet’s condition (166). Muir enumerates (164) many Elizabethan plays that deal with revenge and that may have inflected Shakespeare’s complex approach to the problem in Hamlet: Beaumont and Fletcher’s The Pilgrim and The Maid’s Tragedy, Middleton’s The Revenger’s Tragedy, Tourneur’s The Atheist’s Tragedy, Chapman’s The Revenge of Bussy D’Ambois, Marston’s The Malcontent (depending on the dates of composition). Concerns of source/influence here devolve to a web of themes and images (for an early study of Shakespeare’s reading, see Anders, Shakespeare’s Books), not to mention Shakespeare’s poetic debt to Marlowe, Greene, and Lyly (Muir, 8). The real “problems” of Hamlet remain for most readers, as Muir wryly opines, with the Prince’s character (163), and most of them go back to “Shakespeare’s inability to transform the intractable material of the old play, so that we have motives and incidents from the Ur-Hamlet ... side by side with the feelings and experience of the civilized poet” (162). I would argue that any such “problem” comes from Shakespeare’s own directions in the play, not from his use of sources; while so many source materials funnel into Hamlet as we have it, Shakespeare used them all to his own purposes, to direct our attention to how we perceive and to issues of perspective. To Ophelia Hamlet is mad and perhaps mean; to Laertes he is a rake and a murderer; to Claudius he is a looming source of vengeance; to Horatio he is a brave, philosophical, worthy prince; to Gertrude he is a wise, suffering, but probably vindictive son. Therein comes one of the great pleasures of source criticism: it can lead us to clues to mysteries we must still work out for ourselves by reading and re-reading, interpreting and re-interpreting, but it must only add to, and not replace, equally valid approaches to interpretation. We must say then, finally, that the dangers of source criticism lie in uncertainty: the critic must assemble evidence, of course, but must often rely

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on guesses. The test of those guesses and their ultimate value rests in their capability to provide avenues into helpful and satisfying readings of difficult and rewarding literary works. Even a mistaken guess can lead to insight, as long as we as readers fairly distinguish between what author and text do and what we do as respondents. The potentially great value in source criticism rests in its clues to how the imagination works — and its cues to the creation of new works that may prove both perceptive and pleasant on their own. Writing begins with reading and study, proceeds on anxiety or inspiration, and, with success and luck, alights on something new and valuable for its own sake and ours.

NOTES 1. Tolkien and Lewis shared the same motive for some of their earliest attempts at fiction (Letters, 378). 2. If one wishes to choose a particular play, Hamlet has always drawn considerable interest; see Israel Gollancz’s The Sources of Hamlet and The Genesis of Hamlet, by Charlton M. Lewis, as well as, interestingly, John Updike’s succinct foreword to his novel Gertrude and Claudius. 3. For some of Tolkien’s own thoughts on Hamlet, see Letters, 88.

WORKS CONSULTED Anders, H.R.D. 1904. Shakespeare’s Books. Whitefish, MT: Kessinger, 2003. Bakhtin, M.M. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays. Ed. Michael Holmquist; trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holmquist. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981. Bate, W. Jackson. The Burden of the Past and the English Poet. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1970. Bloom, Harold. The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry. New York: Oxford University Press, 1973. Bullough, Geoffrey. Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. 8 vols. London: Routledge and Paul; New York: Columbia University Press, 1957–75. Crossan, John Dominic. The Cross That Spoke: The Origins of the Passion Narrative. San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1988. Frye, Northrop. Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957. Gilliver, Peter, Jeremy Marshall, and E.S.C. Weiner. The Ring of Words: Tolkien and the Oxford English Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Gollancz, Israel. The Sources of Hamlet. New York: Octagon, 1967. Habib, M.A.R. A History of Literary Criticism and Theory. Maldon, MA: Blackwell, 2008. Habel, Norman. Literary Criticism of the Old Testament. Philadelphia: Fortune, 1971. Lewis, Charlton M. The Genesis of Hamlet. New York: Holt, 1907. McGann, Jerome J. A Critique of Modern Textual Criticism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983. Muir, Kenneth. The Sources of Shakespeare’s Plays. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1978. Shippey, T.A. [Tom]. J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2000. _____. The Road to Middle-earth: How J.R.R. Tolkien Created a New Mytholog y. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1983. _____. Roots and Branches: Selected Papers on Tolkien by Tom Shippey. Zollikofen: Walking Tree, 2007.

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Tolkien, J.R.R. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien. Ed. Humphrey Carpenter. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981. Updike, John. Gertrude and Claudius. New York: Knopf, 2000. Viviano, Pauline A. “Source Criticism.” To Each Its Own Meaning: An Introduction to Biblical Criticisms and Their Application. Ed. Steven L. McKenzie and Stephen R. Haynes. Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1993. 29–51.

Tolkien and Source Criticism: Remarking and Remaking Jason Fisher Those who do not want to imitate anything, produce nothing.— Salvador Dalí

Scholars wishing to assess the merits of existing source studies or to conduct source studies of their own must begin by establishing some ground rules. This applies to any subject of source criticism, be it the Bible or Beowulf, the works of Chaucer, Shakespeare, or Joyce. We must first explain what is meant by source criticism as a critical methodology,1 then apply that methodology to our chosen subject — in this case, J.R.R. Tolkien. While bringing Tolkien’s putative sources into sharper focus, it will be useful to answer certain satellite questions — e.g., whether Tolkien’s works are more apt to source criticism than those of other authors, what Tolkien thought about the approach, whether he engaged in it himself, and so on. And finally, to the meat of the matter: how exactly one should go about it. How do we know good source criticism from bad? And if we can produce good source criticism — once we have decided what that is — then what does it avail us for understanding and appreciating Tolkien and his works? The purpose of this essay is to attempt some answers to these questions, and if all goes well, to lay out a recipe for the best approach to the study of Tolkien’s sources.

Where Do We Start? It is often thought that searching out an author’s sources is a destructive endeavor, one which repeatedly deconstructs a literary work until all appreciation for the author’s own imagination and artistry is lost. Taking some liberties with context, this is what Tolkien meant when he cautioned against approaching Beowulf by examining each stone for its individual value and 29

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ignoring the beauty of the tower which is constructed from them (MC, 7–8). To use a more familiar metaphor, it can be the problem of not seeing the forest for the trees — or their roots. Tolkien himself seems to have been concerned that readers too intent on ferreting out his sources would eventually decide he had gotten all of his ideas from somebody else, a legitimate concern for any author.2 In addition to a charge of something like imaginative plagiarism, Tolkien was also concerned that readers who became too absorbed with source-hunting could not possibly be enjoying his novels as self-contained objets d’art. In a 1966 interview with a former student, Tolkien described the tendency of the “serious reader [to] take the construction to pieces; find and analyse sources, dissect it into symbols, and debase it into allegory” as “comparable to a man who having eaten anything, from a salad to a complete and well-planned dinner, uses an emetic, and sends the results for chemical analysis” (Castell, 146)— a rather distasteful image, to say the least. Tolkien’s friend and colleague, C.S. Lewis voiced much the same opinion through a similarly peristaltic metaphor. He was writing about a different author, but the caution applies to Tolkien studies equally well. It is possible for our reading of an author to become what we may call “sourceridden,” so that we no longer see his book as it is in itself, but only as it contrasts with its sources. This is clearly an injustice to the author, for we are preserving in their original form elements which he has transmuted, and even elements which he rejected. It is as though we ate all the raw ingredients of a pudding along with the pudding itself: such eating is emphatically not the pudding’s proof [Lewis, Collected Letters, 166n46].

I am not sure that either metaphor, Tolkien’s or Lewis’s, is an entirely accurate characterization of source criticism. Rather than vomiting up the sources of his “well-planned dinner,” is it not rather that the source scholar enjoys the dinner, noting its constituent ingredients on his palate and appreciating how the master-chef has transformed these ingredients? Likewise, the oenophile need not drink the wine and eat the grapes (with a handful of the soil) in order to detect a particular varietal note or to appreciate the wine’s terroir. But this can certainly occur in the worst kinds of source studies, of which it must be admitted there are quite a few in the history of Tolkien studies.3 Yet when conducted with care, and with an eye on the purpose as much as on the method, there is no reason we cannot study the stones themselves while we admire the artistry of the tower; or inquire about the ingredients while enjoying the meal. How else can we learn how the tower was made, and appreciate how the tower might be different had its materials and methods of assembly been different? We ought not simply point out that an author incorporated this or that source, but try to explain why he might have done so. In the pro-

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cess, we can learn a great deal about an author’s working methods, his own literary tastes, and much more. No text stands entirely alone, and to ignore an author’s sources — particularly an author as richly allusive as Tolkien — is to risk stripping a text of its context. It is reasonable to ask whether Tolkien’s works are more apt to source criticism than the works of other writers. The short answer is yes. To hazard making a post hoc ergo propter hoc argument, they must be; otherwise, what possible excuse could there be for the proliferation of such criticism, much of which is very good? But let us say a little bit more about why. After all, one would think that invented fantasy worlds might be less apt to source criticism than, say, historical novels, parodies, or deliberate adaptations of wellknown works. Why should we presume that Tolkien’s fantasies are anchored in sources at all? There are several reasons. For one, Tolkien refers to races such as elves, dwarves, goblins, gnomes, and dragons, inescapably calling to mind their analogues in earlier literature, folktale, and mythology. Now, it’s possible that upon investigation we might find that Tolkien’s elves, dwarves, and other creatures bear little, or only superficial, resemblance to their models in the earlier literature; however, the possible findings do not invalidate the inquiry. And in the event, Tolkien’s elves, dwarves, dragons, and so on, do in fact owe many debts to their antecedent sources.4 Second, in describing his works, Tolkien indicated that their proper vantage was “history, true or feigned, with its varied applicability to the thought and experience of readers” (LotR, xxiv), opening the door, at least a crack, to the search for historical moorings. When a selection of Tolkien’s letters was published some years after his death, that door was thrown open much wider. Many of these letters have been quoted time and time again, and I will not repeat all of them here, but there are one or two that I find particularly relevant. Shortly following the publication of The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien wrote to W.H. Auden: “I am historically minded. Middle-earth is not an imaginary world”; rather, it is the objectively real world, ... specifically opposed to imaginary worlds (as Fairyland) or unseen worlds (as Heaven or 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 [Letters, 239].5

In his letters, Tolkien also acknowledged a number of sources — sometimes explicitly, sometimes only implicitly — from which he had borrowed. Again, most of these have been quoted many times by source scholars in justification of their work, and I will not offer anything like a complete list here.6 A couple of examples will have to suffice. For one, there is Tolkien’s letter to

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the Observer, in which he responds to a reader calling himself “Habit,” who had written to inquire about sources for The Hobbit. Tolkien answers with humor and charm, indulging the question of sources and specifically acknowledging Beowulf as “among my most valued” (Letters, 31). Tolkien claims that what he owed to Beowulf was unconscious, and this may well be true, but that does not, and should not, preclude investigating the connections between his work and the Old English epic (as many scholars have done, myself among them). Tolkien goes on to admit that he drew the names for Gandalf and the company of dwarves from Old Norse mythology, specifically the Elder Edda. Likewise, he confesses borrowing the Anglo-Saxon runes for The Hobbit, though he would go on to substitute runes of his own making in The Lord of the Rings. Finally, and most significantly, Tolkien closes the letter with encouragement: “And what about the Riddles? There is work to be done here on the sources and analogues. I should not be at all surprised to learn that both the hobbit and Gollum will find their claim to have invented any of them disallowed” (32). My goal here is merely to put the point beyond dispute: Tolkien did indeed borrow from others — he has admitted as much himself— and consequently, his works may be compared to these sources. They should be, in fact; to be aware of sources acknowledged by Tolkien himself as having influenced his imagination, and not to examine them for what they might reveal, would be critically irresponsible. Once we have accepted this, the questions broaden: which of Tolkien’s works exhibit borrowing, what were his sources, why did he do it, and how did these sources augment his own imagination (or better, vice versa)? As to the question of why, there are many specific answers — perhaps as many as there are distinct borrowings in his works. We will discuss some of these in due course, but before we do, I would like to venture a broader explanation.

What Kind of Writer Was Tolkien? Some have argued that Tolkien can be viewed as a post–War author (Shippey). Others have lumped him in with the Edwardians who preceded him (Lobdell). Some call him the progenitor of the modern fantasy tradition; and still others place him in the modernist, anti-modernist, and even postmodernist milieux (all have gotten their due). All of these approaches offer valid lenses through which Tolkien may be studied, but I would argue that as much as any of them, and more than many, Tolkien may also be seen as a medieval writer — that is, not an author writing medieval subject matter in a medieval style (although this is sometimes true as well7), but rather an author of medieval technique.8

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In many ways, Tolkien’s working methods and attitude toward literary construction resemble those of authors writing many centuries earlier. The majority of Tolkien’s sources were medieval, as shown by the preponderance of source criticism to date. This comes as little surprise; medieval literature was Tolkien’s professional expertise as well as a personal passion. But the very notion of authorship in the Middle Ages was quite different from the concept as we know it today. In “The Genesis of a Medieval Book,” C.S. Lewis explains how medieval authors were both bound by their sources and also freely modified and adapted them to their own purposes, to the demands of their selected form, and to the needs of their time.9 Lewis writes that these Middle English texts have come into existence by a process which is quite foreign to modern literature. The scholar’s ideal of accuracy in translation, the historian’s ideal of fidelity to a document, and the artist’s ideal of originality, are all alike absent.... In one way, they seem enslaved to their originals; it never occurs to them to break these up and melt the slivers down and forge out of them an essentially new work. But in another way their treatment of them is very cavalier. They do not hesitate to supplement them from their own knowledge and, still more, from their own imagination — touching them up, bringing them more fully to life [36].

This sounds very much like Tolkien’s working methods, although Tolkien is a bit different in that he did “melt the slivers down” to produce works of striking originality out of his sources and his own imagination. Even where it is clear that he owes a debt to some antecedent source or analogue, it is equally clear that he is usually augmenting the story, filling a lacuna, or even simply having fun. Tolkien’s process is thus very similar to the medieval process Lewis describes. A little later in his essay, Lewis goes on to write that “we might equally well call our medieval authors the most unoriginal or the most original of men.” He elaborates: They are so unoriginal that they hardly ever attempt to write anything unless someone has written it before. They are so rebelliously and insistently original that they can hardly reproduce a page of any older work without transforming it by their own intensely visual and emotional imagination, turning the abstract into the concrete, quickening the static into turbulent movement, flooding whatever was colorless with scarlet and gold. They can no more leave their originals intact than we can leave our own earlier drafts intact when we fair-copy them. We always tinker and (as we hope) improve. But in the Middle Ages you did that as cheerfully to other people’s work as to your own [37–8].10

One cannot help but see the resemblance to Tolkien’s writing process.11 Indeed, in the 1966 interview referred to previously, Tolkien admitted, “I love [revision]. I am a natural niggler, fascinated by detail.” In addition to working

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with source material from other authors, he happily cannibalized, adapted, and repurposed his own writings. Just as Lewis says, Tolkien did this “cheerfully” with his own works as well as those of others. The idea I hope to make clear is that in the Middle Ages, writers freely borrowed from, and as freely adapted and deviated from, whatever sources struck their fancy. Likewise, they fully expected their own works to be borrowed from and adapted in turn. Indeed, the authors of some of the most important pieces of medieval literature are unknown. In essence, the entire medieval period was a kind of imaginative collaboration. It was really only after Gutenberg’s invention of moveable type in the 15th century that attitudes toward authorship began to change. As late as the Renaissance, borrowing — and more often, outright plagiarism12— was still quite common (Bryson, 100– 2), but from the 18th century on, the primacy of authorship has continued to gain strength.13 While it was once perfectly acceptable to borrow and allude — or if not always acceptable, certainly widespread — being unoriginal is now considered one of the greatest defects of modern fiction. If Tolkien had more in common with medieval authors than with modern ones, we might well ask why this should be. I think there are two straightforward reasons. First, Tolkien’s academic expertise lay in the literature of the Middle Ages — its construction, language, sources, scribal errors, and so on. For that reason, we should not be surprised to find that he shows signs in his own writings of “the influence of the model,” “of great experts upon great experts” (Lewis, Discarded Image, 19–20, 198, et seq.). In addition, there was Tolkien’s desire to restore to England a mythology of its own, which Tolkien felt had been lost, vandalized, or overshadowed in the intervening centuries. One can easily see why Tolkien, developing his so-called “mythology for England,” might have adopted, whether purposely or not, the same kinds of authorial modes of those ancient mythmakers to whose converse he wished to add his own voice.14 On the other hand, Tolkien certainly considered his works his own, his precious, and no one else’s. He vigorously defended his intellectual property from infringement by Ace Books, whom he characterized as “pirates” (Letters, 355, 356, 358, et seq.). He also reacted quite negatively to early fan-fiction, calling an amateur writer a “young ass” and the proposed sequel “tripe” (371). I do not mean to suggest that Tolkien regarded his own work as part of a chain of sources to be made free use of— clearly, he did not — but his working methods suggest that he regarded previous works in much that way. He certainly borrowed a pinch here, a peck there, with remarkable impunity. Why should he feel any compunction if others made use of his work, when he himself, as well as some of the writers he most admired, had done likewise? On the surface, Tolkien’s possessiveness seems to be a bit hypocritical.

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As it happens, the situation is not quite so black and white. Tolkien did make one or two corroborating statements to suggest he might have seen his own work as part of a larger tradition, seeming to envision its free use by others: “I would draw some of the great tales in fullness, and leave many only placed in the scheme, and sketched. The cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands, wielding paint and music and drama” (Letters, 145). This letter presents some problems of interpretation, and has often been cited out of context, but I mention it to suggest the thought had crossed his mind. He would go on in this same letter to dismiss the idea as “absurd,” but more than a decade later, Tolkien was still perfectly willing to grant Carey Blyton “permission to compose any work that you wished based on The Hobbit” (350). As we have seen above (and will see elsewhere in the present collection), Tolkien had misgivings about source criticism, at least when applied to his own work.15 But Tolkien applied the approach to other authors in the course of his own literary research.16 In a radio lecture Tolkien wrote on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, accompanying portions of his translation, he declared that we have in Sir Gawain the work of a man capable of weaving elements taken from diverse sources into a texture of his own; and a man who would have in that labour a serious purpose. I would myself say that it is precisely that purpose that has with its hardness proved the shaping tool which has given form to the material, given it the quality of a good tale on the surface, because it is more than that, if we look closer. The story is good enough in itself. It is a romance, a fairy-tale for adults, full of life and colour; and it has virtues that would be lost in a summary, though they can be perceived when it is read at length: good scenery, urbane or humorous dialogue, and a skilfully ordered narrative ... [Gawain, 14].17

Tolkien might almost be speaking about his own writings. Certainly, his description of the literary technique of “weaving elements taken from diverse sources into a texture of his own” to produce “a romance, a fairy-tale for adults, full of life and colour” is perfectly à propos of Tolkien’s greatest works. If Tolkien can speculate on medieval authors’ use of sources, and if Tolkien’s working methods were similar to those of medieval authors, it seems only fair that we be permitted to approach his own works through that same rubric — particularly if we take care to avoid the dangers which most concerned him. Tolkien may have disliked the approach (in part because it is prone to careless execution), but he expected it and should have been prepared to tolerate it. At any rate, when the method is valid and yields fruitful results, should the personal misgivings of the subject foreclose productive channels of research? If we assume they should not, we may now ask: how does one

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conduct a valid source study, and how does one judge the fruitfulness of its results?

How Do We Do Source Criticism? Given the hypothesis of a source, there are basically two stages to testing it. First, one must establish the validity or plausibility of that source; then, assuming this is sufficiently defensible, one must discuss how the source was used and what consequences this has for the author’s work. To put it simply, could Tolkien have known a source? And assuming he could have known it, and did indeed use it, what did he do with it? And how does the knowledge of this source help us to understand or appreciate The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or whatever work we are investigating? Tolkien’s use of sources was clearly more sophisticated than that of most, perhaps any, other writers.18 Consequently, the scholar’s argument should be equally sophisticated. It is frighteningly common to see sources adduced which do not fit what we know of the timeline for Tolkien’s writings.19 Before we can suggest that Tolkien borrowed from a particular source, we must be able to say that the source was available to Tolkien — that is, before he wrote the passage or episode that has caught our eye. Next, we would like to be able to demonstrate that Tolkien was actually acquainted with the source in question. All too often, slipshod source studies fall back on the assumption that Tolkien “must have known” this work or that, merely because the work was popular or important or published in Oxford, or simply because Tolkien was well-educated and widely read. This is not very persuasive. We must be able to say more. The best sources are those which Tolkien acknowledged himself (e.g., the Anglo-Saxon Earendel, the Old Norse Völuspá, Beowulf, etc.). Failing Tolkien’s own admission of direct influence (which is pretty rare), a second tier of sources comprises those Tolkien is known to have read, owned, enjoyed, or commented on. A great deal is known from his essays, letters, drafts, interviews, and other primary materials about what Tolkien read and owned. While we are at it, we must not neglect Tolkien’s scholarly essays, his work on the Oxford English Dictionary, his reviews for The Year’s Work in English Studies, and other arcane sources in the search for evidence he knew a putative source. Once evidence for acquaintance is located, these can be advanced as probable sources. Note that the burden of making a compelling argument still lies squarely on the scholar’s shoulders, but such works can be (and have been) the subject of many successful source studies.20 There is a third tier of sources, which we might call possible sources. Works that are never explicitly mentioned by Tolkien but which are no more than one step away from an explicit statement may be acceptable for a care-

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fully-made and strongly-argued source study. Such sources might include works by authors with whom we know Tolkien was familiar, even if he made no statements on record about a particular work. So, for example, Tolkien mentions Haggard, Lang, Buchan, Morris, and others. Tolkien certainly does not say something specific about each and every work by these authors, but we have at least some ground to stand on in speculating about such works as sources. More risky are works that Tolkien’s close associates knew, even if he never mentions them himself. So, if C.S. Lewis demonstrated a vocal familiarity with an author or work at a time when he and Tolkien were in close and frequent contact, then a scholar might bring up the possibility of Tolkien’s having known the author or work as well. The argument is still highly circumstantial, and such source studies are speculative at best. The remainder of the argument had better be pretty strong if the study is not to be dismissed out of hand. One must always keep in mind that source studies require a causal relationship, or at the least, the probability of one. The proposed source must have been available to Tolkien, and we would like to be able to demonstrate he actually read it. Without that, we may still observe similarities between two works — Tolkien’s and another author’s — but the best we can hope for, and all we should aim for in such cases, is a comparative study. Poor source studies are often just comparative studies whose reach has exceeded their grasp; subtract the tenuous claims of deliberate borrowing or influence, and you may have an excellent comparative essay. Having said that, new material is still coming to light, and there is a very great deal we do not yet know. Even forty years after Tolkien’s death, Tolkien studies is still in its infancy. Drafts of Tolkien’s watershed lecture, “On Fairy-stories,” for example, have pointed to several authors and works for which little prior evidence of acquaintance was known. For instance, there is Edward Wyke-Smith’s 1927 novel, The Marvellous Land of Snergs. In spite of the proximity of its publication to that of The Hobbit and only scant acknowledgement from Tolkien, Douglas Anderson has shown that the novel was a marked influence on Tolkien’s first published novel. The explicit evidence amounts to little more than one passing reference in a letter and a passage from a draft of “On Fairy-stories,” published only in the last few years, but the similarities between the two works are much more than incidental. In the same drafts, new evidence has come to light recently of Tolkien’s familiarity with other authors, like Charles Kingsley and E.H. KnatchbullHugessen (Tolkien, Tolkien On Fairy-stories, 249). If the argument is executed with care, and if the implicit connections in Tolkien’s works are strong, even scant evidence can make a source study sufficiently convincing. But by this stage in Tolkien studies, most of the low-hanging fruit has

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long gone. Source scholars have been looking to the higher branches in the Tree of Tales; that is, the second and even third tier of possible sources. A certain amount of methodological care can be lost in the desperation to make new discoveries. With the advent of Project Gutenberg, Google Books, Archive.org, and other online repositories of old texts, it has become almost trivial to hunt for Tolkienian phrases in earlier works, like a prospector panning for gold. As an example, consider Tolkien’s phrase, “the cracks of doom.” It might easily be traced to any of a dozen earlier authors who used this phrase — e.g., Shakespeare’s famous line, “What, will the line stretch out to th’ crack of doom?” (Macbeth, IV.i, l. 132), which Tolkien himself quoted (Hammond and Scull, 767–8).21 The problem here is that the cracks in question are of two different kinds (for Tolkien, a fissure; but in the earlier literature, a sharp noise). To take another example, Shakespeare again:22 Janet Brennan Croft suggests that the exchange between Frodo and Aragorn in The Prancing Pony is one of “a few minor echoes of words and phrases from Macbeth” (220), in this case playing on fair and foul. Maybe, but that antithetical juxtaposition was not unique to Shakespeare. Tolkien could just as easily have borrowed it from Spenser’s Faerie Queene—“Then faire grew foule, and foule grew faire in sight” (IV.viii.32)— if he borrowed it at all. Or perhaps he did borrow it from Shakespeare, but not from Macbeth. Perhaps it was Cymbeline—“...can we not partition make with spectacles so precious ’twixt fair and foul?” (I.vi, ll. 36–8). You begin to see the problem: the discovery of similar phrases in Tolkien’s and another author’s works is only the beginning. The less certain the source, the greater the care the source scholar must take to assemble the case. If in doubt, it may sometimes be preferable to write a comparative study rather than take on the burden of arguing for causality where there is no clear evidence. If further facts should come to light, then the next logical step, arguing for a source relationship, may be taken.23 In the absence of sufficient evidence, there are too many other explanations for the images, episodes, and motives Tolkien’s writings seem to have in common with earlier works. It could be that Tolkien and an author who apparently influenced him both derived their common elements from a third party, some still earlier source. Alternatively, some elements may be common enough to derive, in a sense, from a shared pool of mythopoeic elements, found in too many works for us ever to know from which specific one(s) Tolkien borrowed. And of course, there is always the possibility of mere coincidence: there is absolutely no reason two authors could not independently invent analogous episodes, images, names, or characters, or even use similar language to describe them. Just because there is a Røros, Vestfold, and Østfold in Norway does not mean that Tolkien modeled Rohan on that country.

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Michael D.C. Drout and Hilary Wynne have ably discussed the dangers of careless source criticism as well as summarized some of the alternative explanations for common ideas between authors. They caution that “similarity does not imply descent” (107). Even when borrowing can be conclusively demonstrated, this is far from the end of the argument. Drout and Wynne warn of the “deeply embedded assumption that once a source has been identified, the meaning of Tolkien’s text has been discovered,” but “[f ]inding a source merely defers the problem of interpretation; it cannot eliminate it” (loc. cit.). It is common to find weaker source studies riddled with theories about hidden messages, codes, rubrics, or real-world maps that perfectly overlay Tolkien’s. Such hazards are totally avoidable, but they have regrettably done considerable damage to the reputation of source criticism. But let us press on. Having established the likelihood of a relationship, and having carefully avoided the pitfalls in making the case, one may advance a hypothetical source. One must then lay the two texts side by side and compare them to see what Tolkien kept, what he rejected, and how he incorporated the source material into his own work both generally and specifically. We can consider several different ways in which Tolkien made use of source material (at this point, readers might also wish to refer back to Risden, above). We may find direct borrowings, where Tolkien has taken up an episode, motive, character, or phrase, and implanted it into his own story, retaining the essential characteristics of the original more or less whole. For instance, Bilbo’s pilfering of the cup from Smaug’s hoard and the subsequent ire of the dragon is clearly lifted from a parallel episode in Beowulf (Author, 36). Tolkien sometimes borrowed from sources in order to attempt to fill lacunae in the literature. This is somewhat different from the conventional picture of borrowing from a source. In this case, Tolkien is responding to something missing from the original. This is the very idea behind Tolkien’s early Book of Lost Tales, though perhaps the best example of Tolkien’s response to lacunae in ancient literature is one only newly brought to light in The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrún.24 Another use to which Tolkien often put sources was something like parody, as in the story of the Hobbit brothers Marcho and Blanco (Road, 102; see also Honegger, in the present collection). Similarly, Tolkien sometimes invoked sources in order to respond to them, to enter into dialogue with them, or even to improve on them: a process one might call remarking and remaking. Notable examples include several unequivocal references to Shakespeare’s Macbeth— the Ents’ attack on Isengard an improvement over the march of Birnam Wood to Dunsinane Castle, the prophecy of the fate of the Witch-king an improvement over that of the Scottish king (Author, 192–5; see also Croft). It is clear that Tolkien shared Mac-

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beth’s frustration with “juggling fiends ... that palter with us in a double sense” (V.vii, ll. 49–50; cf. Letters, 212). Lastly, Tolkien frequently took elements from multiple sources and wove them into single episodes, characters, or passages in his work. One example comes, again, from the dragon Smaug, where elements of his characterization and actions reveal sources in both the Old English Beowulf and the Old Norse Fáfnismál. Such layering of source upon source, with imaginative leaps to connect and transform them, and to reconcile their inconsistencies, is one of the more unique aspects of Tolkien’s creative process.25

What Does It All Mean? After all of this, what can we learn by illuminating Tolkien’s sources and studying the relationships between them and Tolkien’s own writings? To put it bluntly: why should we do it? We have seen that there are pitfalls in the overzealous search for sources — what earlier generations of academics called Quellenforschung, still called “source-hunting” today (often with outright condescension). But there are ample rewards for the articulate and thoughtful source study. The benefits are many. They may be divided into two broad categories, for the insights they afford us into Tolkien’s writings and into Tolkien himself. Among the benefits directed at the text, first and foremost, sources help us to appreciate the many-faceted nature of Tolkien’s fiction. Tolkien’s works are deliberately complex and multi-layered, drawing on many traditions, even interacting with them in a kind of mythic literary conversation. The principal conceit of Tolkien’s legendarium is that it stands as a lost prehistoric tradition, of which the many myths and legends we know in our own primary word are meant (fictively, by Tolkien) to be echoes, fragments, and transformations. Tolkien viewed his legendarium as seeding the world’s mythologies and their expansive repositories of tales. Eventually, these seeds would have grown (we are still speaking fictively) into the Greek myths, Beowulf, the Eddas, Chaucer, Shakespeare, the Finnish Kalevala, and all the rest. In this sense, the “mythology for England” really becomes universal, almost a mythology for the entire world; certainly a pan–European one. Another benefit is the reinforcement of Tolkien’s central themes, through many allusions to and transformation of sources with complementary messages — and sometimes with contrasting ones. As Tolkien said of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, “all this care in formal construction serves also to make the tale a better vehicle of the ‘moral’ which the author has imposed on his

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antique material” (Gawain, 15). Just as Beowulf stands as a pagan legend shaken by the stiff breeze of Christian transformation, much the same could be said of The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien has absorbed the “antique material” and synthesized something new out of it, as a powerful vehicle for communicating the moral messages underlying his stories (cf. Letters, 172). Among the benefits in understanding Tolkien from a biographical vantage, the discovery of sources from virtually all periods of literary history (up to and including his own) dispels the myth that Tolkien read nothing after Chaucer. In fact, he read a good deal before and after Chaucer: Classical, Renaissance, Restoration, Victorian, Edwardian, and contemporary literature. In spite of professed distastes, and sometimes because of them, there are many surprises awaiting the diligent source scholar. Tolkien disliked Shakespeare but turned that dislike in a number of interesting directions in his fiction. Tolkien would disavow George MacDonald later in life, but the man’s goblins clearly left the imprint of their soft feet on Tolkien’s imagination. As we will see further along in the present volume, H. Rider Haggard and John Buchan are two other writers of approximately Tolkien’s own time who would make an indelible impression on his work. Knowing which sources Tolkien borrowed at which points in his career can also reveal something of his evolving reading habits and literary tastes. There is certainly a great welter of medieval source material yet to be examined, but by discovering sources from other periods, our understanding of the breadth of Tolkien’s interests matures. Because he did not write many literary essays of the type his fellow Inklings C.S. Lewis and Owen Barfield did, some of our only knowledge of this side of Tolkien comes from orts and gleanings like this — in short, from his use of source materials. They give indications of what he liked, what he didn’t, and sometimes why. This often sheds light on Tolkien’s fiction, and for readers and scholars with an interest in Tolkien the man, these things are worth knowing on their own. Tolkien himself was skeptical of the value of biography in criticism (cf. Letters, 257, 367, 414), but we need not share his opinion. Put together, these insights into Tolkien’s writing process, interests, and tastes can help us to appreciate his fiction all the more. There are, to be sure, many other valid approaches to Tolkien and his works, and I mean neither to preclude them, nor to promote source criticism as the best of them. Each has its place, its strengths, dangers, and rewards. When source criticism is conducted properly, it can add another dimension to the awe so many of us feel for this unique author and his incredible — strike that: his remarkably credible— invented world. To invent, after all, is as much to discover what already exists as it is to create what was never there at all.26

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NOTES 1. This is the subject of E.L. Risden’s essay above. 2. In his introduction to this collection, Tom Shippey has more to say about Tolkien’s own feelings on the subject of source criticism. 3. It would perhaps be cruel to identify the worst of these by name. Instead, I will take the advice of Lewis —“I think we must get it firmly fixed in our minds that the very occasions on which we should most like to write a slashing review are precisely those on which we had much better hold our tongues” (Studies in Words, 331); and Tolkien —“Ergo silebo” (Letters, 302). 4. For but one of many examples, see Tom Shippey’s “Light-elves, Dark-elves, and Others.” Here, discussing Tolkien’s elves, Shippey demonstrates conclusively that Tolkien was aware of and incorporated elements from the Germanic literary tradition, and more importantly, he explains how Tolkien made use of these elements and what difference they make to us as readers in understanding his works. 5. Tolkien made similar statements on other occasions; see for example Letters, 272, 283. 6. For a few significant examples, see Tolkien’s draft of a letter to Mr. Rang, Letters, 379– 87. There are many others scattered throughout the published letters. 7. See, for example, Flieger, 21–2. 8. Note medieval, not medievalist— though, once again, the latter is often also true of Tolkien. There a subtle difference between medieval and medievalist, but it is one worth keeping in mind. Put simply, it is the difference between touching the period directly and a more remote, revivalist attitude. To paraphrase Mark Twain, one might say it is the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug. 9. He does so with two specific texts, Laȝamon’s Brut and the thirteenth-century Sawles Warde (on the latter, Tolkien also published his own research). During the course of his essay, Lewis summarizes the complex sequence of sources for both works. In addition, he alludes to the sources of other medieval works — e.g., Chaucer’s borrowing from Boccaccio’s Il Filostrato for Troilus and Criseyde. Though it escapes the scope of Lewis’s essay, I cannot resist the temptation to note that Chaucer is, in turn, the source for Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida (which Dryden dared to rewrite later, during the Restoration), and that Boccaccio, in turn, had still earlier sources of his own. 10. Lewis expresses the same view in The Discarded Image, 208–13. 11. I would be remiss not to point out that Lewis concludes his essay with something close to an argument against source criticism (38–40). As I have made clear by now, I disagree with throwing the approach out entirely; however, the cautions Lewis issues should certainly be borne in mind by source scholars. 12. The word plagiary first appears ca. 1600, right in the middle of Shakespeare’s heyday. As a representative example, the Oxford English Dictionary gives a quotation from 1602: “Why? the Ditt’ is all borrowed; ’tis Horaces: hang him Plagiary” ( Jonson, Poetaster iv. iii. 96). 13. The attitude in 1775 has shifted to the conscious avoidance of plagiarism: “My first wish in attempting a play was to avoid every appearance of plagiary” (Sheridan, preface to The Rivals). 14. For an introduction to Tolkien’s “mythology for England,” see Fisher. 15. See again Tolkien’s 1972 letter to Mr. Wrigley, Letters, 418. 16. For example, see Tolkien and Gordon’s discussion of the sources of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, xi–xvii, and especially the diagrammatic representation of the interrelationship of the sources on xv. See also discussion of sources of various kinds in Finn and Hengest, 45– 50, et passim; and in The Old English Exodus, 34–6. For an example published much more recently, but in Tolkien’s life one of the earliest, see his essay on the Finnish Kalevala, published in Tolkien Studies 7, particularly 247–8, 249–51. 17. Although Tolkien asserts that “no immediate source has been discovered” for Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, he goes on to discuss Chaucer’s sources for Troilus and Criseyde, which, he says, grew out of the same “movement of thought” (Gawain, 17).

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18. Not least because of the way in which Tolkien layered sources from multiple, and sometimes competing traditions. There is also the philological component, about which I will say no more here. Tom Shippey’s The Road to Middle-earth offers the best introduction to this aspect. 19. Thanks to works like The History of Middle-earth and Christina Scull and Wayne G. Hammond’s Chronolog y, we now know quite a lot about when Tolkien wrote what. 20. Budding source critics should be sure to read Tom Shippey’s appendix to The Road to Middle-earth, “Tolkien’s Sources: The True Tradition” (343–52), as well as “Reading” in Christina Scull and Wayne G. Hammond’s J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide: Reader’s Guide (814– 822). 21. In addition to Macbeth, Tolkien gives would be source-hunters two other sources to follow up: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Algernon Blackwood. On the possibility of the latter, see Lobdell and Nelson. 22. Shakespeare is a target of mere convenience. The large body of work he left to English letters and its wide impact in all the centuries since make Shakespeare seem a likely source for any English author. Tolkien did indeed borrow from the Bard, but not as frequently or indiscriminately as is sometimes thought. 23. For an example of a major revision of an old study in the light of new facts, see Rateliff, below. 24. See Tom Shippey’s discussion of the lacuna, and Tolkien’s response to it, in his substantial review essay in Tolkien Studies, especially 295–7. 25. Shippey comments on Tolkien’s rare technique of harmonizing multiple, even contradictory sources in the introduction, above. 26. In the Romance languages, the same words convey both discovery and invention. The English word invent, normally meaning to create something that did not exist before, derives from Latin (through French), meaning “to come upon, discover” (in + venire). Likewise, the Italian trovare means both “to find” and “to create, invent.” Tolkien is well-known for having felt that what he did with his fiction was as much ad hoc creation and it was the discovery of things that were somehow already there (Letters, 212n).

WORKS CONSULTED Bryson, Bill. Shakespeare: The World as Stage. New York: Harper Perennial, 2008. Castell, Daphne. “The Realms of Tolkien.” New Worlds Vol. 50, No. 168 (November 1966): 143–54. Croft, Janet Brennan. “‘Bid the Tree Unfix His Earth-Bound Root’: Themes from Macbeth in The Lord of the Rings.” Tolkien and Shakespeare: Influences, Echoes, Revisions. Ed. Janet Brennan Croft. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2007. 215–226. Drout, Michael D.C., and Hilary Wynne. “Tom Shippey’s J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century and a Look Back at Tolkien Criticism Since 1982.” Envoi 9.2 (Fall 2000): 101–67. Fisher, Jason. “Mythology for England.” J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical Assessment. Ed. Michael D.C. Drout. New York: Routledge, 2006. 445–7. Flieger, Verlyn. “A Postmodern Medievalist?” Tolkien’s Modern Middle Ages. Ed. Jane Chance and Alfred K. Siewers. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. 17–28. Giddings, Robert, and Elizabeth Holland, eds. J.R.R. Tolkien: The Shores of Middle-earth. London: Junction, 1981. Hammond, Wayne G., and Christina Scull. The Lord of the Rings: A Reader’s Companion. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2005. Lewis, C.S. The Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis, Vol. II: Books, Broadcasts, and the War, 1931– 1949. Ed. Walter Hooper. New York: HarperCollins, 2004. _____. The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1964.

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_____. “The Genesis of a Medieval Book.” Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966. 18–40. _____. Studies in Words. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960. Lobdell, Jared. England and Always: Tolkien’s World of the Rings. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1981. Nelson, Dale J. “Possible Echoes of Blackwood and Dunsany in Tolkien’s Fantasy.” Tolkien Studies 1 (2004): 177–81. Shakespeare, William. Cymbeline. Ed. Roger Warren. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998. _____. The Tragedy of Macbeth. Ed. Nicholas Brooke. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990. Shippey, Tom. J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2002. _____. “The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrún” (book review). Tolkien Studies 7 (2010): 291–324. _____. “Light-elves, Dark-elves, and Others: Tolkien’s Elvish Problem.” Tolkien Studies 1 (2004): 1–15. _____. The Road to Middle-earth: How J.R.R. Tolkien Created a New Mytholog y. Rev. and exp. ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2003. _____. “Tolkien as a Post-War Writer.” Proceedings of the J.R.R. Tolkien Centenary Conference. Ed. Patricia Reynolds and Glen H. GoodKnight. Altadena, CA: Mythopoeic. 1995. 84– 93. Tolkien, J.R.R. Finn and Hengest: The Fragment and the Episode. Ed. Alan Bliss. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1983. _____. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien. Ed. Humphrey Carpenter. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981. _____. The Lord of the Rings. 50th anniversary ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2004. _____. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1983. _____. The Old English Exodus. Ed. Joan Turville-Petre. Oxford: Clarendon, 1981. _____. “‘The Story of Kullervo’ and Essays on Kalevala.” Transcribed and ed. Verlyn Flieger. Tolkien Studies 7 (2010): 211–78. _____. Tolkien on Fairy-stories. Ed. Verlyn Flieger and Douglas A. Anderson. London: HarperCollins, 2008. _____, trans. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Pearl, and Sir Orfeo. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1975. Tolkien, J.R.R., and E.V. Gordon. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Oxford: Clarendon, 1925. Wyke-Smith, E.A. The Marvellous Land of Snergs. With an introduction by Douglas A. Anderson. Baltimore, MD: Old Earth, 1995.

The Stones and the Book: Tolkien, Mesopotamia, and Biblical Mythopoeia Nicholas Birns The Book: Middle-earth, the Bible, and Mythopoeia This essay will discuss the influence of Biblical mythopoeia on Tolkien’s work. What is meant by “Biblical mythopoeia” is those parts of what Christians call the Old Testament that are consciously mythic rather than historical or theological in genre — in the main, the first nine or so chapters of Genesis. Mythopoeia as a mode is of course also present in the New Testament, and Tolkien’s close colleague C.S. Lewis was famous for describing the Christ story as a “true myth.”1 This essay will at times take into account this connection between the New Testament and myth, but it will largely concentrate on the earliest portions of the Old Testament/Hebrew Bible, and leave for another day or another hand the entire question of explicit New Testament influences. This may seem a very small portion of the Bible to concentrate on, but it is the best-known portion of the Bible, the most controversial, and also the most crucial for an understanding of the order and composition of the world and of the Bible’s theory of human nature, both key issues for Tolkien in the shaping of Middle-earth. This article will also discuss the transition that occurred in “Biblical mythopoeia,” beginning in the mid–nineteenth century and arguably completed in Tolkien’s lifetime: the incorporation into the picture of neighboring and predecessor civilizations — such as the Sumerian, Assyro-Babylonian, and Hittite — and their influence on the stock of words and concepts from which Tolkien could draw. Randel Helms pioneered the study of Tolkien’s relationship to the Bible in Tolkien and the Silmarils (1981), and many of our basic understandings of the way in which The Silmarillion parallels the Bible were first established by Helms. As Christina Ganong Walton says in her article on Tolkien and the 45

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Bible in the J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia, “Tolkien was familiar with the Bible in all its aspects because of his religious devotion and his work as a philologist” (62). Tolkien contributed, briefly, to the Jerusalem Bible, the Roman Catholic English translation first published in 1966; he worked on the Book of Jonah, not Job as is sometimes erroneously said.2 There have been many theological analyses of Tolkien, such as those by Fleming Rutledge and Ralph Wood, but these tend to concentrate more on the New Testament than the Old and tend to be more interested in thematic and moral congruence than in direct source study. Verlyn Flieger has looked at Biblical connections in a more literary and mythic way and provides a needed corrective to theological overenthusiasm. Mariko Hulme and Jason Fisher have noted divergence from as well as emulation of the Bible in Tolkien’s mythopoeic conceptions. As for Tolkien’s relationship to Mesopotamian legend, the subject of the second half of this paper, as early as J.E.A. Tyler’s Tolkien Companion of 1976, the second of the general reference works to be published on Tolkien, readers have noted parallels between the Valar and the Mesopotamian pantheon, as described in the creation epic, Enuma elish. Robert Giddings, rather farfetchedly, sees Mordor as equivalent to Babylon, although he means the Babylon of Biblical allegory as much as he means the historical city-state. Timothy R. O’Neill’s early Jungian analysis gets the core issues right, but in its eagerness to find an archetypal correlate for everything in Tolkien it is, as Treebeard might put it, rather too hasty in identifying Tolkienian and Mesopotamian analogies without due reflection. In several essays, J.S. Ryan, the noted Australian Tolkien scholar and polymath, has also suggested Mesopotamian sources in Tolkien’s writings. For instance, he notices a “Suruman” in the records of the Akkadian king Sargon (“Sargon of Agade”), who, like Tolkien’s Saruman, was associated with metalwork. The Saruman/Sauron, Suruman/ Sargon pairing also opened the door to consideration of a general Mesopotamian influence on Tolkienian nomenclature. Ryan has also projected the influence of Gilgamesh and various Mesopotamian customs on Tolkien. More subtly, Jared Lobdell sees Babylon as an example of the city’s potential to both express human aspirations and the temptations of will and appetite in Middle-earth. Michael Martinez has noted the parallel between “Mesopotamia” and “Minhiriath” as names, which will also be explored below. Martinez has also commented on the Erech/Uruk doubling — in other words, not just that Erech is the Hebrew form of the Sumerian Uruk, but that Uruk also exists as the Orkish name for their own race in the same universe where there is a place called Erech. But Erech/Uruk is a major conundrum of the Tolkien Mesopotamian connection, as Tolkien explicitly disavowed this source in a letter (Letters, 384). Finally, though this is not an exhaustive survey, there is L.J. Swain’s

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article on Gimli in the J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia, which notes parallels between his martial prowess and that of Gilgamesh (242). Tolkien, as shown by his well-known letter to Milton Waldman (Letters, 144), inter alia, sought to play down Biblical parallels and sources, both for fear of being accused of impiety and out of eagerness to establish the conceptual and philological autonomy of Middle-earth as a world, with its own innate linguistic logic and not one stemming from anterior historical lore. Yet the Biblical parallels evinced by the creation account of the Ainulindalë, the first part of The Silmarillion, are inescapable. Like that in Genesis (and, as we shall see, in Enuma elish), Tolkien’s account presents a series of stages in the shaping of the created cosmos, including but not limited to the world. The general order parallels what is given in the Bible. For instance, Ulmo’s being the first of the Ainur (excepting Melkor) named in the text (S, 8) is compatible with the first image of the universe in the Bible being the deep, or tehom, which “darkness moved upon” in Genesis 1:2. In both accounts, water precedes earth, the creation emerges into and is refined towards greater shape, order, and definition, and is transmogrified from a primordial, inchoate whirl into the world we know. A key difference from the Bible account is that the angels, only sketchily described in the Old Testament and fleshed out in the New and in later tradition, are, like the Valar, present ab initio in Tolkien’s account. Also like the Greek and, as we shall see, Mesopotamian gods, the Valar have domains of ability/responsibility and are in their various spheres vice-regents of God. Ulmo is very like Poseidon in Greek lore or Ea in Mesopotamian; these figures have, as it were, the same portfolio as spirits “in charge of ” the sea. Manwë’s relationship to Melkor is structurally analogous to that of the Archangel Michael to Lucifer/Satan in Biblically-based systems, but Michael does not have a locatable seat of governance as Manwë does on Taniquetil. In this way, Tolkien’s account is more like Greek creation myths, with the idea of a “Mount Olympos,” and Hesiod surely must have influenced him at several points.3 Tolkien was indeed adept at the “Spenserian harmonizing” (Letters, 30) of various traditions, and in doing so he was only following the model of Christianity in general, in whose cosmic conception Greek legend inevitably informs much of what is also Biblical. Moreover, in the Ainulindalë, Eru Ilúvatar is spoken of as creating through music, or through music manifested by his subcreations, the Ainur (the group out of which emerge the Valar, the subcreative, angelic agents). Music is not mentioned at all in the Biblical Creation account, and perhaps the main reason why Tolkien employs music as a metaphor for creation — his direct source most likely the Finnish Kalevala— is precisely this: it is therefore different from the Bible without rivaling or contradicting it; it is a modal dis-

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crepancy, not an ontological or value-laden difference. Indeed, music is not mentioned in the Bible until Genesis 4, when Cain’s descendant Jubal is called the primordial inventor of the harp and flute. Music is associated with both degeneracy and technology in the Bible; the emphasis of the Bible’s creation account is overwhelmingly visual. The Ainulindalë’s emphasis on music keeps the same message, but switches the medium. As Jason Fisher points out (96– 7), music also provides a fitting metaphor for the disharmony introduced into the cosmos by Melkor’s evil, as concord becomes discord. This arguably rings more true than a visual metaphor based on the opposition of light and dark — though Tolkien also uses this duality, more generally, in his cosmic conception. So Tolkien substitutes for, or, to use the linguistic term Tom Shippey has widely popularized within Tolkien studies, “calques” (i.e., takes the shape of and adapts to a different, substitutive context) the Biblical creation story in the Ainulindalë. What is important to note is that there is a Silmarillionequivalent to Genesis 1, a story that is fully detailed and enumerated. This is not at all true of Genesis 2–3, the story of Adam and Eve and the Fall of Man. Tolkien’s presentation of Hildórien and the primal origin of the Atani indicates that there was a Fall in their past, that they were fleeing westward from some darkness that had troubled them, and that men were at first left alone to contend with whatever peril Morgoth could bring upon them: no Vala was there to guide and counsel them as there had been for the Elves. The Akallabêth can be seen as a kind of fall — the very name means “the downfallen”— but it is so tied up with the Greek Atlantis story as to not be purely Biblical, and is more the “fall” of a nation and its king than of a species, an entire living kind; Elendil and his followers are exempt from Númenor’s fall, but are not unregretful of it. In any event, Númenor was not Eden; it was not a primal place of innocence, but a restorative land of gift that went awry. To find the presence of Genesis 2–3 in the legendarium we need to go back to the First Age. A difference between Tolkien’s world and that of the Bible, and for that matter of Mesopotamian legend, is that the latter two had gods (or a God), angels (or demigods), human beings, and demons or evil spirits, but they did not feature other sentient mortal races. Tolkien’s world certainly does, and this is the backdrop for how he will handle the Genesis 2–3 material. We are told the Eldar woke in Cuiviénen, saw the stars and were led to the West; the threat of Melkor is everywhere, but there is no sense of a fall or even of temptation. In turn, although there is no returning to Cuiviénen, which is lost forever, Tolkien, in The History of Middle-earth and even in the published Silmarillion itself, makes it pretty clear where it is: “far off in the east of Middle-earth, and northward” (S, 45), east and north of Rhûn, on perhaps the far northeast corner of any conceivable map of Middle-earth. As the map of Middle-earth both does and does not correspond to the map of Europe

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(despite the opposite demurrals of both Tolkien himself and overeager critics), the location of Cuiviénen does and does not correspond to, say, the Aral Sea or perhaps a bay in the Arctic coast of Siberia.4 Like the Eldar, Men — called the Edain, the Atani, the Second People (among other names)— come westward, drawn by the light of the Two Trees. But Tolkien’s account of them is very different. They awake in Hildórien, land of the followers, but no physical details about Hildórien’s geographical location are given. Moreover, as noted above, the first Atani to manifest themselves in Eldarin lands speak cryptically of a past traumatic experience, by which they are clearly, in Jonathan Evans’s words, “already corrupted” (219). But there is no fully realized alternate version of the Fall of Man equivalent to the alternate version of the Creation presented in the Ainulindalë.5 Even in the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, where Tolkien speaks most explicitly of a Fall, there are only philosophical reactions to the aftermath of an assumed fall, and an explanation of Melkor’s capacity to sow the seeds of, yet not totally to cause, the kind of sin that is consistent with Christian orthodoxy. But there is no real story of a fall, not even an implied narrative. What Tolkien unmistakably wants readers to do is to “supply” the Biblical account themselves, internally plugging it into what must have happened in Hildórien to make the Atani flee westward. In other words, the actual narrative is bracketed in such a way as that the Genesis 2–3 story would fit in neatly as something which happened in the world of The Silmarillion, but for reasons of decorum and subcreative autonomy is left unarticulated.6 This is also why Hildórien, as opposed to Cuiviénen, is not referred to as “lost,” and not given a detailed location; the Bible gives a lengthy, if nebulous, geographical description of where Eden is or was. The Bible describes Eden as being largely in Mesopotamia, at the primal source of all the great rivers of the region, two of which were those of Mesopotamia. But, with regard to our argument, this is incidental; it is that the Bible gives the detailed location that matters. For Tolkien to introduce any geographical specificity into his description of Hildórien would be to rival the Bible. So far we are one out of two. In his Creation story, Tolkien freely provides an alternate but not antagonistic version of what the Bible says. Regarding the Fall of Man story, he is merely careful to do nothing to dislodge the possibility of there being a fall analogous to the Biblical fall in his subcreated world. There is no Silmarillion equivalent to the Cain/Abel story (the closest we have is the Kinslaying at Alqualondë)— though there are stories of sibling rivalry in the legendarium (Fëanor and his brothers, especially in Fëanor being a craftsman, as Cain’s offspring were; and one could even see a trace of Cain in Boromir). As Lobdell notes (128), the ambiguity in Cain as a founder of cities does most likely inform the conception of the city in Middle-earth —

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beacons of light in a dark world, but also (as with Gondolin) embodiments of their founders’ pride.7 But it is only when we get to Noah and the Flood story that we find another striking parallel. And this parallel is the most remarkable one of all, as Tolkien actually admits it. He terms Elendil, in his epic letter to Milton Waldman of 1951, a “Noachian figure,” explicitly bringing in a Biblical trope that, even though he first admitted it in a private communication, he surely knew the general reader would recognize. And indeed this letter now serves as a sort of preface to paperback editions of the published Silmarillion. Why this rupture of the carefully maintained wall between the world of Middle-earth and Númenor and that of the Bible? This allusion speaks very loudly in the writings of Tolkien simply because he takes great pains to mute such parallels elsewhere, such as in his reluctance to make Galadriel a fully Marian figure. In that same letter to Waldman, Tolkien speaks of wanting mythic and religious elements “in solution,” in the chemical sense, not as “the solution to a problem.” Tolkien meant that these elements should be present in the narrative, but inextricably dissolved. He cautioned against their “explicit” presence in his work. Yet no sooner has he given this warning than he compares Elendil — a figure of huge importance in the history of Middle-earth, though never having a vivid onstage role in any of the various stories of the Downfall — to Noah, one of the most iconic figures in the Bible! Why would he do this? To answer “why is Elendil called a Noachian figure?” we should first answer the implied predecessor question of “how is Elendil a Noachian figure?” Elendil comes much later in comparative time than Noah. Noah is the tenth generation from Adam; whereas, Elendil, although the exact number and succession of the lords of Andúnië are not enumerated, must (even with the long lifespans of the Númenóreans) have been the fifteenth or so generation from Silmariën, whom in turn had many generations of ancestors in the Edain, stretching back to the House of Bëor. Noah is primordial, whereas Elendil is in the middle of history, a historical actor, someone whom the surviving ancient people of Frodo’s time (Elrond, Celeborn, Galadriel) had met and remembered. Furthermore, Elendil comes after four millennia of recorded history — names, dates, battles, events, and accumulated lore. In Noah’s time, the world had had its first full experience with its own sin; in Elendil’s time, the world had seen many sins, and Númenor itself was an attempt to restore man to a quasi-ideal state, not to protect mankind from temptation and willpower. Ar-Pharazôn and Sauron are the named sources of evil, rather than the Bible’s vague suggestion of evil men possibly corrupted by inappropriately spawned demigods. Furthermore, Noah was a refugee — he washed up on Ararat as a kind of sanctuary, not unlike the Númenórean Meneltarma (to be discussed later on in this essay); whereas, Elendil, although the most benign

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kind of imperialist — far more humane than the Black Númenóreans who had earlier come to Middle-earth — was nonetheless an imperialist: a founder of realms, a “builder of cities” (as Tolkien’s great admirer, W.H. Auden, might have put it8), a statesman, an establisher of order, and a King. Noah was none of these. Noah alighted on a peak as a refuge; Elendil fled from a land whose last possible remnant is the peak of the Meneltarma.9 And we must mention what Noah is most famous for, the taking of every type of animal on his ship. There were no animals recorded in the flight of Elendil; they must have made do with whatever they found in Middle-earth, although a sprig of the Númenórean White Tree, Nimloth, was rescued.10 Moreover, Noah’s sons, aside from Ham, with his strange sexual trespass, are ciphers, only there to be ancestors of sets of peoples; Elendil’s sons are important characters, and Isildur arguably is just as fleshed-out a character — as vouchsafed by his importance in the history of the Ring — as his father. Elendil is a much more historicized figure than Noah. Furthermore, most of the Akallabêth story is modeled on the Atlantis story, and this is made very obvious by the naming of Atalantë in the published Silmarillion. Even more strikingly, Tolkien in The Lost Road, his initial telling of the Downfall of Númenor, concocts a historical frame in the father/son pairs of Amandil/ Elendil and Audoin/Alboin, figures that bypass any need whatever for a Biblical armature. A similar frame occurs in The Notion Club Papers where the erudite obsession of Arundel Lowdham needs no Biblical analogue for its linguistic intuitings. Why then “Noachian?” Let us look at the word “Noachian” itself; it is the adjectival form of Noah, with the “ch” added to make it sound better in English (as well as to mirror more faithfully the original Hebrew, in which the name is Noach). But “Noachian” implies a kind of figure, a class — it implies a sort of comparative mythology. And Christianity had always been aware of “Noachian figures.” Indeed, throughout the entire history of Western Christianity, the Greek story of Pyrrha and Deucalion, attested in Hesiod (and much later in Ovid), had been known as a comparable and analogous Deluge story. These analogies made possible a sort of implicit comparative mythology, although most often the existence of a Greek flood story was used to confirm the historicity and truth of the Biblical one. But the very word “Noachian,” as indicative of a kind of archetype, mooted the possibility of more than one diluvian scenario. Thus Tolkien has a kind of warrant for Elendil being a sort of Noah, but not literally Noah, not bracketing Noah as in the Hildórien story, but providing a different sort of narrative that yields an alternate, though not converse, account, much like the Ainulindalë. And with this, Tolkien’s borrowings from the mythic material in Genesis draw to a close. With the story of Abraham,

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the Bible begins a consciously historical narrative, historical not in the sense of being able to be proven as actual events — we have no more trace of Abraham’s existence than of Noah’s — but of being written in the genre of history, of being put in a setting that is plausibly historical. Abraham is put in such a context; whereas, Noah is not. This does not mean the Noah story is not true; it merely means that its genre is that of myth, not history. There can be no Tolkienian equivalent of Abraham because of the radical literary historicality of Abraham’s call. All of the legendarium, if one can “set” it in the Biblical universe, is set before, and very much before, Abraham. Between the Noah and Abraham stories, there are only the genealogies in Genesis 10 and 11— for which of course there are Tolkienian analogues — and the Tower of Babel story, which, as Lobdell suggests, may well have informed the Akallabêth and other points in the legendarium when divine force rebukes incondite human aspirations. One aspect of Tolkien’s world that seems very early–Genesis in tenor, even though it lacks an exact parallel, is the Meneltarma. Part of this is that the name seems to contain the Biblical theophoric el (even though in the internal world of the legendarium menel means “heaven” in Quenya). Part of it is that the unadorned, unarticulated, but deeply pious monotheism is very much what might have been practiced by pious men and women in the world of the Bible before the Abrahamic call. Perhaps something like the Meneltarma is signaled when the Bible says of the time of Adam’s grandson, Enos, in Genesis 4, that “in those days men began to call upon the name of the Lord.” Yet we are still left with three major episodes of Biblical mythopoeia: Creation, Fall, Flood. Of these, two are calqued in Tolkien, one bracketed. Why the variety of treatment? What do the Creation and Flood have in common that the Fall story lacks? The Creation and Flood stories involve nature and natural cosmogonic forces; the Fall is a story about human vulnerability. Perhaps Tolkien felt more comfortable, or felt it was more apposite, improvising and riffing on the former while leaving the latter as the Bible provided it. But Tolkien was somebody above all interested in the shape and history of words and languages, and it is most likely in literary history that the source of this difference is to be found. As David Damrosch has shown in The Buried Book, the nineteenth century, with its large-scale European colonial and economic interest in what we now call the Middle East, saw for the first time in Western history large-scale contact with the archaeological remains of that region. Soon, considerable excavations were made, papyri and, in Mesopotamia, stone tablets were found, and languages that had long been mysterious, such as ancient Egyptian, and languages that had been virtually unknown, such as Akkadian and Sumerian, were deciphered and the surviving texts written in them were able to be read.

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Thus a trove of writing that had been absent from any received cultural tradition for over two millennia suddenly re-emerged and became newly part of the world’s heritage — old books that were as thrillingly new as the latest serialized Victorian tale. One of the most exciting discoveries, made by George Smith in 1872, was what was termed “the Epic of Gilgamesh,” which had in it a Flood story with striking similarities to the Bible. Four years later Smith also deciphered Enuma elish, a Creation story with similarly striking resemblance to what we have in Genesis. It immediately became clear that the most likely scenario to explain the presence of comparable materials in the Bible and in Mesopotamian remains was that the Jewish exiles in Babylonia, during the sixth century B.C., had heard these stories and adapted them to their repository of early satires of man and God. There is no Mesopotamian analogue to the Adam and Eve story; that seems to be a purely Hebrew story, with the distinctly Hebrew pun on “Adam” meaning red clay, the very substance out of which he was made. Thus it can be plausibly argued that Tolkien felt free to calque the Creation and Deluge stories because they had already been revealed as comparative literature, as stories on which the Biblical account itself was probably a variation. Upon beginning Paradise Lost, Milton’s seventeenth-century contemporary, Andrew Marvell, worried that Milton “would ruin (for I saw him strong) / the sacred truths to fable and old song” (192). Marvell feared that Milton would use his imagination to rival the Creation account, and even, in a literary sense, throw it back into chaos! Yet Milton, as Marvell observed, did not do this: his epic is an expanded but in essence orthodox account of the action of the Bible’s first three chapters as seen from a Protestant Christian perspective. As compared to Milton, Tolkien, the pious and observant Catholic, “ruined the sacred truths” far more — a seventeenth-century poet mingling the music of the Ainur and Elendil with Adam and Eve would at worst have been labeled a heretic, at best an even more peculiar fellow than the highly peculiar Arundel Lowdham of The Notion Club Papers. But Tolkien could get away with this in the twentieth century, and could do it partially because many intelligent Christian readers had understood that the Creation and Flood stories were intertextual borrowings taken up by the writers of the Bible for their own theological and moral purposes. The Biblical mythopoeia used by Tolkien as source may well be coextensive with that which is reflected in Mesopotamian texts.

The Stones: Mesopotamia and Middle-earth In his letter to Mr. Rang, Tolkien states “naturally, as one interested in antiquity and notably in the history of languages and ‘writing,’ I knew and

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had read a good deal about Mesopotamia” (Letters, 384). This association between Mesopotamia, and the history of writing and languages, though, would only have become possible in the preceding century. Substantive historical knowledge about ancient Mesopotamia was only two generations old when Tolkien began his academic and literary career. But of course the indirect influence of Sumerian, Akkadian, Assyrian, and Babylonian culture on the West is much older due to the way it permeates the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament. Often, the archaeological discoveries of Mesopotamian remains were deployed in direct relation to Biblical claims, either to bolster or undermine them. But Tolkien’s published record seems to have remained aloof from the polemical aspects of this contest, just as he did with respect to the “new and fascinating semi-scientific mythology of the ‘Prehistoric’” (Letters, 128–9) in adopting the pterodactylic image deployed so dramatically in Book V of The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien would have had ample opportunity to encounter the study of this field at Oxford, both as a student and as a professor. Archibald Sayce, who made the pivotal discovery of the ancient Hittite language, was Professor of Assyriology at Oxford, holding the Shillito Readership in Assyriology, until 1918. The American-born Stephen Langdon succeeded him, presiding over the 1920s and 1930s, and then was succeeded as Shillito Reader, after the short interim of Reginald Campbell Thompson and a wartime vacancy, by Oliver Gurney starting in the 1940s. All four of these men were well-known scholars whom Tolkien, as somebody similarly involved with obscure languages often regarded as quaint and arcane amid the dominant Greco-Latin ethos of the university, would have seen in some way as fellow laborers in the vineyard. Like Tolkien himself, they were all lore-masters of faraway worlds, although Tolkien added to this lore-mastery that of his own invented universe. They also may well have felt a similar tension between language, literature, and religion in their work as Tolkien did in his. Part of their work was purely technical, and yet one of the reasons the university maintained professorships in both fields is that both areas were important to an understanding of the distant sources of the modern civilization of the West. Oxford’s maintenance of a professorship in Assyriology was indeed part of its acidic distinctions, one of the accoutrements that made Oxford one of the world’s premier universities. For all these reasons, Tolkien would have been clearly aware of the academic students of Mesopotamia who were his colleagues. Just as twentieth-century England valued the insight into Anglo-Saxon assumptions the language and story of Beowulf may have revealed, but saw its own life as far more developed and less barbarous, so too did it at once find itself more intriguing by the light Mesopotamian sources could shed on the Bible stories it took for granted — yet perhaps also slightly threatened by the

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alien light they cast upon the foundational narratives of Western religious, and even secular, culture. In turn, the study of Mesopotamian cultures went beyond that of the Bible, but it could never be free from the Biblical mesh; witness the title of the most widely used collection of Mesopotamian and other source-texts used in the university classroom, Pritchard’s Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament. The inevitable dichotomies — Biblical and non–Biblical, familiar and alien — of any Mesopotamian allusions in modernity are typified in the way Tolkien uses the name of the same city twice in The Lord of the Rings. One, Erech, the name used in the Bible, is used for the Stone where Aragorn claims the fealty of the Dead, which he will use to defeat his adversaries and recover his Kingdom. The other, Uruk, is the name used by the Orcs of themselves, even the experimental, “mixed-race” Orcs that Saruman devises for increased efficiency and menace. Both can be explained in purely internal terms. Tolkien can plausibly say, as he did with Erech in his letters, that the reference was not consciously intended. Erech has the er element, meaning “one,” which, when one knows any Elvish, seems so natural as to have the name arguably seem coincidental. Whereas if one starts out with “orc” and wants to represent the same word in a more guttural and exotic variant, Uruk would seem phonaesthetically natural. If one has — as Tolkien seems to have done — successfully escaped a pinning of “orc” down to source in the visionary poems of William Blake, then surely an “uruk” is but a variant form of “orc”— cf. the Sindarin word for the plural of orcs, yrch. The word seems to be the same in all languages, repugnance not inspiring terminological variety! It would be going too far to say, as both Robert Giddings and Timothy O’Neill have done, that Tolkien’s Erech is the ancient one; J.S. Ryan’s suggestion of a possible awareness seems more in the spirit of Tolkien’s fairly strict determination not to infringe upon the autonomy of his subcreation by devising too obvious linkages to our own world, although he well knew some seepage was unavoidable, and concedes as much in many of his letters. Rather than leaping on every possible convergence, the source-hunting critic should explore gingerly, with the burden of proof being on identity, not independence. Erech, though, as a referent is pretty hard to resist. This is especially so since the way Erech is used in The Lord of the Rings is the same way Erech is used in the Bible (Genesis 10:10)— as a reminder of a deliberately archaic time. The Biblical reference is itself archaeological, referring to a time three thousand years in the past. The Uruk reference is one contemporary with the action of The Lord of the Rings, just as Uruk was the name that became known in modernity after the archaeological excavations had been conducted and the newly unearthed ancient languages mastered by scholars. It supplies a discernible exoticism that is yet not outside the ken of the reader, in much the same way

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that the use of the name of another Mesopotamian city, Lagash, does in the original version of Isaac Asimov’s 1941 short story “Nightfall,” a work Tolkien might possibly have read; he is on record as admiring Asimov’s science-fiction (Letters, 377).11 Let us look further at what is suggested by “Erech” and “Uruk” in terms of Tolkien’s overall frame of borrowing from Mesopotamian and Biblical mythopoeic sources. Just as names that are in fact Anglo-Saxon (Isengard, Rivendell, Orthanc), however exotic they might have seemed to twentiethcentury readers, are associated with “modern Westron” culture, i.e., the culture of the vernacular West at the end of the Third Age, names like Erech are intended to represent a remote strand of that culture (pre–Númenórean, Tolkien says), before it was leavened and sophisticated by the return of the Edain across the Sea. (Remember, even when the Edain had been in Middleearth in the First Age they had been in Beleriand, not in the “rump” of Middle-earth as seen in the post–First Age map.) Using a name from the Bible to refer to a mysterious alien culture might have seemed ideal to Tolkien. A similar, though far less tangible, instance is Esgaroth. Of the two cities near the Long Lake and Erebor (the object of the quest of The Hobbit), Esgaroth is clearly the more mannish, the more vernacular; Dale is at least associated with the crypto–Elvish name of Girion; whereas, the masters of Esgaroth do not have such elevated nomenclature — apart from this name for their town, a name preserved from elder days. Furthermore, Esgaroth has a quasi-democratic, merchant-prince-ruled polity, as opposed to the old-fashioned monarchy of Dale. But Esgaroth is both more modern and more archaic; it does not have a King because it has been less influenced than Dale by the impact of Númenórean civilization. But to return to the name: Tolkien has glossed Esgaroth as Sindarin “reedlake,” from Ilkorin esgar “reed-bed” (Lost Road, 356). Thus it is notable that the Sumerian word for “reed” sounded something like gi (as we know Sumerian only in its written form, we cannot be totally sure how it sounded)— especially as reeds, given the environmental setting of the Sumerian language, were so crucial to daily life. And, of course, there is the role that reeds play in the Bible, as in Joseph’s dreams and in the saving of the baby Moses; these imbue the entire idea of reeds with a viscerally Biblical tug.12 Tolkien tended to use names with Biblical-mythopoeic associations more when they were linked with Adûnaic or proto–Adûnaic uses, and it is interesting in this light to note that the triconsonantal roots of most Adûnaic words are like those in most Semitic words (though Adûnaic otherwise seems more Ural-Altaic or even Indo-European than Semitic in its linguistic aesthetic; the Khuzdul, or Dwarvish, language is really Tolkien’s mock–Semitic tongue in Middle-earth). And now for Uruk. The Uruk-hai, when we first hear the name, are the

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entities who have kidnapped and cruelly mistreated our Hobbit heroes Merry and Pippin. They are menacing, harsh, alien. What better a name for them than one like “Uruk”? This name, in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, came from a world far outside the one to which Europeans were accustomed, threatening it with otherness and savagery, dimly comprehensible phonemic and spiritual values. And yet ... The Orcs, though evil, are created beings, born out of the corruption of, in various accounts, elves and/or men. Their abjection is not their own fault, but Morgoth’s and, later on, Sauron’s. Although they are most likely not redeemable, they show moments of compassion and charity, even though those are brief and dim. Also, they — as a class, not necessarily individual Orcs — are old, first conceived in long ages past, although Saruman’s cross-breeding of orcs and men is a “modernization.” The name “Uruk,” old but recently rediscovered, at once archaic and contemporary, fits the situation perfectly. Tolkien may not have intended this borrowing, but, as applied, it is superbly apt. The word is resonant and scary, yet its very presence, its readiness-to-hand, is the result of the painstaking archaeological and philological scholarship of the preceding decades. Of course Tolkien himself knew a good deal about this sort of scholarship. As a philologist specializing in Germanic languages, he knew very well the thrill of discovering buried manuscripts, puzzling out half-forgotten languages, and unconcealing moving stories and beautiful turns of phrase from the remote past. He knew what it meant for names of kings and gods that would not stir the common man to have a deep resonance for the scholar, because of what that scholar knew concerning the meanings of these names in their original settings. He shared with his Assyriological colleagues a championship of the shards and vestiges of a lost world, not only against the encroachment of modern languages and cultures but against the far more established philological apparatus of classical studies, specifically the study of Latin and Greek, which had always remained at the core of twentieth-century academic philology in Britain. The incompleteness of the Anglo-Saxon, Gothic, and Scandinavian worlds Tolkien sought to reconstruct is analogous to the incompleteness of the Mesopotamian world: there is so much we shall never know, that will perpetually remain, to echo the title of R.M. Wilson’s famous book, lost.13 To be sure, there are great differences as well. Germanic culture was oral; we have only what even the least romantic analyst must concede are traces of a poetic and narrative tradition written down just as the tradition was ending, and with the dominant mode of literacy in that era — Christianity. On the other hand, Mesopotamian literature was consummately literate; indeed, our literacy is descended directly from Mesopotamian practices. Far from being the product of a mutually dependent warrior caste, Mesopotamian literature came from a highly organized, hierarchical, and above all urbanized society.

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And whereas the Germanic legends were written down on parchment or vellum, Mesopotamian stories were carved out in cuneiform wedges on large tablets of clay — in a kind of kinship with the pagan runes that were later thrust aside by the Christian alphabet. Tolkien’s own work was written and not oral, a product of print culture, and even in Middle-earth, manuscript culture reigns alongside and even above oral tradition. The “clay tablet culture” of Mesopotamian writing is a step further back from modernity, but it is still in the site of literature and not orality. But there are nonetheless definite similarities both of circumstance and of ethos between the Mesopotamian milieu and the Germanic milieu that Tolkien professionally studied. One of these emerged during the decades most formative to Tolkien in his training in and early practice of the discipline of philology, a discipline which necessarily involves a deep and dedicated study of comparative Indo-European linguistics. The Hittite people had been known of as a minor people in the Bible, their most notable representative being the unfortunate husband of Bathsheba, Uriah the Hittite, who is sent off to his death in battle when King David conceives an erotic desire for his wife. As scholars began to decipher Egyptian and Mesopotamian records, though, they found the Hittites being referred to as a great people and a significant diplomatic and military player in the ancient Near East in the latter half of the second millennium B.C. In 1886, Sayce, the first holder of the chair in Assyriology at Oxford, announced his belief that there had been a large Hittite empire in this period. This was confirmed by archaeological excavations led by the German archaeologist Hugo Winckler, who in 1907 was able to decipher some Hittite texts. This in turn led to a conclusion by the Czech scholar Bed†ich Hroznï in 1915 that Hittite, though written in cuneiform like the Sumerian and Semitic Mesopotamian languages, was an Indo-European language. This was thrilling to many scholars who delighted in this indication of the antiquity of the dominant language-group of the present.14 But it was particularly seismic for linguists. Ferdinand de Saussure, the great linguist of the turn of the twentieth century, had hypothesized that in Proto-Indo-European languages there had to be “laryngeals,” sounds made with the larynx that existed in no recorded language but which Saussure’s sense of the processes of linguistic change said must have existed in the past. In Hittite, these laryngeals are in fact used with two sounds represented in English by h. The discovery of Hittite, or more exactly the realization, in 1927, that laryngeals were present in Hittite, proved Saussure right, and proved, more generally, that a systematic sense of the workings of language can inform and motivate the interpretation of individual words (see Szemerényi). The Hittite discovery was the most newsworthy development in Indo-

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European philology in Tolkien’s time. It was arguably the final achievement in the evolution of the field — i.e., before later innovations in comparative linguistics and Chomskyan general grammar relegated it to a more historical than methodological arena. Tolkien himself asserted the importance of the Hittite discovery. In his 1924 review essay on general philological topics for The Year’s Work in English Studies, he states: The general view of the article is that we have in Hittite at once the earliest IndoEuropean language recorded, and yet one as altered as the most changed of modern Indo-European dialects (e.g. Albanian); a language in structure Indo-European, but possessing hardly any certain Indo-European vocabulary at all — and what it does possess does not reveal any regular phonological relations such as we would expect. This is sufficiently astonishing; hardly less astonishing than is the story of the discovery and digging up in 1907 of this language that had apparently simply vanished from human memory at the destruction of the Hittite power about 1200 B.C., to remain in oblivion for over 3,000 years [38–9].

There are several aspects of this quotation particularly valuable to the present argument, over and above the evidence it provides of Tolkien’s knowledge of Hittite and the bridge this knowledge provided between the Mesopotamian and Germanic worlds.15 Tolkien is notably cautious about just how Indo-European the Hittite language is; he notes that it is mainly the structure, not the lexicon (though much was made of the few cognate words that were found, such as the Hittite word for water being vadar, for obvious reasons). This is anthropologically sagacious in that he did not use the discovery of the Hittites to claim antiquity and primacy of Indo-European peoples the way German scholars tended to do. But it has also been borne out by subsequent research which has decided not only that the Hittite language is not fully Indo-European but that the people who spoke it were not properly Hittites, or Hattians — inhabitants of the land of Hatti — but an elite people calling themselves the Nesili who conquered them, fairly well along in the development of the language. Tolkien’s prudence turned out to be clairvoyance. There is a methodological point as well: Tolkien did not jump to conclusions, he did not plump for the most sensational scrap of evidence, he noted a connection of potential interest and suggested scholars carefully consider it. Tolkien’s own philological technique sets a good example for students of Tolkien’s imaginative work, who need to search for the most stringent evidence possible and subject it to rigorous evaluation. Most immediately relevant is Tolkien’s registering of not just the discovery of Hittite but more specifically its rediscovery, that Hittite, as a language, had been buried for millennia and was now known again. This provides a connection to a postulated general recognition by Tolkien that bodies of knowledge about the anterior past — whether it be the relatively near Mesopotamian or the far deeper prehistoric — had re-arisen and

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had made a difference as to how a deep past might be re-imagined in modern times. To get closer to Tolkien’s professional specialties, the most famous early Germanic work is Beowulf, much as the most famous Mesopotamian work is Gilgamesh (to give it its proper title, since all Mesopotamian texts were called by their opening words: Sa naqba imaru, “he who saw everything”). But in neither case are we sure that these works had this premier status in their original milieux; they have it now because we have happened to find them, and in both cases, developed, belatedly, the philological tools to prove them valuable and hone our understanding of them. Presumably the fact that we have these works attests to their being copied and recopied, and thus products of an original canonical decision by the milieux that produced them. But we have no way of knowing this, and with both texts their preservation and recovery verges on the accidental. We can never know how their original audience read or understood them. Interestingly, neither Beowulf nor Gilgamesh was the most ‘nationalistic’ or ‘imperial’ figure of their respective milieux, and this is precisely Tolkien’s point in “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics”: that this does not matter. Beowulf and Gilgamesh are similar in other ways as well. They are both not really “epics,” being far too short to be compared to Homer or the ancient Sanskrit epics in length or ambition. Their heroes are epic, but the machinery and construction of the works themselves are not. Also, both are about strong men, not without elements of savagery, who nonetheless dwell in and are the defenders of civilized societies. They are both tragic because their military achievement and physical strength clearly do not satisfy them psychologically or spiritually, as is revealed in Beowulf ’s final disquisition to Wiglaf after being wounded, in which he indicates he has lived by a set of ethical standards higher than the exercise of brute military strength or valor solely intended to maintain rule. Gilgamesh, more impetuous and less mature than even the young Beowulf, has a rough temper partially motivated by his anger at the gods and the limits they impose on the world and on human life and aspirations. As characters, Beowulf and Gilgamesh magnificently exemplify a world and an ethos that, at the same time, they fundamentally challenge through personal dissatisfaction, seeming to see beyond the milieux in which these ethoi had been so successful. They seem at once to accept and to challenge the core assumptions of their own cultures.16 (And Beowulf, even though presumably based on oral stories, was a written text. Tolkien, especially as a Catholic, would have valued the literacy involved in its transcription, which even if the poem is not explicitly an exposition of Christian dogma was by definition recorded under Christian auspices, and thus literate ones). Gilgamesh’s ultimate instance of this is the Flood scene, in which Gil-

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gamesh’s search for immortality is quashed when he loses the plant given him by Utnapishtim — also a “Noachian figure”! Conversely, Elendil saves a sprig of Nimloth, and thus ultimately of Galathilion, the primal “White Tree” of the subcreated order, from Númenor and replants it in Minas Tirith. Now, to be clear, Tolkien most likely derived those aspects of the destruction of Númenor which he did not get from Plato’s account of Atlantis in the Timaeus and Critias from Hesiod or directly from the Bible itself. But there is something interesting in the conjunction of Gilgamesh, the strongman seeking immortality, and Utnapishtim, the Noachian figure, with Ar-Pharazôn and Elendil, even though in the latter case the moral differentiation is far greater, and the two never meet “on stage,”— i.e., in the narrative (although one may presume that as kinsmen and members of the royal family, they knew, though assuredly did not like, each other). Another place where the Bible clearly borrowed from ancient Mesopotamian legends is the Creation story. The second verse of the Bible, “and darkness moved upon the face of the deep” is, in Hebrew, hoshek al-penei tehom. Tehom here is, as John Day has argued, a cognate word to Tiamat, the villainous serpent-goddess who stands, like chaos, in the way of good divine governance in Enuma elish.17 Tolkien clearly knew or at least knew of Enuma elish. Ea, the sea god in that story, fairly obviously inspired the word “Eä” for Tolkien’s fictive universe and the divine fiat that brought it into being. If asked, Tolkien might well have said that the word drew on Greek or Latin vocabulary for words having to do with being and the ontological, or was intended as a calque of them, but the context into which the idea of Eä is put, that of an unfolding creation story moving across time and involving different conjunctions of divine powers, is clearly that of Enuma elish.18 Enuma elish parallels and differs from the Ainulindalë in much the same way as Hesiod: the biggest difference in both cases is that the Valar in Tolkien do not reproduce, whereas the gods in both Greek and Mesopotamian works do; they are generational gods with generational rivalries.19 In the Enuma elish, the young god Marduk, emerges, King Arthur–like, or indeed Beowulf-like, to seize the day and defeat the great monster. The emergence of Tulkas the Strong from outside may be an echo of this. The Ainulindalë could have been inspired by Hesiod alone, or for that matter by Paradise Lost, but the idea of a multi-track creation epic, filled with hosts and hordes of divine power, which is made to seem a genre emulable by a teller of tales, and not just terrain that inevitably, as in Milton’s case, requires the author to declare himself as a Christian or a pagan (the “comparative literature/comparative mythology” aspect of the Ainulindalë), may well spring from the Enuma elish. Gilgamesh himself as a character, as a human being, does not have many Tolkienian analogues. Perhaps Finrod’s self-sacrifice for Beren is analogous to Gilgamesh’s altruism

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toward Enkidu, but a different sort of male bond is involved, and Finrod is more of an intellectual — far more thoughtful than the impulsive Gilgamesh who so often resembles an overgrown boy (whereas Finrod is one of the most mature characters in the Silmarillion material). Or perhaps it is better to say that in Tolkien’s world a Gilgamesh figure would not be heroic-tragic but impetuous-tragic (like Beowulf ); witness the Gilgamesh-like nature of King Eärnur, the foolhardy last King of Third Age Gondor, who challenges the Witch-king to single combat in a way that puts his own glory over the care of the state and who also seems to have difficulties with women reminiscent of Gilgamesh. Eärnur (whose name of course has the telltale crypto–Sumerian eä element in it) never marries or settles down, and Gilgamesh’s lack of domestication remains a major issue for his city throughout the epic. As with many of Tolkien’s borrowings, it is the names and patterns that matter the most; the emotional core, the tone of relationships and values, remains distinctly Tolkienian no matter what source he consults, excavates, or even plunders. Mesopotamian history and civilization also may have had some influence on Tolkien. The name Minhiriath means in Sindarin just what Mesopotamia means in Greek: “between the rivers”— though the debatable land of Minhiriath is hardly the cradle of civilization. But Tolkien surely knew his readers would think of the Greek name for the Tigris-Euphrates valley upon decoding the verbal constituents of “Minhiriath.” Readers aware of the Sindarin meaning could not help but think of Mesopotamia. The most common architectural image of Mesopotamian culture, the ziggurat, has a possible echo in Tolkien’s world, even though the linguistic history of Middle-earth precludes the Tower of Babel story with which the ziggurat image is now most associated. (Nothing in the Bible says explicitly the Tower of Babel is meant to be a ziggurat, though, it has been plausibly argued). Zigûr was the Adûnaic name for Sauron, and it is in his Adûnaic capacity, as it were — and his role as an advisor to ArPharazôn, who foregrounded Adûnaic and definitively repudiated Sindarin as the official state language of Númenor — that he does what the Bible judged the ziggurats did: affronting the ordained powers with creaturely pride. Mordor, as an aggressive, cruel force threatening at the gates of the beleaguered champions of justice and truth, highly resembles the Assyrian Empire, in its siege of Samaria; and the Babylonian, in its siege of Jerusalem. Of course, these are from the Bible’s point of view, but the look inside Mordorian, Orkish culture Tolkien gives us in Book IV of The Lord of the Rings reflects the fact that in modernity we could see the other side, see how the Assyrians thought, how they justified themselves or attempted to do so. The Bible includes addresses by adversaries of the Israelites (such as the Assyrian Rabshakeh’s taunting in 2 Kings 18), but it does not give us Orc-talk within the ranks of the adversaries; we never hear idolaters in internal dialogue.

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So Mesopotamia can figure as a kind of “other” for Tolkien. But Mesopotamian elements are also on the “good” side of Tolkien’s moral universe. Minas Tirith, as a city, has echoes of Babylon, which in many ways was the ultimate stone city, and which, like Minas Tirith, excelled in both warfare and in the more civilized arts. Again, Tolkien could have gotten this from many other places. But the discovery of Mesopotamian remains made possible in many ways a comparative, anthropological look at these cultural phenomena. Notably, Mesopotamia in these prismatic reflections appears as both good and bad, informing both Sauron and Minas Tirith. This is not far from how the Bible saw Mesopotamian civilization. Mesopotamia was the home of the idolatry from which (according to Joshua) Abraham fled, the home of the impious builders of Babel, of the brute vigor of Nimrod, of the oppressive Assyrian and Babylonian armies. Mesopotamia was a realm controlled by elites, with little place for the humble and lowly. As compared to the world of the Bible it is much like the aristocratic, dilettantishly epic world of E.R. Eddison’s The Worm Ouroboros, as opposed to Tolkien’s fictions with their humble heroes stretching from Beren in the First Age to Sam Gamgee at the end of the Third. This sense of the humble and the lowly is the Bible’s big advantage over Mesopotamia literature. But it would be in poor taste for us to brag too much about it! Mesopotamian civilization should receive its due, and Tolkien would have recognized this, as his comments to Mr. Rang suggest. It provided the source for many of the Bible’s legends, with languages closely akin to the Bible’s own, and whose understanding of human and cosmic nature was closer to the Bible’s than that of any other culture, even the Egyptian with which the Bible is also significantly enmeshed. And so we may find sources within sources. Twentieth-century use of Mesopotamian materials partially depended on admitting that Mesopotamian tales informed the Bible — in other words, conceding that the Bible was not the oldest work ever written, and that it seems to be influenced by material we would inevitably understand as legend or outright invention. Tolkien had two advantages here, coming out of his own distinctive worldview. As somebody who, with Lewis, believed in the idea of true myth, he would not have been deterred by the legendary traits in both corpora, as little as he was by the monsters in Beowulf. And as a Roman Catholic, Tolkien was not a Biblical fundamentalist; rather, he saw the text of the Bible as only one part of a fabric also woven by tradition, the Holy Spirit, and the teaching authority of the Church. In practice, Roman Catholicism was highly resistant to archaeological discovery until relatively late in Tolkien’s life. But that was the particular political conjunction of Catholicism in his day; it was nothing in the doctrines of the religion itself. By definition, a “catholic” idea of Christianity, one stressing historical continuity and a regard for the totality of the church, will be less insistent on his-

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torical minutiae as a bedrock of faith than will evangelical or fundamentalist approaches. Ancient Mesopotamia is still a place and time very strange to us, even after nearly two centuries of understanding it with some level of historical accuracy. Tolkien himself spoke of the “vast backcloths” (Letters, 144), and Tom Shippey famously says of the Silmarillion material that it was best glimpsed as a horizon in the past, the source of legend, not paraded out in full detail. “How could depth be created when there was nothing further to reach back to?” Shippey probingly asks (171). Readers of the Silmarillion might disagree in aesthetic terms. But, if they would also read the Bible, they would note that Shippey’s and Tolkien’s characterization actually describe the relationship of the Old Testament to the Mesopotamian texts that came before it better than that of the New to the Old Testaments. In other words, we always knew that part of the aesthetic, as well as the theological richness, of the New Testament was how much the Old was implicated in it. But now we can know that there were other texts behind the Old as well, texts that give the Hebrew stories what Shippey calls “the impression of depth” (228).20 One might claim that the entire idea of a legendary past as seen by the Hobbits, of a world at once distant but familiar, present in so many ways yet also fundamentally unbelievable, was partially inspired by the role an ancient and, until modern times, highly mysterious culture played in a book that was read by everyone in the West. If The Lord of the Rings today — familiar, full of well-known stories and easily apprehensible meanings, though still full of depth and mystery — is like the Old Testament in literary terms (it compares to the Old much better than the New in terms of genre, which is all we are talking about here), then the Silmarillion material — incomplete, existing in multiple versions, archaic, primal, mythic, obscure, and sometimes disturbing — resembles Mesopotamian legend. To understand how the tradition of the Silmarillion material operates both in the world of The Lord of the Rings and in the world of its readers, one could do worse than look at the implied relationship of the Bible to Mesopotamian tradition. Indeed, Mesopotamia itself felt this sense of tradition; waves of Akkadians, Assyrians, Babylonians, and many others all participated in the same culture established first by the Sumerians, just as do many waves of peoples in Middle-earth — Ents, Dwarves, Hobbits, Wizards. The Hittites were a potential conceptual and practical bridge between Tolkien’s philological world and the world of the ancient near East not just because of geographical proximity but because the high culture of the Hittites was borrowed from and calqued upon that of Mesopotamia. The Hittite realm was, at least among the upper ranks of its rulers, Indo-European in language, but it was Mesopotamian — and therefore, if one is to extend language to other areas — Semitic

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in culture, at least in substantial terms (all of the literate Mesopotamian peoples other than the Sumerians speaking Semitic languages). The archaeological and geological discoveries of the nineteenth century that challenged traditional Biblical accounts produced two different levels of deep past — in different hands and from different viewpoints — to subvert and undergird the time of the Bible. The nearer deep past of the Mesopotamian and the further deep past of the prehistoric, together with the privileging of Mesopotamian origins, undermined the previously accepted ancientry of the Biblical past. However, whereas the prehistoric past dwarfed the Biblical, the Mesopotamian past, even though its anticipation of Biblical themes provoked the ire and disdain of some fundamentalists, laterally privileged the Bible’s importance. And, in a Christian and even post–Christian world, Mesopotamia, even when its texts are seen as sources or rivals for the Bible, is now almost a part of Biblically derived culture, as so much of the scholarly interest in it is motivated by Mesopotamia’s proximity to the Bible. As Daniel Lord Smail points out, Mesopotamia, as a reservoir of “deep time,” rivals the prehistoric past. Indeed, to take an interest in Mesopotamia is to an extent to be philo–Semitic, as, other than the Sumerians, all the other peoples of the area — Akkadians, Assyrians, Babylonians — spoke Semitic languages akin at least to a degree to Hebrew, and only those wishing to wall off the Sumerians as the supreme originators of the culture can avoid giving credit for Semiticspeaking peoples; and it was the Semitic speakers who produced the texts of Gilgamesh and Enuma elish in the form we have them today. Because of all this closeness to the Bible milieu, Smail argues that the twentieth century resorted to Mesopotamia as a more comfortable deep past, shrinking from the vaster and less classifiable terrain of the prehistoric. But this can be turned around, to render Mesopotamia a deep past whose virtue lies in that it is the furthest point in time to which we can look back and see some image of ourselves in the products of its culture. As is indicated in the specific borrowings traced above, as well as the entire idea of Biblical mythopoeia as plausibly enabled by rediscovered Mesopotamian texts, Tolkien seemed to have looked back to Mesopotamia and seen something distantly, abstractly familiar; whereas, the prehistoric exists only as archaic protoplasm from which a frightening creature can be extrapolated to epitomize the hour of greatest fear and danger in Tolkien’s narrative — to provide a one-time shudder. By contrast, the engagement with Mesopotamian referents is gradual, many-instanced, and subtle. In his comment on the pterodactyl episode, Tolkien emanated only a guarded enthusiasm for the prehistoric as a category of redeemable human time.21 Compared to that, Mesopotamia, for all its remoteness from the core of his academic and philological interests, may have even seemed a bit like home.

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NOTES 1. See Lewis’s 1931 letter to Arthur Greeves: “Now the story of Christ is simply a true myth, a myth working on us the same way as the others, but with the tremendous difference that it really happened.” And see Dorsett, 56. 2. It was announced that Tolkien’s translation of Jonah would be published independently as The Book of Jonah, by Dartin, Longman, and Todd, in 2009; however, the publication of this edition has been indefinitely halted as of this writing. Tolkien translated Jonah from a French version, although he was philologically competent enough in Hebrew to consult lexicons and dictionaries to help him in his task. Hebrew of course would be most philologists’ key to the Semitic languages, excluding those specifically concerned with Arabic. Tolkien did not, however “know” Hebrew in the sense in which we usually speak of “knowing” a language (i.e., being capable of reading, writing, or speaking it comfortably). 3. This is certainly not Tolkien’s only mythical source; cp. Odin’s high seat on Hlisskjálf, as described in the Norse Eddas. 4. See also Anger and Magoun. 5. Tolkien did make an attempt to sketch out the Fall of Man in the “Tale of Adanel,” a part of the late Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth (Morgoth, 344–9). 6. The Two Trees in Valinor are reminiscent of the trees in Eden; yet there are a sufficient number of other mythic trees that this should not be construed as the exclusive source. Furthermore, in Tolkien’s world the Two Trees do not grant knowledge or eternal life; the figure of incarnate evil goes at them directly, not through human proxies; and his aim is not to gain any secret or to violate any taboo, but to ruin Valinor for the Valar. 7. One must note, though, that Tolkien’s legendarium is on the whole far more positive about cities than is the Old Testament; Minas Tirith, the most visible and functioning city in Middle-earth, is not presented as inherently evil or corrupt. Tolkien is famed as a defender of trees and the countryside, but he did not have the structural bias against cities the Biblical writers did; in this way, he may be closer to the author of the Gilgamesh story, for whom Uruk was, for better or for worse, an arena fit for Gilgamesh’s strength and valor. 8. Auden’s “builder of cities” is from the poem “In memory of Sigmund Freud” (Auden, 273). 9. The Meneltarma, though, has much greater internal theological significance in the body of its legendary framework as the place where the Númerórean kings were “closest to God,” more like Mount Sinai than the mountains (note the plural) of Ararat, which are a onetime occurrence in the Bible, and an allusion to a civilization, that of Urartu, with whom the Israelite relationship was almost totally mediated through their common Assyrian assailants, and it itself only mentioned one time in the Bible, in the book of Jeremiah. 10. Of course, one animal, Shadowfax, eventually takes the reverse voyage, indeed going all the way to the Blessed Lands, but his extramural ancestry goes further back, to the First Age. 11. Two of the handful of names given for Orcs in The Lord of the Rings are Lagduf and Muzgash. If one combines the constituent elements, “Lagash” could come up. In any case, this association seems more phonic than philological. 12. I am grateful to Jason Fisher on these points. 13. R.M. Wilson, The Lost Literature of Medieval England (New York: Cooper Square, 1969). Tolkien scholars may be familiar with this book through Shippey’s citation of it in The Road to Middle-earth. 14. In Germany this took on complicated racial and ethnic overtones; see Breger. 15. Tolkien may have dabbled in some of the other languages of Mesopotamia as well, as we know he owned (and apparently annotated) a copy of Arthur Ungnad’s Babylonisch-Assyrische Grammatik (1926). Tolkien’s copy now resides in The Science Fiction and Fantasy Research Collection of the Cushing Memorial Library and Archives at Texas A&M University. 16. In the Babylonian version of Gilgamesh, this sense of challenge may have to do with a similar issue: the “changing of the pantheons” in Mesopotamian culture, ca. 1900 B.C., which is presumably when it was written. In other words, Gilgamesh may have been written in Sumerian

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but at about the time Sumerian was losing ground to Semitic languages and peoples, and the names given to the gods changed accordingly. The translation or adaptation into Babylonian provided a further overlay and sense of transition and memorial adaptation. This could be a postulated analogue to the pagan–Christian changeover evoked in Beowulf. 17. See Day. 18. Ursula Le Guin, in her use of this word in the mythical poem that circumscribes her fictional Earthsea world, “The Creation of Eä,” is clearly aware of the Sumerian context, and when the first Earthsea book was published, The Silmarillion with its mention of Eä had not been published. Nonetheless, her use of the Sumerian term follows in the wake of the influence of Tolkien’s languages and nomenclature on her. 19. Yet in Tolkien’s first conception of the Valar, in The Book of Lost Tales, they did reproduce. Even if the final published Silmarillion, spousal relationships between the Valar are retained. 20. Shippey is, in fact, quoting Tolkien (MC, 27). 21. Ironically, though, Tolkienian anthropology ended up having an influence on paleontological taxonomy, in that the discovery of the remains of Homo floriensis species of hominids in Indonesia, termed “hobbits,” implies that Tolkien’s sense of different cognate species that are all “human” may have once been a reality in the deep past. See Michael Ruse, Edward O. Wilson, and Joseph Travis, Evolution: The First Four Billion Years (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009), p. 634, where an explicit linkage to Tolkien is made.

WORKS CONSULTED Anger, Don N. “Koivië-néni and Cuiviénen.” In Drout. 323–4. Asimov, Isaac. “Nightfall.” Famous Science Fiction Stories. Ed. J.P. Healy and J.F. McComas. New York: Random House, 1957. Auden, W.H. Collected Poems. Ed. Edward Mendelson. New York: Vintage, 1991. Bible. King James version, . Accessed April 10, 2009. Breger, Claudia. “Imperialist Fantasies and Displaced Memory: Twentieth Century German Egyptologies.” New German Critique No. 96 (2005): 135–159. Damrosch, David. The Buried Book: The Loss and Rediscovery of the Great Epic of Gilgamesh. New York: Macmillan, 2007. Day, John. God’s Conflict with the Dragon and the Sea; Echoes of a Canaanite Myth in the Old Testament. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985. Dorsett, Lyle W., ed. The Essential C.S. Lewis. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1996. Drout, Michael D.C., ed. J.R.R Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical Assessment. New York: Routledge, 2006. Eddison, E.R. The Worm Ouroboros. Charleston, SC: Forgotten, 2008 [1922]. Enuma Elish. Trans. Ephraim R. Speiser. Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to The Old Testament. Ed. James R. Pritchard. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1969. Evans, Jonathan. “The Anthropology of Arda: Creation, Theology, and the Race of Men.” Tolkien the Medievalist. Ed. Jane Chance. London: Routledge, 2003. 194–224. Fisher, Jason. “Tolkien’s Fortunate Fall and the Third Theme of Ilúvatar.” Truths Breathed Through Silver: The Inklings’ Moral and Mythopoeic Legacy. Ed. Jonathan Himes, with Joe R. Christopher and Salwa Khoddam. Newcastle, U.K.: Cambridge Scholars, 2008. 93– 109. Flieger, Verlyn. Splintered Light: Logos and Language in Tolkien’s World. Rev. ed. Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 2002. Giddings, Robert, and Elizabeth Holland, eds. J.R.R. Tolkien: The Shores of Middle-earth. London: Junction, 1981. Gilgamesh: A Verse Narrative. Trans. Herbert Mason. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2003. Helms, Randel. Tolkien and the Silmarils. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981. Hulme, Mariko. “Through the Palantir [sic].” Australian Ejournal of Theolog y 8 (October 2008).

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, accessed September 29, 2010. Le Guin, Ursula K. A Wizard of Earthsea. New York: Penguin, 1968. Lobdell, Jared, ed. A Tolkien Compass. London: Open Court, 1975. Magoun, John F.G. “The East.” In Drout. 139–40. Martinez, Michael. “The Tip of the Iceberg: New Information About Middle-earth.” . Accessed September 29, 2010. Marvell, Andrew. The Complete Poems. Ed. Elizabeth Story Donno. Harmnodsworth: Penguin, 1975. Rutledge, Fleming. The Battle for Middle-earth: Tolkien’s Divine Design in The Lord of the Rings. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004. Ryan, J.S. “Cultural Name Association: A Tolkien Example from Gilgamesh.” Mallorn 22 (1985): 21–23. _____. “Indo-European Race-Memories and Race-Fears from the Ancient City of Uruk.” Angerthas 22 (1988): 27–46. _____. “Oath-Swearing, the Stone of Erech and the Near East of the Ancient World.” Inklings 4 (1986): 107–21. Shippey, Tom. The Road to Middle-earth: How J.R.R. Tolkien Created a New Mytholog y. 3rd rev. and exp. ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2003. Smail, Daniel Lord. On Deep Time: History and the Brain. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008. Swain, L.J. “Gimli.” In Drout. 241–3. Szemerényi, Oswald J.L. Introduction to Indo-European Linguistics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Tolkien, J.R.R. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien. Ed. Humphrey Carpenter. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981. _____. The Lord of the Rings. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1992. _____. The Lost Road and Other Writings: Language and Legend Before “The Lord of the Rings.” Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1987. _____. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1983. _____. Morgoth’s Ring: The Later Silmarillion Part One: The Legends of Aman. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1993. _____. “Philology: General Works.” The Year’s Work in English Studies 5 (1924): [26]–65. _____. The Silmarillion. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1977. Tyler, J.E.A. A New Tolkien Companion. New York: Grammercy, 1976. Walton, Christina Ganong. “Bible.” In Drout. 62–4. Wood, Ralph C. The Gospel According to Tolkien: Visions of the Kingdom in Middle-earth. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2003.

Sea Birds and Morning Stars: Ceyx, Alcyone, and the Many Metamorphoses of Eärendil and Elwing Kristine Larsen Archaeologists have long understood the central role astronomical obser vation played in prehistoric and ancient cultures. The cyclical motions of the sun, moon, and planets led to the development of timekeeping methods and technologies, including the lunar calendar, variations of which are still used in some religious traditions today. As the third brightest object seen in the sky (after the Sun and Moon), the planet Venus has captivated the human consciousness since ancient times. Commonly referred to as the Morning Star and Evening Star, due to its brilliancy and visibility in the twilight either before sunrise or after sunset (due to the constraints of its orbit interior to the earth’s), Venus has played an important role in the mythologies of many cultures. Known as Ishtar to the Babylonians, Venus was seen as eternally frustrating the Sun God, coming ever closer to him only to flee from his embrace after each encounter (Aveni, Stairways to the Stars, 38). The Maya connected this celestial beacon with their great white god Quetzalcoatl, and his journey to the Underworld symbolized the occasional disappearance of Venus from the sky when it passes too close to the Sun to be safely seen (Aveni, Empires of Time, 224). According to the Skidi Pawnee, originally natives of Nebraska, humans are the direct result of two celestial marriages, the first between the Morning Star and Evening Star and the second between the Sun and Moon. The single progeny of each marriage then wed, resulting in the first human beings (Thurman, 155). In the legendarium of J.R.R. Tolkien, the Morning Star/Evening Star also plays an important role, not only in the general mythos of Middle-earth, but as the sire of the most important human lineage, namely that of the Kings of Númenor and Gondor, including Aragorn. 69

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Eärendil and Elwing According to a 1967 letter, Tolkien credited his use of the name Eärendil to the Anglo-Saxon earendel, whose beauty struck him. He plucked the name from an Old English poem usually called “Christ 1,” preserved in the Exeter Book and also known as “The Advent Lyrics” (cf. line 104ff.). The term also appears in the Blickling Homilies, where is it applied to either John the Baptist or Christ, although Tolkien himself argued for the former, due to its use in referencing “a herald, and divine messenger” (Letters, 385, emphasis original). Tolkien interpreted the term as referring to “a star presaging dawn (at any rate in English translation): that is what we now call Venus: the morning-star as it may be seen shining brilliantly in the dawn, before the actual rising of the Sun. That is at any rate how I took it” (loc. cit.). Tolkien used this name and his interpretation in a ca. 1914 poem in which Eärendel took the form of a heavenly mariner whose appearance mirrored that of Venus. Later Eärendel the Mariner metamorphosed into Eärendil the Half-elven, son of Tuor and Idril, founder of the bloodlines of Númenor and Rivendell, and as Tolkien called him “a herald star, and a sign of hope for men” (Letters, 385).1 The canonical view of Eärendil is found in the published Silmarillion, where even as a child his superior qualities were notable. It is said that “[o]f surpassing beauty was Eärendil, for a light was in his face as the light of heaven, and he had the beauty of the wisdom of the Eldar and the strength and hardihood of the men of old” (S, 241). After the destruction of Gondolin and his marriage to Elwing, also of mixed human/Eldarin blood and the holder of the Silmaril wrested from Morgoth’s crown by her grandfather Beren, Eärendil found that he had inherited the sea-lust of his father Tuor, and with the help of Círdan he built the magnificent ship Vingilot, in which he sailed ever west. These journeys had a dual purpose: a personal search for his parents, who had previously sailed west (presumably intending to reach the Blessed Lands); and a more altruistic quest to bring the plight of Middleearth to the Valar and the Elves who dwelled with them, in the hope of convincing them to return to the East to battle Morgoth and his minions. As was expected of many long-suffering women in classic literature, Elwing faithfully waited at home at the Havens of Sirion with her twin sons while her husband continuously sailed in his seemingly vain (one might say self-absorbed) searches. On one particular trip, Eärendil returned home in haste, because “a sudden fear had fallen on him out of dreams” (S, 246). Eärendil’s dreams proved sage: before he could reach home the sons of Fëanor attacked Elwing and Eärendil’s people, and rather than surrender the precious heirloom jewel, Elwing threw herself into the sea. Here we see a temporary physical meta-

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morphosis of Elwing, as Ulmo turned her into a great white sea bird still bearing the gem. In this form, and shrouded in a marvelous shining cloud, she flew to meet her husband, and upon reaching him during the night fell unconscious onto the deck of the ship. Eärendil embraced her transformed body (apparently recognizing her, or at the very least the Silmaril) and was rewarded in the morning when he awoke to find his wife had returned to her normal form (S, 247). Believing their sons lost, the reunited pair turned west and found themselves on the shores of the Blessed Lands. Here Elwing refused to stay safely aboard the ship and thereby avoid the ire of the Valar, arguing “[t]hen would our paths be sundered for ever; but thy perils I will take on myself also” (S, 248). Eärendil was met by Eönwë, the herald of Manwë, speaking prophetic words about Eärendil’s future role as the Morning Star: “Hail Eärendil, bearer of light before the Sun and Moon! Splendour of the Children of the Earth, star in the darkness, jewel in the sunset, radiant in the morning!” (S, 248– 9). After successfully pleading the case of Middle-earth to the Valar, Eärendil, and his Half-elven wife, become an inconvenience of sorts to the Valar, not only because they willingly violated the Ban of Mandos and set foot in Valinor, but also because their intermingled blood left their eventual fate in question. Manwë therefore forbids Eärendil and Elwing from returning to Middle-earth, and gives to them and their twin sons the free choice to select “to which kindred their fates shall be joined, and under which kindred they shall be judged” (S, 249). In other words, Eärendil and Elwing were given the choice of a permanent metamorphosis from the ambiguity of the Peredhil to the certainty of the Eldar or Edain. Here Eärendil makes a (non)fatal mistake, for despite the fact that his heart leaned towards the freedom from the world given to humankind (the so-called Gift of Ilúvatar), he allowed Elwing to choose first, and she chose to be counted among the Eldar and the fate to be bound to the world until its end. Having solved several untidy plot points in one fell swoop, Tolkien then continues in his metamorphosis of the couple. The Valar transform Vingilot into a flying ship adorned with the finest Elven jewels. Eärendil becomes its permanent captain, with the Silmaril bound to his forehead. His wanderlust is given apparently free rein, as he is able to journey “even into the starless void,” and upon returning from “beyond the confines of the world” he is “most often seen at morning or at evening, glimmering in sunrise or sunset” (S, 250). Just as Elwing plays the role of glorified house frau in Middle-earth, she does not join Eärendil on these journeys, under the excuse of her not being able to “endure the cold and the pathless voids” and her preference for terra firma. But she also receives an “upgrade” of sorts, for a white tower is

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built for her on the coastline, from which she can patiently await her husband’s return. In an apparent nod to her temporary transformation into a sea bird, Tolkien tells us that the sea-birds frequently visited her tower, and that she learned to speak their tongue and to fly anew, upon silver and white wings. With these wings, she meets her husband in the air upon his return, flying as she had once upon a time, when Ulmo saved her from a certain watery death. At those times, “the far-sighted among the Elves that dwelt in the Lonely Isle would see her like a white bird, shining, rose-stained in the sunset, as she soared in joy to greet the coming of Vingilot to haven” (S, 250). One further connection between birds and Eärendil appears in the published Silmarillion, in the War of Wrath between the armies of the West and the forces of Morgoth. Here Eärendil plays an important role in the battle, appearing as a brilliant white flame, his ship Vingilot surrounded by the great eagles, led by their captain Thorondor. In the following battle, the dragons are vanquished, and before sunrise Eärendil kills their ferocious leader Ancalagon the Black, who is cast down from the heavens and crashes into the towers of Thangorodrim, which are broken in his fall (S, 252). Elsewhere , this author has commented on the astronomical imagery of this battle, with the death and fall of Ancalagon similar to medieval reports of bright meteors (Larsen, “Shadow and Flame”). As with many others of the legendarium’s important characters, Eärendil’s role and characteristics evolved over the decades. In the various versions of the Tale of Earendel (ca. 1916–7), published by Christopher Tolkien in The Book of Lost Tales, Part II, we find in Scheme B that Elwing dies in the raid on Sirion, yet in Scheme C her boat is sunk and she is transformed into a seabird. Christopher Tolkien notes in his discussion of these sketches that this idea of Elwing’s metamorphosis into a seabird survives throughout numerous revisions down through the published Silmarillion (LT2, 258–9). However, in these early drafts, the pair is sundered, as Eärendel dwells “on the Isle of Seabirds” and “there hopes that Elwing will return amongst the seabirds, but she is seeking him wailing along all the shores and especially among the wreckage.” It is said that the pair will be reunited at the legendary “Faring Forth” (LT2, 255). In Scheme E, Elwing eventually does come to her husband “in the form of a seamew at the Isle of Seabirds. Christopher Tolkien points out in his commentary that in these early prose sketches Eärendil’s beseeching of the Valar as well as the subsequent modification of his ship are both absent, and he does not bear the light of the Silmaril (LT2, 265). However, his ship was already given the power to sail through the Door of Night in these early versions, aided by wings, and his bright appearance, partially due to the diamond dust his shoes collected from the streets of Kôr, was reminiscent of the planet Venus. This identification is made clear in the poetic versions of his

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story, originally called “The Voyage of Eärendel the Evening Star” (written around 1914) and later changed to “The Last Voyage of Eärendil” (LT2, 267). It is also said of Eärendel in Scheme C that “[t]he Moon Mariner chases him for his brightness and he dives through the Door of Night” (255). This description is in keeping with Venus and the Moon’s apparent paths relative to the stars, along what is known as the ecliptic (the astrological corruption of which is the zodiac), and their periodic loss to skywatchers in the glare of the sun. Christopher Tolkien traces a further metamorphosis of the tale with a series of tables to show differences in the story from the “Earliest Silmarillion” (ca. 1926) through two versions of the Qenta Noldorinwa (ca. 1930). For example, in the “Earliest Silmarillion,” Elwing is changed into a bird and is not returned to Eärendil, until after the Last Battle, after which Maidros restores the Silmaril to Eärendil, and with Elwing he sails the heavens, his ship aided by birds’ wings. In the manuscript QII, Eärendil and Elwing are sundered forever. Eärendel’s ship is hallowed by the Valar and although Elwing creates bird wings for the purposes of flight, she can never reach him (Shaping, 201– 5). More specifically, Elwing “devised wings for herself, and desired to fly to Eärendil’s ship. But [?she fell back]” (156). The tale took its published form in the Quenta Silmarillion, written in the late 1930s, including the happy ending, or eucatastrophe: the lovers reunited and their choice of fate and kindred.

Ceyx and Alcyone We now take note of several interesting elements of the tale of Eärendil and Elwing:

• • • • • • • • • • •

A divine bloodline A reference to the Morning/Evening star True marital love A single-minded sailor on a perilous journey and a stay-at-home wife Aforementioned wife wishing to brave danger to avoid being separated A visionary dream A desperate and possibly suicidal act transformed into a new beginning Birds Metamorphoses of many types The intervention of the Valar (the “Powers”) The reuniting of the lovers — but at a high price

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In doing so, we have a natural segue to a story in Greek mythology with interesting parallels, namely the tale of Ceyx and Alcyone. The task of reconstructing the history of this myth eerily mirrors the difficulties one faces when studying any of the individual tales in Tolkien’s legendarium — multiple versions, some fragmentary, often contradictory. In the case of Ceyx and Alcyone, some of these versions and fragments can be found in the works of Hesiod, Homer, Nicander, Apollodorus, and Aristotle. The most lengthy and detailed version appears in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book XI, and scholars consider his version to be an amalgam of previous versions, linking together several myths which were previously unconnected (Gresseth, 88; Griffin, 147). For example, there are three separate metamorphoses in the story of Ceyx, King of Trachis (the longest coherent story in Ovid’s work): Ceyx’s brother Daedalion is turned into a hawk, an attacking wolf is turned into stone, and Ceyx and his wife Alcyone are transformed into birds. The transformation of humans into animals and objects is not unusual for Greek and Roman mythology, especially in the case of lovers. For example, Zeus appears to have a rather vivid imagination when it comes to romance, turning himself into (among other things) a swan, a bull, and a shower of gold to win the hearts of various beautiful women. According to Ovid, Ceyx was the son of Lucifer, the Morning Star,2 and he inherited his father’s beauty. He was faithfully married to the likewise semidivine Alcyone (sometimes written Halcyone), the daughter of Aeolus, God of the Winds. Troubled by the suicide of his brother, Ceyx decided to undertake a perilous sea voyage to consult an oracle. Alcyone was filled with dread and begged to accompany him, exclaiming “take me with you, and most certainly / we will experience the storms together, / nor will I fear what I must undergo; / whatever will be, we will bear the same” (388). A clear comparison can be drawn between Alcyone’s request and Elwing’s comments to Eärendil when they arrived at the Blessed Lands. Despite her pleas, Alcyone was left at home, and Ceyx drowned in a storm which destroyed his ship, her name on his lips as he died. Back at home, Alcyone dutifully made supplications to Hera for her husband’s continued fidelity and safe return home. Juno, knowing she could only grant the first of Alcyone’s requests, ordered Morpheus, the God of Dreams, to visit Alcyone in her husband’s form, and tell her of his fate. This Morpheus did, and upon awakening, Alcyone was understandably distraught. The next morning she saw her husband’s corpse floating to shore, and leapt into the ocean to be with her beloved. The gods took pity on her and transformed her into a sea bird, a gull or other bird with a plaintive call, and in that form she flew to her husband’s corpse. After kissing his lifeless body, Alcyone was rewarded with the transformation of her husband into a living bird of the

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same species, and in renewed marital bliss later bore avian young. In an earlier version attributed to Hesiod, the couple impiously referred to each other as Zeus and Hera and as a punishment were turned into birds of different species, thereby denying them a continued relationship after their metamorphoses (Griffin, 149). Another change which Ovid made from earlier versions was to have Ceyx’s corpse appear to Alcyone at the shore, which changes what was originally a suicidal leap into the ocean in earlier tales into a leap of love, hope, and faith (Griffin, 152; Fantham, 342). Further distancing Alcyone’s actions from the suicides found in earlier water-bird myths, Ovid has Alcyone transform into a bird during her leap, so it can be said that it was a bird who leapt, not a woman (Fantham, 341–2). It does not take much thought to see the parallels between the story of Ceyx and Alcyone with that of Eärendil and Elwing, especially in the eleven characteristics previously noted. For example, as Griffin notes, Ceyx and Alcyone are “finally reunited in a faithful conjugal relationship, but one which has been achieved only at the cost of metamorphosis and after much undeserved suffering” (154). But thus far, what we have here is a comparative study, even if the likenesses between the two works are many. But to suggest the legend as a source for Tolkien, we must be able to say more. The logical place to begin is with the question of whether Tolkien knew Ovid more generally, or The Metamorphoses in particular. It is very likely. Before Tolkien switched to the Oxford English School in 1913, he spent his first five terms at Exeter College reading the Literae Humaniores (i.e., Classics) curriculum. Whether this included the works of Ovid is not certain, but given Ovid’s stature in Roman literature, it is likely. We know Tolkien attended lectures on many other Greek and Roman authors, including Homer, Plato, Sophocles, Cicero, Tacitus, Virgil, and others (Scull and Hammond, 28). In February 1913, he sat examination papers on many of these authors and subjects, but again, without explicit mention of Ovid (37). But Ovid is a regular part of the curriculum and examinations,3 so it is certainly reasonable to suppose that Tolkien read at least a selection of his works, of which The Metamorphoses is far and away the most popular. In addition, The Metamorphoses should have been, very broadly speaking, the kind of mythical and fantastical literature Tolkien liked. Tolkien made one known reference to Ovid in his letters (Letters, 214), but the comment by itself is inconclusive. In addition, this legend was widely taken up in medieval literature and poetry, much more of which would have been known to Tolkien. For example, an important source of Ovid’s works in the Middle Ages was the Ovide Moralisé, the first complete French translation. An extensive retelling of the pagan work, it is hypothesized to have been composed by a Franciscan monk ca.1320 (Blumenfeld-Kosinski, 90). Guillaume de Machaut included the tale of Ceyx

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and Alcyone among the classical myths referenced in his Dit de la Fontaine Amoureuse (written ca. 1360). Although de Machaut emphasized Alcyone’s dream rather than the basic love story, the final metamorphosis is retained intact (154). De Machaut’s use of classical mythology influenced both French and English writers of succeeding generations, including Geoffrey Chaucer and John Gower. Chaucer’s Book of the Duchess was composed as an elegy for Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster, in 1369.4 The poem is told by a man suffering from long-term insomnia, who reads the story of Ceyx and Alcyone up to the point where Alcyone awakens from Morpheus’s dream. Chaucer’s somber version concludes with how after awakening from her dream, “‘Woe, alas!’ She cried, / And on the third day after, died. / I shall not tell what else she said / Before her swooning laid her dead” (27). By ending the tale here, and omitting references to the mythological metamorphoses, the tale ends as a tragedy, and the reader is robbed of the consolation of the lovers reunited. “The Tale of Ceyx and Alceone” appears in Book IV of John Gower’s Confessio Amantis (written ca. 1390–3). While his version of the tale is clearly based on Ovid, the story is much more concise, and focuses on Alcyone and her visionary (and prophetic) dreams (Gaston, 42). Gower transformed Ovid’s myth by having Ceyx and Alcyone metamorphose into birds simultaneously, so that they embrace as two living birds, rather than a bird and a human corpse. The gods do this to reward Alcyone for the purity of her love, which is held up by Gower as a model to be emulated (43). That Tolkien knew his Chaucer is beyond question and well attested by his education, teaching career, and scholarly research. Tolkien has said and written less on the subject of Gower, but there is no doubt here either. Tolkien quotes ten lines of Gower’s Confessio Amantis in the original Middle English in his essay, “On Fairy-stories” (31). To go one better, Kenneth Sisam excerpts the Ceyx and Alcyone episode specifically in his collection, Fourteenth Century Verse and Prose (131– 7). Tolkien prepared the glossary for Sisam’s book, a task requiring him to work through the entire collection, line by line, around 1921–2, a time when the Eärendil legend was at the forefront of his imagination. Christine de Pizan also used Ceyx and Alcyone as an example of perfect marital love in her Mutacion de Fortune (ca. 1400). Upon learning of her husband’s death from being washed overboard and into the sea, the narrator Got up from the poop[deck] like a madwoman. I climbed up the poop and would have thrown myself into the sea, and I would not have failed if no one had held me back. Never would Alcyone have jumped more readily into the sea when she lost her husband, Ceyx, whom she loved so much, than I would have jumped, if only one would have let me. But I was held back by the people by my household [Blumenfeld-Kosinski, 185].

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In this version of the tale, the widow is prevented from joining her beloved husband in his fate, and there is no metamorphosis which can save her or her spouse. Given Tolkien’s classical education, and his expertise in medieval texts, it is all but certain that he would have not only been familiar with the basic story of Ceyx and Alcyone, but its various retellings. But there are other metamorphoses in the tale of Elwing and Eärendil as well, namely those of an astronomical rather than avian variety.

Elwing and Mercury Tolkien’s interest in astronomy and mastery of interweaving it into the intricate tapestry of Middle-earth have been explored by numerous authors (e.g., Larsen, “Tolkien’s Burning Briar” and “Swords and Skystones”; Manning; and Quiñonez and Raggett). Creative yet astronomically accurate descriptions for the motions of the sun and moon, eclipses, auroras, and other phenomena appear throughout his writings. Among the objects which Tolkien included to varying degrees in his creative process are the planets known to exist in the 1930s (around the time he wrote the first versions of the Silmarillion texts). A Marquette text draft of the 1951 revision of the Silmarillion includes the famous list of names which appear in the tale of Varda’s creation of the stars: Karnil, Luinal, Nénar, Lumbar, Alkarinque, and Elemmire. Above most of these names in the manuscript Tolkien wrote a letter or abbreviation, which Christopher Tolkien and others have interpreted as an experiment in correlating these six stars with the planets other than Earth, Venus (which has already been identified with Eärendil), and Pluto. Two of the correlations — Jupiter as Alkarinque and Mars as Karnil — are accepted as canonical, while the others are dismissed by Christopher Tolkien as a momentary amusement (Morgoth, 434–5). But if Eärendil has a clear planetary counterpart, might we not wonder whether Elwing has one as well? An important clue to this possibility is found in a previously noted quotation from The Silmarillion, where it is said that the Elves could see Elwing as “a white bird, shining, rosestained in the sunset, as she soared in joy to greet the coming of Vingilot to haven” (S, 250). Mercury and Venus, the two planets which orbit closest to the sun, are dubbed the inferior planets due to their position inside to the Earth’s orbit (as opposed to superior planets such as Mars and Jupiter). As seen from Earth, these two objects always appear relatively close to the sun in the sky, constrained by their small orbits. Because of this, they were given special significance by ancient cultures, and considered to be “guardians of the sun, sometimes leading and at other times following the great luminary” (Aveni,

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Skywatchers of Ancient Mexico, 83). Venus, with its size comparable to Earth, highly reflective sulfuric acid clouds, and position as the closest planet to Earth, understandably appears much brighter than the rocky planet, Mercury, which is much smaller and more distant from Earth. Venus appears as the third brightest object in the sky (after the sun and moon), can be seen with the unaided eye during the day by seasoned observers, and can even cast shadows under very dark skies far away from city lights. By comparison, at its brightest, Mercury appears less than 1 ⁄ 16th the brightness of Venus, and dimmer than the planets Jupiter and Mars. Although at these times it is comparable in brightness to Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky, it is far less obvious than its raw brightness would suggest because it is buried in the ambient glow of twilight. This brings us to the most frustrating part of viewing Mercury, namely its elongation, or angular distance east or west of the Sun. Due to the size of its orbit and distance from us, Venus always appears within a section of the sky measuring about 45 degrees east and west of the Sun. At greatest elongation, it can set up to three hours after sunset or rise three hours before sunrise, and the contrast of its brightness against the post- or pre-twilight sky gives it its reputation as the “Morning” or “Evening” star. In the Akallabêth, the Edain navigated to their gift of the island of Númenor by following the light of Venus, in the guise of Eärendil’s ship. It is in this passage that we find an uncharacteristically egregious astronomical error by Tolkien, where he writes, “[b]ut so bright was Rothinzil [Vingilot] that even at morning Men could see it glimmering in the West” (S, 260), a clear impossibility. So unworldly is its appearance that it has been suggested that up to 30 percent of all UFO reports are attributable to Venus, and World War II fighter pilots, reportedly among them former U.S. President George H.W. Bush, frequently mistook it for an enemy aircraft. Fortunately, Venus survived these periodic salvos. In contrast, Mercury always appears much closer to the sun in the sky, and hence always sets earlier in sunset twilight or rises later in sunrise twilight. Its greatest apparent distance from the Sun, or greatest elongation, varies from apparition to apparition, from a “minimum maximum” of 18 degrees to a “maximum maximum” of 28 degrees due to the eccentricity of its orbit. This means that in some apparitions the time between its rising or setting and the Sun’s is only an hour, and at best is two hours different. In lower latitudes (closer to the equator), twilight is shorter in duration, and Mercury is easier to locate (more often avoiding the glare of the sun), but as seen from the British Isles and the majority of the United States, Mercury is a more elusive target. It is no wonder that the majority of the world’s population has never seen Mercury, because in order to do so with the unaided eye, one has to make an effort!

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If one does make such an effort, what will be one’s reward? As an inferior planet, Mercury is “Venus’s imitator” in its motion, either heralding the coming of sunrise or the coming of the starry night (Aveni, Stairways to the Stars, 40). Like Venus, its apparent distance from the sun is constrained, but to a much smaller range. It also moves faster in its orbit, completing one full apparition from greatest morning elongation to greatest evening elongation and back again in 116 days as opposed to 584 days for Venus.5 Over the course of about two weeks it appears to rise up from the Sun, reaching up out of the twilight toward its much brighter sibling (or spouse), only to fall back into the glare of the brilliant luminary in a similar period of time. Although Mercury’s true color is similar to that of our moon (its surface being quite similar to that of our nearest celestial neighbor), the absorption of light by our atmosphere due to Mercury’s low angular height above the horizon gives it a color referred to by various observers as yellow, ochre, or rose (e.g. Dickinson, 171; Levy, 153). This color is not a figment of the human eye, as CCD pictures of Mercury show it to have a rosy or rusty hue (McKim, 118). This author has seen Mercury on a few occasions, and has noted it to have either a pale golden or salmon-pink color. What we have described here is clearly consistent with Tolkien’s description of Elwing, as a white object appearing “rose-stained” in the twilight sky, rising up toward the more-brilliant Evening or Morning star, whose journeys into the higher heavens are forever beyond its seeking grasp. All Mercury (and Elwing) can do is soar upon limited wings, only to fall back into the twilight and await the periodic return of Venus into their common haven in the relative safety of the glare of the Sun. There is yet another fascinating mythological connection between Elwing, Eärendil, and the inferior planets. Due to their apparent oscillations to the east and west of the sun, both Mercury and Venus must occasionally pass into conjunction with the Sun, meaning that they become invisible to the eye as they align with the Sun and are either lost in its glare, or pass behind it. Recall that the Maya connected this motion of Venus with their great white god Quetzalcoatl’s journey to the Underworld (Aveni, Empires of Time, 224). Thus, the reappearance of these planets from their fiery union with the Sun can be likened to the resurrection of the legendary phoenix, and hence these planets are often seen as symbols of resurrection (Hadingham, 93–4). Likewise, both Elwing and Eärendil are saved from certain death by the Valar, and like the phoenix afterwards metamorphose into a higher form of being. This transition is both in terms of changing from Half-elven to Elven, as well as from their original Earth-bound forms to being able to fly through the airs. In the case of Eärendil, the transformation is even more dramatic, as he becomes one of the central characters in the defeat of Melkor,

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both at the end of the First Age, and, according to Tolkien’s “Second Prophecy of Mandos” (Lost Road, 333), at the end of Arda itself.

Halcyon Days We now return to our other otherworldly duo, Ceyx and Alcyone. What astronomical connection might they have, in addition to Ceyx’s paternity? In order to answer this question, we need to turn to another of Tolkien’s apparent interests, namely the weather. Tolkien was a careful observer of the natural world, and his letters are peppered with meteorological commentary. For example, in an August 1944 letter to his son, Christopher, he vividly describes a particularly vivid sunset, noting that “[i]t may portend some celestial merriment in the morn, as the glass is rising” (Letters, 92). His commentary about a rise in barometric pressure demonstrates his knowledge of basic weather forecasting. Likewise, in a January 1945 letter to Christopher, Tolkien observes that About supper-time the glass fell and the thermometer rose, and a great downfall of snow with a wind (W to SW) began. It was piled high against the door before midnight, but was really thawing underneath, so that although it went on, off and on, all night it was nowhere much over half a foot except in knee high drifts [Letters, 108].

Tolkien also demonstrated a remarkable working knowledge of seasonal weather patterns, as in a May 1944 letter to Christopher: “Weather foul, cold, windy; roads littered with torn leaves, and broken blossom. It has veered from SW>W>NW>NE. Buchan is at it (as usual)” (Letters, 78–9). Carpenter, who edited Tolkien’s letters, had to include a footnote explaining to the average reader that Tolkien was referring to Buchan’s Winter, an annual cold spell which occurs between May 9–14 and named after meteorologist Alexander Buchan (439). Interestingly, more than a decade before this letter was written, a scientific study of British weather records found no evidence of the Buchan “spells” (Talman). A similar curious annual weather condition is referred to as the halcyon days, a week or fortnight of relatively calm weather near the winter solstice mentioned as early as the time of Aristotle (Gresseth, 92). The event is named for the mythical halcyon bird into which Alcyone and Ceyx were transformed, alternately tied to the kingfisher, sea gull, and multiple other sea birds (Ingersoll, 238). Virgil includes this tradition among the curious weather-related legends in his Georgics (Book 1, ll. 393–398), where it is said that after the passage of a storm, fair weather can be predicted because “Then, kingfishers [halcyons]6, beloved by Thetis, do not spread their wings to the sun’s warmth”

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(Lembke, 16). Virgil was not only referencing the legend of halcyon days in this line, but also the observation by Aratus that gulls and ducks beat their wings near the shore only in times of turbulent wind ( Jermyn, 50). Numerous superstitions are attributed to the bird, including the power to calm storms, and when its corpse is worn as a talisman, the power to prevent lightning strikes (Graves, 165). De Machaut refers to these superstitions in La Fonteinne Amoureuse, where we find that “If sailors are in trouble upon the sea, / When they see these birds close by them, / The birds often make them certain to have / Good luck in a storm” (Palmer, 127). Plutarch wrote that the female halcyon is so devoted to its mate that when he becomes old and infirm she faithfully carries him and feeds him until his death (Gresseth, 91). The halcyon days were attributed to Alcyone being the daughter of Aeolus, the Ruler of the Winds, who calmed the winds and seas for an extended time each year so his daughter could safely lay eggs. The legend is said to originate from observations of sea birds hovering over the water, which led to the erroneous belief that they actually nested at sea (Schaaf, 20). To this day, the word halcyon means peaceful, calm, and prosperous. It has been suggested that the connection between birds, weather patterns, and the time of year present a rather tangled web of myth which may be impossible to disentangle (Gresseth, 89). However, several astronomical explanations have been suggested. In one, the rebirth of Alcyone as a bird is said to symbolize the rebirth of the Sun at the winter solstice, the time of shortest daylight and lowest solar altitude in the sky, yet another veiled reference to the phoenix (93). Scottish ornithologist and classics scholar D’Arcy Thompson, born a generation before Tolkien, suggested that the legend has its origin in the Pleiades or Seven Sisters, the famed star cluster named Remmirath, the Netted Stars, in Tolkien’s legendarium. One of the Pleiads, the daughters of Atlas, is also named Alcyone. As Thompson noted, in ancient Greek times, the Pleiades could be seen high in the south on the winter solstice, and could be taken as a symbol of the legendary nesting of the halcyon bird (as well as the [re]birth of the sun). In possible support of this interpretation, the Pleiades have been associated with birds in numerous cultures, and some ancient Greek coins show a bird on a bull’s back (Allen, 404).

Conclusion As has been shown, there are myriad parallels between the story of Eärendil and Elwing and Ceyx and Alcyone, suggesting that Tolkien either consciously or unconsciously used the ancient myth in his story of the Halfelven. Tolkien may have been further influenced by various astronomical con-

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nections between Eärendil and the real night sky, perhaps going so far as to link Elwing with Mercury. Finally, there is the possibility that Tolkien also connected this couple with well-known weather patterns and superstitions. But in the end, regardless of how much of these parallels actually motivated Tolkien in his writing, this exploration of the possible linkages between the ancient legend of Ceyx and Alcyone and Tolkien’s legendarium increases our own level of Classical knowledge and appreciation for the allusiveness of Tolkien’s writings. It thus improves our individual chances of holding our own, if only for a brief moment, in a lively discussion with the Good Professor in whatever version of the Eagle and Child awaits the Second Born beyond the Walls of the World.

NOTES 1. There are other Norse and Germanic analogues to the Earendel figure repurposed in the explicitly Christian poem “Christ 1,” called variously Aurvandil, Orendel, etc. For a fuller treatment of the subject, see Hostetter. 2. Not to be confused with Lucifer, the principal fallen angel in the Christian tradition. 3. For example, at the time of this writing, the Michaelmas Term 2010 offers “Ovid, Amores, Heroides and Metamorphoses.” See http://www.classics.ox.ac.uk/lectures/leclist.asp?ListType= CL§ionID=601006, accessed October 2, 2010. See also the published Oxford examination statutes from Tolkien’s time to the present day, many of which specify examination papers on Ovid. 4. Tolkien mentions The Book of the Duchess in his introduction to the Middle English Pearl (Gawain, 21). 5. These synodic periods refer to the planet’s appearance in the sky relative to the position of the Sun, not the time for one complete orbit around the Sun in space. These sidereal periods are 88 days and 225 days for Mercury and Venus, respectively. 6. Various translations use kingfisher or halcyon here.

WORKS CONSULTED Allen, Richard Hinkley. Star Names: Their Lore and Meaning. New York: Dover, 1963. Aveni, Anthony F. Empires of Time. New York: Basic, 1989. _____. Skywatchers of Ancient Mexico. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1980. _____. Stairways to the Stars. New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1997. Blumenfeld-Kosinski, Renate. Reading Myth: Classical Mytholog y and Its Interpretations in Medieval French Literature. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997. Chaucer, Geoffrey. Love Visions. Trans. Brian Stone. New York: Penguin, 1983. Dickinson, Terence. “The Planets for 2007.” Observer’s Handbook. Ed. Patrick Kelly. Toronto: Royal Astronomical Society of Canada, 2006. 70–81. Fantham, Elaine. “Ovid’s Ceyx and Alcyone: The Metamorphosis of a Myth.” Phoenix 33 (1979): 330–45. Gaston, John B. “The Tale of Ceyx and Alceone.” John Gower’s Literary Transformations in the Confessio Amantis. Ed. Peter G. Beidler. New York: University Press of America, 1982. 41– 3. Gower, John. Confession Amantis. Trans. Russell A. Peck. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1980.

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Graves, Robert. The Greek Myths, Vol. I. London: Penguin, 1960. Gresseth, Gerald K. “The Myth of Alcyone.” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 95 (1964): 88–98. Griffin, A.H.F. “The Ceyx Legend in Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book XI.” The Classical Quarterly 31 (1981): 147–54. Handingham, Evan. Early Man and the Cosmos. New York: Walker, 1984. Hostetter, Carl. “Over Middle-earth Sent unto Men: On the Philological Origins of Tolkien’s Eärendil Myth.” Mythlore, Vol. 17, No. 3 (Whole No. 65; Spring 1991): 5–10. Ingersoll, Ernest. “An Adventure in Etymology.” The Scientific Monthly 45 (1937): 233–49. Jermyn, L.A.S. “Weather-Signs in Virgil (pt. II).” Greece and Rome 20 (Whole No. 59; 1951): 49–59. Larsen, Kristine. “A Definitive Identification of Tolkien’s ‘Borgil’: An Astronomical and Literary Approach.” Tolkien Studies 2 (2005): 161–70. _____. “Shadow and Flame: Myth, Monsters, and Mother Nature in Middle-earth.” The Mirror Crack’d: Fear and Horror in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings and its Sources. Ed. Lynn Forest-Hill. Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars, 2008. 169–96. _____. “Swords and Skystones: Meteoric Iron in The Silmarillion.” Mallorn 44 (2006): 22–6. _____. “Tolkien’s Burning Briar: An Astronomical Approach.” Mallorn 43 (2005): 49–52. Lembke, Janet, trans. Virgil’s Georgics. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005. Levy, David. Guide to the Night Sky, 2d ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Manning, Jim. “Elvish Starlore.” Planetarian (May 2003): 14–22. McKim, Richard. “Mercury in Colour: An Observational Challenge.” Journal of the British Astronomical Association 116:3 (2006): 118. Ovid. Metamorphoses. Trans. Charles Martin. New York: W.W. Norton: 2004. Palmer, R. Barton. Guillaume de Machaut: The Fountain of Love and Two Other Love Vision Poems. New York: Garland, 1993. Quiñonez, Jorge, and Ned Raggett. “Nólë I Meneldilo: Lore of the Astronomer.” Vinyar Tengwar 12 (1990): 5–15. Schaaf, Fred. “Signs of the New Year.” Mother Earth News 141 (1993): 18–21. Scull, Christina, and Wayne G. Hammond. The J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide, Volume 1: Chronolog y. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2006. Sisam, Kenneth. Fourteenth Century Verse and Prose. Glossary by J.R.R. Tolkien. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1921. Reprinted with corrections 1937, 1955. Talman, Charles Fitzhugh. “Buchan Spells.” Science Service News Release ( July 28, 1930). Tatlock, John S.P., and Percy MacKaye, eds. The Modern Reader’s Chaucer. New York: Free, 1912. Thurman, Melburn D. “The Timing of the Skidi-Pawnee Morning Star Sacrifice.” Enthnohistory 30:3 (1983): 155–63. Tolkien, J.R.R. The Lost Road and Other Writings: Language and Legend Before “The Lord of the Rings.” Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1987. _____. Morgoth’s Ring: The Later Silmarillion Part One: The Legends of Aman. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1993. _____. The Shaping of Middle-earth: The Quenta, the Ambarkanta, and the Annals. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1986. _____. Tolkien on Fairy-stories. Ed. Verlyn Flieger and Douglas A. Anderson. London: HarperCollins, 2008.

“Byzantium, New Rome!” Goths, Langobards, and Byzantium in The Lord of the Rings Miryam Librán-Moreno Introduction It is clear Tolkien came to be pretty strongly opposed to critical dissection of his narrative opus in the hunt for the possible sources of his inspiration (Letters, 388–9); however, even in the face of such strong condemnation, those of us who are interested in analyzing Tolkien’s works from the vantage point of its affiliations with and reinterpretations of literary tradition may find some comfort in the words of the Professor himself, who famously made a distinction between what he called “the bones” and “the soup”— that is, between merely pointing at pre-existing, traditional motifs and themes as separate and isolated entities, and studying those motifs as part of a larger narrative that had been endowed and transformed with new uses and values (MC, 119–20). The aim of this chapter is to explore the narrative uses Tolkien may have found for historical accounts of Late Antiquity in The Lord of the Rings, particularly the troubled relations among the Goths, Langobards, and Constantinople. It has been frequently remarked that Tolkien made use of a few historical names of Gothic and Langobardic origin attested in Jordanes and Paul the Deacon, two of the so-called “barbarian historians”1; however, so far, little in the shape of actual narrative parallels has been unearthed.2 I intend to show that such parallels do exist, at both the macroscopic and the microscopic level, and that Tolkien put the complex history of the dealings of Goths and Langobards with the Byzantine Empire to unique, nuanced, and innovative creative uses. Afterwards, I shall attempt to throw some light on the reasons for Tolkien’s life-long interest in Goths and Langobards, as well as for 84

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his antipathy toward Constantinople, as revealed by his narrative use of the historical parallels under discussion. But first, I would like to add a few words on methodology. One of the dangers posed by the indiscriminate hunt for the sources of a creative work is to take superficial or general resemblances as evidence for inspiration, that is, to explain motifs and episodes as direct allusions to other texts when polygenesis might better explain general similarities.3 In the case of Tolkien, given his impatience with discussions of his sources, the peril of losing one’s way is even greater. One thing that needs to be considered is that Tolkien took great pains to veil historical or topical references in the published versions of his work, perhaps as a way of preventing the dreaded charge of allegory (or still worse, plagiarism). An example of this camouflaging of sources is Tolkien’s almost devious insistence on the non–Anglo-Saxon character of the Rohirrim (e.g. RK, 1110).4 However, digging through the wealth of alternate, early, or discarded drafts published after Tolkien’s death can help scholars to locate sources of inspiration more definitively, before the author revised them away from his text. Tolkien was before all else a philologist; his imagination was excited by phonaesthetic sound combinations and words of forgotten meaning (Shippey, Road, 1–22). For Tolkien, names held a considerable power as the fire-starters of fantasy (see e.g. Letters, 219, 264–5). Therefore, for the purposes of this chapter I shall limit myself to the consideration of those historical parallels that might be fairly attested by names. I shall further limit myself in this investigation to The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien’s published letters, and earlier versions, drafts, and supplementary material contained in The History of Middle-earth and Unfinished Tales. What I hope to do here is analogous to Tom Shippey’s discovery of the historical source underlying the coming of the Hobbits into the Shire, led by the brothers Marcho and Blanco: their names and actions recall those of the similarly-named siblings, Hengest and Horsa, leaders of the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes (Road, 102). This parallel signals what we can expect from Tolkien’s handling of his sources: names are crucial signposts; general resemblance to the source is retained, although not slavishly so; and there may be significant differences in the details, as dictated by the needs of the narrative. The appearance of names of historical Gothic, Greek, Langobardic, and Frankish origin, together with the general comparison of Gondor’s history with that of Byzantium (Letters, 157), and the parallels between Aragorn’s reunited kingdom and the establishment of a Holy Roman Empire,5 seem to direct the reader’s attention toward a concrete and definite historical period as a general background for the material narrated in The Lord of the Rings and its appendices.

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To wit: the troubled history of Constantinople from the 4th through 11th centuries (and perhaps beyond), including its many wars, victories, defeats, alliances, and treaties with its neighbors — be they Avars, Persians, Arabs, Bulgars, Russians, Goths, Langobards, or Franks.6 The names from Tolkien’s fiction which I propose to identify as signposts of this general historical period are as follows: Gothic: Vidumavi, wife of King Valacar; Vidugavia, father of Vidumavi and king of the Northmen in Rhovanion; Vinitharya, King Eldacar’s mother-name; Marhari, lord of Rhovanion and descendant of King Vidugavia; Marhwini, son of Marhari;7 Forthwini, son of Marhwini; Alaric, Roderic, Theodoric, and Athanaric (hobbits).8 Langobardic: Audoin and Alboin.9 Byzantine Greek: Belisarius, Basilissa, and Porphyrogenitus (hobbits).10 A word of justification is needed here. These are, of course, early versions of hobbit-names, ultimately rejected from the final genealogy of the Tooks, but I take them as important indications of Tolkien’s historical inspiration on the strength of the following statement: “Classical names represent names derived by hobbits from tales of ancient times and from kingdoms of Men ... in fact derived from traditions about the Kings at Norbury” (Peoples, 46). Frankish: “I have turned them (sc. the names of old families of Fallohide origin) into old names, largely of Frankish and Gothic origin, that are still used by us or are met in our histories” (RK, 1109). Of course, Tolkien’s fascination with the Gothic language and with Langobardic names has been documented and studied,11 but the existence of sustained historical parallels between their national histories and The Lord of the Rings have not been successfully proven, beyond a general framework.12 It is my contention that in order to establish the existence of such parallels, it is necessary to attend to the complex interplay between “barbarians” and Constantinople. I shall preface the presentation of historical parallels by offering a few comments on the general similarities between Gondor and Constantinople. In this I follow the lead of Tolkien himself, who found the comparison with Byzantium historically and culturally appropriate: “In the south Gondor rises to a peak of power, almost reflecting Númenor, and then fades slowly to decayed Middle Age, a kind of proud, venerable, but increasingly impotent Byzantium” (Letters, 157). Elsewhere, in his well-known letter to Milton Waldman, Tolkien refers to the “Byzantine City of Minas Tirith” (Hammond and Scull, 570).

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Parallels in the General Cultural and Political Atmosphere of Byzantium and Gondor After the death of Emperor Theodosius I (395), who had made Christianity the official state religion of Rome, the Roman Empire was divided into two halves, East and West, by his children, Honorius and Arcadius. The Western Emperor had his residence in Ravenna or Milan (Iord. Get. 29), the Eastern Emperor in Nicomedia in Bythinia until 330 (Foss, 1483). Compare this with the establishment of the Númenórean realms in exile, Arnor and Gondor, by Elendil, the Elf-friend and leader of the Faithful, with their capital cities in Annúminas and Osgiliath. After the death of Isildur, last High-king of all the lands of the Dúnedain, Arnor was committed to Valandil son of Isildur; shortly before Isildur’s death, Gondor was committed to the care of Meneldil, the son of Anárion, Isildur’s brother (RK, 1025). Constantine the Great (306–337) chose old Byzantium as the site of his new capital city because of its reputation as an impregnable bulwark, and moved his court and residence west from Diocletian’s capital of the Eastern Empire, Nicomedia, to Byzantium. Byzantium was therefore re-baptized in 330 as Constantinople (“Constantine’s City”) and called simply he polis (“The City”) (Asimov, 31–3). Much the same may be said of Minas Anor, which had become the chief city of Gondor and the residence of the kings in the days of King Tarondor after the ruin of Osgiliath. King Eärnur renamed Minas Anor, calling it Minas Tirith (“The Tower of Vigilance”) (RK, 1027). Minas Tirith was called usually “the City” and the “City of Kings” (RK, 951).13 The foundation of Constantinople brought about the decline of the earlier capital Nicomedia, which had been ruined by an earthquake in 358 and never fully recovered. Another of the imperial Byzantine cities, Nicaea, was a veritable fortress, a major bulwark on the highway that led to Constantinople. Rebels sought to control it as a fortification near Constantinople (Foss, 1483–4, 1463). Both cities might be a reflection of Osgiliath: that city, ancient capital of Gondor, had a history of being a point of contention between enemies (Castamir and Eldacar, Mordor and Gondor later on), and was linked to Minas Tirith by a road and a walled causeway (RK, 734). It was burned during the Kin-strife; having not fully recovered from the ruinous civil war, it was cruelly ravaged by the Great Plague. As a result, King Tarondor moved the King’s house permanently to Minas Anor, as Osgiliath was then partly deserted and had begun to fall into ruin (RK, 1023–4). After reinforcements commissioned by Theodosius II (401–450), Constantinople was protected by such a powerful and impregnable triple line of walls and defenses — the very first thing that a visitor beheld on approaching Constantinople (Harris, 5)— that enemies had to abandon many fruitless

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sieges, as Huns and Goths were among the first to discover.14 Pippin’s first sight of Minas Tirith is described in a similar way: “the Guarded City, with its seven walls of stone” (RK, 734); “the main wall of the City was of great height and marvellous thickness...; and its outward face was ... unconquerable by steel or fire, unbreakable except by some convulsion that would rend the very earth on which it stood” (RK, 804). The ineffable artistic splendor and wealth of the City and the awe with which it struck its visitors, “barbarians” and enemies alike, were wielded as a diplomatic tool by the Byzantine court.15 An example of this is the Gothic king Athanaric, who, awed by the splendor of Constantinople, took residence in the city as the Emperor’s guest until his death (Iord. Get. 28.144). Pippin is likewise struck with wonder and surprise at the strength and beauty of Minas Tirith (RK, 736). The Eastern emperor depended on the bewildering spectacle of the Emperor’s vast store of gold and jewels to overwhelm foreign dignitaries and demonstrate in physical terms the wealth, prestige, and power of the Empire. However, such dependence on the display of wealth and luxury may be perceived as weakness and moral relaxation. Both attitudes, wonder and censure, can be illustrated by the famous, if biased, description of Byzantine imperial pomp and denunciation of Eastern weakness and negligence by the Langobardic bishop Liutprand of Cremona, sent on an embassy to the court of Eastern Emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus in 949. In his work, Relatio de legatione Constantinopolitana ad Nicephorum Phocam,16 Liutprand, asserting his national pride as a Langobard and the dignity of his sovereign Otto I, passionately censured the Byzantine court for its contemptibility, timidity, avarice, and luxury. One cannot help but recall Gondor’s noontide: “Atanatar Alcarin lived in great splendour, so that men said precious stones are pebbles in Gondor for children to play with” (RK, 1021). A bronze equestrian statue of Justinian I standing on top of a colossal pillar had been erected near the Bronze Gate in the Augusteion, the grand ceremonial square, looking east with a hand raised to warn away enemies.17 The analogue in Tolkien is obvious at once: the Argonath, the Pillar of the Kings, two giant statues of Isildur and Anárion with their left hands upraised, palms outward in a gesture of warning and protection (FR, 383–4). The Argonath had been erected by Rómendacil after withdrawing his northern borders to the Emyn Muil (Peoples, 198). Eastern Emperors held foreign princes hostage in their court (for example, the young Theodoric the Great [Gregory, 2049–50]), and their panegyrists and propagandists trumpeted the obeisance made to them by neighboring rulers,18 such as the Langobardic principalities of Italy. Although they were independent states, governed by their own princes who did not pay taxes and were not administered by Byzantine officials, they nevertheless recognized

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Byzantine emperors as their suzerain (von Falkenhausen and Kazhdan, 1249– 50). Compare this to the description of Gondor’s policies: “In his [Hyarmendacil’s] day Gondor reached the summit of its power. The realm then extended north to Celebrant and the southern eaves of Mirkwood; west to the Greyflood; east to the inland sea of Rhûn; south to the River Harnen, and thence along the coast to the peninsula and haven of Umbar. The Men of the Vales of Anduin acknowledged its authority; and the kings of Harad did homage to Gondor, and their sons lived as hostages in the court of its King” (RK, 1021). Justinian I’s (483–565) extensive rebuilding program made Constantinople even more beautiful and splendid with the help of two foreign architects (Kaegi, Kazhdan, and Cutler, 1083). Compare this with Gimli’s rebuilding of Minas Tirith at the request of Aragorn: “In his time Minas Tirith was rebuilt and made stronger and fairer than before; for the king had the assistance of the stone-wrights of Erebor. Gimli ... brought part of the dwarf-folk ... and wrought great and wonderful works on Gondor” (Peoples, 244). The Senate in Constantinople, after the reformations made by Constantine the Great, was an advisory body without effective power to oppose the will of the Emperor. However, its role proved decisive and fundamental when it came to confirming a new Emperor, or when the throne was vacant and an imperial candidate had to be sought (Mazal, 50–1). Compare with the part played by Steward Pelendur and the Council of Gondor in rejecting King Arvedui’s claim to the empty throne of Gondor, and their acceptance of Eärnil’s similar suit (RK, 1025). After Justinian I expelled teachers of paganism from the Academy in Athens, closing the schools of Athens in 529, the vitality of Byzantine culture lost some of its force. Under the pressure of external catastrophes in the 7th century, mainly the march of Arabs into the Levant and the invasion of the Balkan peninsula by Slavs and Bulgars, Constantinople experienced a drastic decline that affected almost every cultural domain (Reinsch, 602). Living conditions in the empire had hardened, leaving little time for intellectual development. In light of this, consider Faramir’s complaint: “I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared.... We are become Middle Men, of the Twilight [who] now love war and valour as things good in themselves, both a sport and an end; and though we still hold that a warrior should have more skills and knowledge than only the craft of weapons and slaying, we esteem a warrior, nonetheless, above men of other crafts. Such is the need of our days” (TT, 656); and “in these days men are slow to believe that a captain can be wise and learned in the scrolls of lore and song ... and yet a man of hardihood and swift judgement in the field” (RK, 750).

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Justinian I died childless. As he had succeeded his uncle Justin I, his own nephew Justin II succeeded him (Kaegi, Kazhdan, and Cutler, 1083). The same thing happened with emperor Zeno, who left no offspring; in that case, the silentiary Anastasius Dicorus was raised to the throne. For more than a century Byzantine emperors left no direct heirs (Asimov, 95). Compare with the “signs of decay” that had appeared even in the noontime of Gondor’s power: “the high men of the South married late, and their children were few. The first childless king was Falastur, and the second Narmacil I, the son of Atanatar Alcarin” (RK, 1020). Eärnil I succeeded his uncle Tarannon Falastur; whereas, Eärnil II, the victorious Captain of the Southern Army, took the crown after the death of king Ondoher and his two sons (1025). Emperor Heraclius, pursuing his plan to Hellenize the Eastern Empire, chose to call himself Basileus (“king” in Greek) over the previous Latin agnomen, Augustus (629); the title Basileus was then used by Byzantine Emperors until the fall of Constantinople. Heraclius further Hellenized the Empire by largely discontinuing the use of Latin as its official language, replacing it with Greek. This should remind readers of the abandonment of the Eldarin tongues in Númenor when the Kings turned away from the Valar and the Eldar, and with the twentieth king of Númenor’s taking a royal name in Adûnaic form. He called himself Ar-Adûnakhôr (“Lord of the West”), a title associated with the highest of the Valar, Manwë (RK, 1012). Although Byzantium was convinced that their empire was supranational, and their own knowledge of the habits and cultural practices of their barbarian neighbors was extensive, their own cultural and ethnic arrogance led them to an acute consciousness of the gulf between themselves as their heirs as continuators of the Roman Empire, and the “barbarians” around them.19 Compare with Faramir’s awareness of the superiority of the Men of Númenor or High Men over the Men of the Twilight or Middle Peoples and the Men of Darkness or Wild Men (TT, 663), and with Gondor’s extensive information about other non–Númenórean peoples within their sphere of influence — e.g., the Rohirrim and the Northmen. The latter had been the subject of very close study: “In 1250 Rómendacil sent his son Valacar as an ambassador to dwell for a while with Vidugavia and make himself acquainted with the language, manners, and policies of the Northmen” (RK, 1022).

Byzantium and Gondor at War: West, East, and South THE WEST: GOTHS,20 VANDALS, LANGOBARDS, FRANKS According to their traditions, the Goths had migrated southeast from Scandinavia, becoming a direct concern to the Roman Empire when they

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moved down the Vistula and settled in Ukraine, Moldavia and Romania (Poppe, 862). Compare with the Northmen’s occupation of areas of Rhovanion, a large region of northern Middle-earth that extended to the east as far as the inland Sea of Rhûn, and their settlements in the Vales of Anduin (RK, 1021). Fleeing from the Huns, a confederacy of nomadic peoples from the steppes of Central Asia who had invaded the Black Sea ca. 370, two separate Gothic groups crossed the Danube (376). The Goths sought refuge in Roman territory and, after an overwhelming victory at Hadrianople (378), they settled in Thrace and Moesia. Emperor Valens, tied up on the Persian front, had been unable to control the influx of Goths crossing the Danube, and he sanctioned the Goths’ semi-autonomy in the Peace of 382. A Gothic leader was made general for the first time in 397. Valens ceded the Goths land to farm in exchange for their watching the line of the Danube and serving as bulwark against the attack of other peoples (Iord. Get. 25.131–3).21 Again, compare with the Northmen: “They [The Northmen] were in fact a bulwark of Gondor, keeping its northern and eastern frontiers from invasion” (UT, 288). Even though they had agreed to serve as foederati, the Ostrogoths played an ambivalent role in relation to the late Roman Empire due to a fragmentation of their allegiance caused by the many feuds of warring rival chieftains: as attackers and plunderers, and as foederati (Heather, 122–56). Nevertheless, Roman Emperors granted high military rank to some Gothic generals, such as Gainas, Tribigild, and Fravitas, who became fairly influential at the court in Constantinople (Poppe, 862; Heather, 302). Compare with the ambivalent status of Northmen in Gondor: “The kings showed them [the Northmen] favour ... and they gave them wide lands beyond Anduin south of Greenwood the Great, to be a defence against the men of the East.... In the days of Namarcil I [the Easterlings’] attacks began again ... but it was learned by the regent that the Northmen did not always remain true to Gondor, and some would join forces with the Easterlings, either out of greed for spoil, or in the furtherance of feuds among their princes...”; however, Rómendacil “took many of them into his service and gave to some high rank in his armies” (RK, 1021) A better reflection of the Eorlingas as descendants of the Northmen who had served Gondor in the past is perhaps the mass of Crimean Goths who, ever loyal to the Empire, made an alliance with Justinian I. They were the remnants of the powerful Ostrogothic state which once comprised much of Southern Russia. After its destruction by the Huns (370), they had retired to the safety of the Crimean mountains. They were commissioned to guard the northern approaches to Byzantine possessions in Crimea (Obolensky, 30). Compare with Faramir’s assessment of the situation: “The Stewards ... made a truce with the proud people of the North, who often had assailed us, men of fierce valour, but our kin from afar off, unlike the wild Easterlings or the

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cruel Haradrim. So it came to pass that in the days of Cirion ... they rode to our aid and at the great Field of Celebrant they destroyed our enemies that had seized our northern provinces. These are the Rohirrim ... masters of horses, and we ceded to them the fields of Calenardhon that are since called Rohan; for that province had long been sparsely peopled. And they became our allies, and have ever proved true to us, aiding us at need, and guarding our northern marches and the Gap of Rohan” (TT, 663). Emperor Gratian (359–383) further granted the Goths the possession of Roman land to farm in Moesia and the north of Thrace in exchange for their services as foederati in the Roman army (Iord. Get. 27.143). Emperor Theodosius ratified his predecessor Gratian’s treaty with the Goths (Iord. Get. 28.142). Compare with King Elessar’s renewal of the gift of Cirion to the Rohirrim: “In the lands of those realms of old he [Elessar] was king, save in Rohan only; for he renewed to Éomer the gift of Cirion, and Éomer took again the Oath of Eorl” (RK, 1045). The mass of Goths were under a general obligation to fight for the Empire, but were not a part of the regular army, and in practice their participation had to be negotiated for each separate campaign (Heather, 160–4). Weigh this against the status of the Rohirrim after Eorl’s pact with Cirion: “There the Rohirrim lived afterwards as free men under their own kings and laws, but in perpetual alliance with Gondor” (RK, 1039); “No bond shall be laid on them other than their own laws and will, save in this only: they shall live in perpetual friendship with Gondor and its enemies shall be their enemies” (UT, 303). However, the leading position of Gothic noblemen in the Byzantine army soon invited envy and hostility among aristocratic intellectuals and the population of Constantinople, who were aware of the danger of welcoming barbarians into the army and granting them high offices and political honors (Heather, 206; Poppe, 862). In fact, in the late 5th century the Ostrogothic kings Valamer, Thiudimir, and Theodoric the Great alternated between being loyal foederati of the empire and ravaging Illyricum (Brown, 1541). Compare with the mistrust of Northmen in Gondor: “The high men of Gondor had long looked askance at the Northmen among them, who had borne themselves more proudly since the coming of Vidumavi” (Peoples, 260). Germanic noblemen such as the Half-Vandal Flavius Stilicho and Gothic kings and dignitaries like Theodoric the Great and Aspar the Alan served in the Emperor’s armies as magistri militum. Particularly interesting in this regard is the career of Theodoric the Great. He went to Constantinople as a young boy, where he was held hostage to secure the Ostrogoths’ compliance with a treaty his father King Theiudimir had made with the Eastern Emperor Leo. He lived in and was educated at the court of Constantinople and learned about Roman government and military tactics, which served him well when he became king

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himself. Treated with favor by the Emperors Leo I and Zeno, he became magister militum in 483 and consul in 484. Afterwards, he returned to live among the Ostrogoths and took up the crown in 488 (Gregory, 2049–50; Heather, 247, 277–8, 297). Compare with the biography of King Thengel: he left Rohan to live long in Gondor, where he married a Númenórean noblewoman and won honor in the service of the Steward Turgon (RK, 1043). He was afterwards recalled to Rohan and proved to be a good and wise king (1044). In the battle of the river Frigidus (394), the Visigoth federate troops serv ing in the army of Emperor Theodosius I under the command of Alaric played a decisive role, despite their grievous losses, in Theodosius’ victory against the pagan usurper Eugenius (Iord. Get. 28.145). Among the generals of Theodosius was the magister militum praesentalis (“commander-in-chief ”) Stilicho, the true power behind the throne, the son of a Roman mother and a Vandal father who had risen through the army and had married the adoptive daughter of Theodosius I (Gregory and Cutler, 1957). The outcome of this battle put the whole empire back in the hands of a single emperor for the last time in Roman history. This is similar to the equally decisive part the Rohirrim had in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields and their losses in the field of battle; as well as the fundamental role played in that victory by both King Théoden22 (RK, 831), who was the son of a Rohirric king and a Gondorian mother (RK, 1044), and his marshal Éomer, afterwards named king of Rohan and wedded to a princess of high Númenórean blood from Dol Amroth. After the successful battle of the Pelennor Fields, Aragorn took the first step towards becoming the sole king of Gondor as well as Arnor (Peoples, 267). Compare also with King Folcwine’s heavy and personal losses when sending many men, their twin sons among them, to help Steward Túrin II against the Haradrim’s strong assault on Gondor (RK, 1043). The marriage between Galla Placidia, the royal daughter of Emperor Theodosius I, and Ataulf king of the Goths signaled an alliance between the Empire and the Visigoths. However, both alliance and marriage were shortlived: Ataulf was killed (415) by the followers of his rival Sarus for his excessively philo–Roman feelings (Iord. Get. 31.159–160). Compare with Valacar’s marriage to the Northern princess Vidumavi, the feelings of unrest and uneasiness among the Númenórean population on account of the excessive favor shown by Valacar to the Northmen in Minas Tirith, Castamir’s rebellion and usurpation of the throne to prevent the half-breed Eldacar from taking the crown of Gondor, and the assassination of Ornendil, son and heir of Eldacar (RK, 1022–3; Peoples, 259–61). Compare also with the upset on the part of some of the Rohirrim about the use of the speech of Gondor in the house of King Thengel, who had married a high-born lady from Gondor and brought Gondorian culture to the Riddermark (RK, 1044).

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Berimund and Vitericus, both Ostrogoths from the royal family of the Amals, sought refuge from the Huns of Scythia among the Visigoths. The Visigoths had no king at the time. Berimund had assumed that he would be offered the throne because he was an Amal and a descendant of kings, but the Visigoths chose Theodoric I for their king instead (Iord. Get. 33.174). In the face of this situation, Berimund kept his royal origin hidden in order to preserve the orderly line of succession to the throne and was welcomed by Theodoric I with great honors to his council and his house (Iord. Get. 33.175). Compare with the events surrounding Arvedui’s claim of the crown of Gondor: “On the death of Ondoher and his sons, Arvedui of the North-Kingdom claimed the crown of Gondor, as the direct descendant of Isildur, and as the husband of Fíriel, only surviving child of Ondoher. The claim was rejected.... The crown was claimed by Eärnil, the victorious captain, and it was granted to him with the approval of all the Dúnedain in Gondor, since he was of the royal house.... Arvedui did not press his claim; for he had neither the power nor the will to oppose the choice of the Dúnedain of Gondor” (RK, 1025). One also recalls Aragorn’s prudently keeping silent about his royal claims, and his pride of place in Steward Ecthelion’s counsel: “In much that he did he had the aid and advice of a great captain whom he loved above all ... but no one knew his true name nor in what land he was born” (RK, 1030); “His true name and lineage were kept secret at the bidding of Elrond; for the Wise then knew that the Enemy was seeking to discover the Heir of Isildur” (RK, 1032). Justinian I (482–565) tried to implement the recuperatio imperii, a program of foreign policy aimed at restoring the Roman Empire to its former power and dimensions. Its western provinces had been in the hands of Germanic tribes from the 5th century. The aim was to force the surrounding nations to serve and live under the Roman law, and at the same time to protect its territory against outside threats (Obolensky, 44; Goffert, 53; Kaegi, Kazhdan, and Cutler, 1084). The Langobards, however, had occupied Pannonia in early 6th century. Justinian chose to surrender parts of Pannonia and Noricum in the northwest to King Audoin’s Langobards (540–550) in hopes of blocking the eastward expansion of the Franks and countering the threat posed by the Gepids and Avars against the Empire (Proc. Goth. 3.33.10–2). As a consequence of this pact, Langobardic units served in the Empire’s wars under general Narses in 550 (Brown, 1249). Compare with Elessar’s own version of the recuperatio imperii, incarnated in his Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor; his ratification of Cirion’s grant of old Calenardhon to the Rohirrim; and the latter’s military aid in Elessar’s wars (RK, 1045). There was a terrible outbreak of the bubonic plague, known as Justinian’s Plague, that originated in Egypt and ravaged the Eastern Roman Empire (541–542). It nearly killed Justinian himself, along with reportedly half of the

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population of Constantinople, and marked the end of Justinian’s plans for the restoration of the Roman Empire. As such, it played a considerable role in the final collapse of Byzantium. Although Justinian’s brilliant generals Belisarius and Narses had successfully reintegrated the Vandal Kingdom in North Africa (534) and the Ostrogoth Kingdom in Italy (553), by the end of the 6th century most of these gains were lost again to the Langobards, Visigoths, and Moors. Compare with the similar effects of the Great Plague on Arnor and Gondor: “The people of the old lands of Arnor become further diminished by the coming of the plague out of the south and east, which also devastated Gondor. [The plague does not pass beyond the Baranduin]” (Peoples, 194); “Soon after a deadly plague came with dark winds out of the East. The King and all his children died, and great numbers of the people of Gondor.... Then for weariness and fewness of men the watch of the borders of Mordor ceased and the fortresses that guarded the passes were unmanned” (RK, 1023). One of the main actors in Justianian’s ambitious program to restore the Empire’s borders was the distinguished general Belisarius (500–565), one of the greatest military leaders of Late Antiquity. His ethnic extraction was disputed: he had been born in the town of Germane (modern Sapareva Banya in Bulgaria), on the borders of Thrace and Illyricum. A master of strategy and tactics, and blessed with a swift grasp of the potential in a situation, he was probably the greatest of the Byzantine generals (Kaegi and Cutler, 278). However, Belisarius had to work under conditions of little to no support from Justinian, who, after Belisarius’s great victories, began to mistrust and attempt to hinder his general’s triumphs. Belisarius commanded a successful expeditionary force that decisively defeated the Vandals and reconquered North Africa (533–4), although his troops were outnumbered (Iord. Get. 33.171–2). He occupied Sicily and entered Rome in 536. Despite internal dissension and inadequate resources, Belisarius skillfully directed the reconquest of much of Italy from the Ostrogoths (Iord. Get. 46.307–314; P.D. 1.25). In 559–60, Belisarius returned home to defend Constantinople itself against a force of Slavs and Bulgars. In this, his final campaign, Belisarius claimed the victory and drove the invaders back across the Danube, even though his own forces were outnumbered. But his military successes were received coldly, with mistrust and suspicion, by the Emperor Justinian I, who suspected him of conspiracy against him (Tinnefelf, 585–6), even though Belisarius had refused the crown he had been offered by the Goths (Proc. Goth. 6.29.17). The obvious parallel that will immediately strike the reader is Aragorn’s glorious service as a Captain of Gondor under the Steward Ecthelion, as well as his disputed ethnicity, his tactical acumen, his brilliant Blitzkrieg with small forces at Umbar, and Denethor’s mistrust and suspicion of his true intentions (RK, 1030–1).

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Eutharic, grandson of Berismund, married Amalasuentha, daughter of Theodoric the Great (515), thereby uniting in their marriage both branches of the line of the Amals, which had been long sundered (Iord. Get. 42.251).23 Compare with the political ramifications of the union of Aragorn and Arwen: “There were three unions of the Eldar and the Edain: Lúthien and Beren; Idril and Tuor; Arwen and Aragorn. By the last the long-sundered branches of the Half-elven were reunited and their line was restored” (RK, 1010). After the defeat and death of her husband King Vitiges, Mathasuentha, Eutharic’s and Amalasuentha’s daughter, was taken to Constantinople with her infant son Atalaric and the Gothic treasury; she was then married to the patrician Germanus Justinus (550), a kinsman of Emperor Justinian I (Iord. Get. 42. 251). Compare with Gilraen’s flight to take refuge in Elrond’s house with her two-year-old son Aragorn after the early and unexpected death of her husband Arathorn the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and Elrond’s keeping of the royal heirlooms of Arnor at Imladris (RK, 1032–3). Mathasuentha and Germanus had a child, Germanus Postumus, who united in his person the royal lines of the Amals and the Anicii and was regarded as the hope of both families (spem ... utriusque generis, Iord. Get. 42.314).24 Compare with the notion of the birth of Aragorn as representative of the hope of the Dúnedain: “If these two (sc. Gilraen and Arathorn) wed now, hope may be born for our people; but if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts.... He [Aragorn] was called Estel, that is, Hope” (RK, 1032). Teia (553), the final Ostrogothic king of Italy, made a last stand against an overwhelming enemy assault, his shield pierced through with many spears. He wrought a great slaughter among his enemies, but in the end he was run through by a lance (Proc. Goth. 8.3.37.1–2). Consider Boromir’s final deed in a similar situation: “Aragorn saw that he was pierced with many blackfeathered arrows ... many Orcs lay slain, piled all about him and at his feet” (TT, 403–4). Grimoald I (610–671), duke of Benevento and king of the Langobards (662–671), welcomed the Bulgar duke Altsek, who had arrived with his people in the Exarchate of Ravenna, and he invited them to populate the Duchy of Benevento. The Bulgars retained their ancestral language, although they used Latin to communicate with their Langobardic allies (Goffert, 410). This is similar to the terms of the alliance between Gondor and Rohan; the latter also retained their language but spoke the other when necessary (TT, 663). In the siege of Langobardic Benevento, Emperor Constans II Pogonatos had Sesuald beheaded, and then flung from a catapult into the heart of Benevento. The ghastly trophy was brought to Romuald, son of Grimoald, who pressed it to his lips, and deeply deplored the death of his father’s faithful friend (D.C. 5.8). Compare with the grisly atrocities ordered by the Witch-king: “The

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enemy was flinging into the City all the heads of those who had fallen fighting at Osgiliath, or on the Rammas, or in the fields” (RK, 804). The Frankish kingdom after the death of Clovis (511) was divided among his four sons, Theuderic, Chlodomer, Childebert, and Clotaire. This partitioning created the new political units of the Kingdoms of Rheims, Orléans, Paris, and Soissons (cf. P.D. 2.6), and inaugurated a period of disunity that would last until the end of the Merovingian dynasty Clovis founded in 751 (Geary, 116–8, 136–7). Arnor likewise was divided into three realms — Arthedain, Rhudaur, and Cardolan — with continuous and petty in-fighting among them (RK, 1015). The kingdom of the Franks came to be ruled by the majordomos who had assumed the true power after the ineffectuality of late Merovingian kings (Goffert, 412). Candidates for majordomo were initially chosen by the king, but the office later became hereditary within the family of the Pippinids (P.D. 6.16). Compare with the election and tradition of the Stewards of Gondor (Peoples, 202). Charlemagne (“Charles the Great”), the son of Pippin III, became sole king of the Franks in 774. After conquering Italy and defeating the Langobards (774), he came into direct conflict with Byzantine interests in Italy. His destruction of the Avar empire (796) extended his territory into central Europe (Obolensky, 67). He also campaigned against the peoples to his east, especially the Saxons, and after a protracted war subjected them to his rule. He was crowned imperator romanorum by Pope Leo III on 25 December 800, an act that reflected appropriation of Byzantine imperial language, symbols, and notions, and which put him into direct rivalry with the Emperor in Constantinople. He claimed that he was the renewer of the Roman Empire which he desired to restore to its former greatness (restauratio imperii), after its degradation at the hands of the Byzantines. Charlemagne’s reign also coincided with the peak of the Carolingian Renaissance, in which religion, culture, and art were all revitalized (Hollingsworth, 413). Compare with the crowning of Aragorn as king of both Arnor and Gondor after an interregnum that lasted nearly a millennium; his assumed title of Envinyatar, “the Renewer” (RK, 845), and the name given to him after his death, “the Great King” (Peoples, 414); his restoration of the Reunited Kingdom to the dimensions and glory of Isildur’s time; his wars and campaigns to subdue enemies in the East and South (Peoples, 243); and the cultural renaissance in Gondor brought about by the presence and works of the stone-wrights of Erebor and the folk of Legolas (Peoples, 202, 243–4; Letters, 160).25 By Tolkien’s own description, “[t]he progress of the tale ends in what is far more like the re-establishment of an effective Holy Roman Empire with its seat in Rome than anything that would be devised by a ‘Nordic’” (Letters, 376). In 968, the Byzantines were greatly shocked and angered when Otto I,

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who had proclaimed himself Western emperor and had attacked Byzantine possessions in Italy, put himself forward as Emperor (Augustus) of the Romans. For the Byzantines, the sole Augustus and Emperor of the Romans could only be the emperor Nicephorus II Phocas. Otto I was a mere barbarian. According to Bishop Liutprand of Cremona’s hostile description in Relatio de legatione Constantinopolitana, Otto I’s diplomatic mission to Constantinople to secure the hand of an imperial princess for his son Otto II was treated with violent disdain. The arrogance of Constantinople led to many wounded feelings in the West (Obolensky, 273; Harris, 22), and or its part, Constantinople felt threatened by papal support of the Carolingians’ and Ottonians’ claims to be Emperors of Rome (Harris, 42). Compare with Gondor’s contemptuous rejection of the claim of Arvedui, last king of the North-kingdom, for the vacant throne of Gondor on the grounds that he was the direct descendant of Isildur and the husband of Fíriel, only surviving child of the late king of Gondor Ondoher. But the Council of Gondor answered that the crown and royalty of Gondor belonged solely to the heir of Meneldil, son of Anárion, and that this heritage in Gondor was reckoned through the sons only (RK, 1025). Emperor Manuel I Comnenus (1118–1180) pursued an ambitious foreign policy of alliances and collaboration with the Pope and the Western kingdoms (Harris, 93–115). He married a western princess, Maria daughter of Raymond of Antioch, by whom he had an heir, Alexios II Comnenus, who succeeded as Emperor in 1161, at the tender age of ten years. The Greek population, however, violently resented Alexios II’s western connections and his Latin mother’s regency (Harris, 116–8). The Byzantine army revolted, and Alexios II’s cousin Andronicus I Comnenus deposed the child–Emperor and seized the throne in 1182. His arrival was soon followed by a massacre of the Latin inhabitants of Constantinople, who virtually controlled the economy of the city. However, Andronicus I’s short reign was unpopular because of its strong but brutal measures; during his reign, the Byzantine Empire devolved into chaos and terror. At last he was deposed by force and met a grisly end at the hands of the mobs of Constantinople (Mazal, 40–1; Harris, 111–37). In 1204, his grandsons Alexios and David founded the Empire of Trebizond (Obolensky, 237; Harris, 165–6), which had broken away from the Byzantine Empire; they initially claimed the traditional Byzantine title of “Emperor of the Romans” for themselves. Compare with the causes, development, and consequences of the Kin-strife (RK, 1022–3). Compare also Manuel I Comnenus’s welcoming of Westerners with Steward Ecthelion II’s provident attitude regarding foreign captains: “Ecthelion II ... was a man of wisdom. With what power was left to him he began to strengthen his realm against the assault of Mordor. He encouraged all men of worth from near or far to enter his service, and to those who proved trustworthy he gave rank and reward” (1030).

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THE EAST: HUNS, AVARS, PERSIANS, BULGARS,26 RUSSIANS A continuous influx of Eastern steppe people, Huns, Avars, and Khazars, invaded Europe and Asia Minor and threatened the borders of the Byzantine empire from the 4th century onwards (Obolensky, 13–7, 44–8, 50–4, 63–4). The reader will immediately think of the unceasing waves of Easterlings, Wainriders and Balchoth that assailed Gondor from the East for several centuries, chronicled throughout Appendix A in The Return of the King. The Stewards were as hard-put to hold the line of the Anduin against invasions from the Southrons and Easterlings (RK, 1028) as the Byzantine emperors were in defending the much-harried line of the Danube (Pritsak, 586; Obolensky, 42–52, 128–30, pass.). The Huns were a nomadic people from the steppes of Central Asia who rode in chariots (Iord. Get. 40.210); on their part, the Wainriders, which “sapped the waning strength of Gondor in wars that lasted for almost a hundred years,” were “a people, or confederacy of many peoples, that came from the East; but they were stronger and better armed that any that had appeared before. They journeyed in great wains, and their chieftains fought in chariots” (RK, 1024)27. Around 375 the Huns streamed into the steppes north of the Black Sea from beyond the Don and wreaked havoc on the Goths settled there (Kazhdan, 957–8). Compare with the similar fate suffered by the Northmen of Rhovanion: “The people of eastern and southern Rhovanion was enslaved; and the frontiers of Gondor were for that time withdrawn to the Anduin and the Emyn Muil” (RK, 1024). Some of the Goths were enslaved (Heather, 93, 245, 249), as were the Northmen (UT, 289). Jordanes’s physical description of the Huns should remind readers of Tolkien’s Orcs: [T]his savage race, which dwelt at first in the swamps, a stunted, foul and puny tribe, scarcely human, and having no language save one which bore but slight resemblance to human speech. Such was the descent of the Huns who came to the country of the Goths.... For by the terror of their features they inspired great fear in those whom perhaps they did not really surpass in war. They made their foes flee in horror because their swarthy aspect was fearful, and they had, if I may call it so, a sort of shapeless lump, not a head, with pin-holes rather than eyes.... They are short in stature, quick in bodily movement, alert horsemen, broad shouldered, ready in the use of bow and arrow, and have firm-set necks which are ever erect in pride. Though they live in the form of men, they have the cruelty of wild beasts [Iord. Get. 24.121–2, 127–8].

Excepting the reference to a Mongoloid genotype, Tolkien’s depiction is similar: “The Orcs are definitely stated to be corruptions of the ‘human’ form seen in Elves and Men. They are (or were) squat, broad, flat-nosed, sallow-

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skinned, with wide mouths and slant eyes: in fact, degraded and repulsive versions of the (to Europeans) least lovely Mongol-types” (Letters, 274). A coalition of Huns, Ostrogoths and other “barbarian” peoples led by Attila were repelled by the combined forces of the Romans, Theodoric I’s Visigoths and other Celtic and German nations after mustering all their strength and numbers in the famous battle of the Catalaunian Fields near Orleans in 451 (Iord. Get. 36.193, 38, et passim). Compare with the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, in which the alliance of Gondor, Théoden’s mustered Rohirrim, and the Dúnedain of the North broke the siege of Minas Tirith and won a decisive battle against the forces of Sauron, which were composed of Orcs, Southrons, Corsairs, and Easterlings. The battle of the Catalaunian Fields had been traditionally considered one of the most important battles of Late Antiquity, with the whole fate of western civilization purportedly hanging in the balance; correspondences with the Battle of the Pelennor Fields in this respect will easily occur to the reader. Beyond that general parallel, a few similarities of detail between the Battle of the Catalaunian Fields and the Battle of the Pelennor Fields might be observed. Attila’s wrath caused such terror in his subordinates that they would do anything to fulfill his orders (Iord. Get. 36.200); compare with the terror the Witch-king engendered even in his own troops (RK, 799, 801). King Theodoric I fell from his horse and was trampled to death in battle at an advanced age (Iord. Get. 40.209); compare with Théoden’s glorious and grievous end (RK, 822). The body of King Theodoric I was found under a heap of other corpses (though this specific image recalls Pippin before the Morannon rather better). He was greatly honored for his glorious death, and was mourned with songs and acclamations by his warriors on the battlefield. Immediately afterwards Thorismund was elected successor of his father; the new king, blind with grief and rage, set out to avenge the death of his father (Iord. Get. 51.214–5). Compare this with Éomer’s grief and dismay on finding the dying Théoden, his immediate proclamation as new King of the Mark on the very same spot, his song in praise of Théoden’s valor, the ceremonial funeral procession of Théoden’s body towards the City, and Éomer’s despairing, blind rage and battle lust after finding Éowyn lying apparently dead in the battlefield (RK, 825–7). After losing the battle, Attila, besieged in his camp, resolved to throw himself on a pyre should his enemies break through the camp defenses, that he may not be caught alive (Iord. Get. 40.213). Before the battle, Attila’s diviners had predicted disaster, but he took no notice of them or chose not to understand them (Iord. Get. 37.195–6). Readers will recall immediately Denethor’s choice to die upon a pyre in the mistaken belief that the West had failed and Minas Tirith was about to fall to enemy armies, and his incomplete,

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despairing apprehension of the situation, compounded by ill-understood visions about the future shown to him in the palantír (RK, 834–836, 838). After the severe defeat at the hands of the combined forces of Goths and Romans, Attila chose to wait in hiding for the right time to retaliate. When he learned that the Gotho-Roman alliance had dissolved, he left his hiding place and set out to devastate Italy with a vengeance (Iord. Get. 42.219). Compare with Sauron’s patiently biding his time after his catastrophic defeat by the Last Alliance, his cautious retrenchment in Dol Guldur and later in the East, his careful and long preparations for war, his self-disclosure and reentry in Mordor in the times of Steward Turgon (RK, 1030), and the launching of his ultimate assault when he considered that Gondor had weakened enough (RK, 1030, 1062–3; Letters, 157). Chosroes II, the Sassanian Persian king, launched an offensive against Constantinople; however, Emperor Heraclius succeeded in turning the tide. Heraclius took the field himself, the first emperor to campaign against a foreign enemy in person since Theodosius I. He and his army marched across Asia Minor and invaded Persia itself. While Heraclius and his army were in Lazica away from Constantinople, a Persian army attacked the city from the east while an army of Avars, Slavs, Gepids, and Bulgars attacked from the west and from the sea, armed with elaborate siege engines and battering rams (626).28 The Avar khagan’s strategic plan was to breach the land walls by an infantry assault, to deploy as supporting force the Slav monoxyla or canoes, which were attack the city from the North, and to use those Slav boats to transport the Persian army across the Bosphorus. The Avar cavalry successfully penetrated in the Blachernae quarter in Constantinople, which lay outside the main fortifications. However, the Byzantine navy was able to prevent the linkage between Slavs and Persians, intercepted the Slavonic monoxyla and destroyed them; the combined Slav and Avar land force was routed (Obolensky, 53–4). With the defeat of their allies, the Persians retreated to Syria. In 626 the Empire was saved by the land walls of Constantinople, its naval superiority, and the efficiency of its military intelligence (loc. cit.). While there are some similarities to the attacks of the Wainriders and Balchoth (RK, 1024, 1029, 1039; UT, 291), the clearest parallel to the siege of Constantinople in 626 is the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. A concerted army of Southrons, Easterlings, and Orcs (RK, 828) assaulted the walls of Minas Tirith, laying siege to the City with battering rams and siege craft and successfully penetrating the first circle of the city (810). They expected to be joined by a fleet of the Corsairs of Umbar sailing up the Anduin from the South, and thus to encircle the city from all directions (RK, 828–9). In 860, the Empire was occupied by the ongoing Byzantine-Arab Wars. Two hundred Varangian (i.e., Russian Viking) ships assaulted Constantinople

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while the imperial navy was away in the Mediterranean and the land army was on its way to Byzantium’s borders in Asia Minor. The suburbs of the city were pillaged amid many atrocities, but the Patriarch Photius successfully kept high the courage and morale of the city’s defenders. The Rus were then obliged to break the siege and withdraw after the emperor Michael III returned to Constantinople with his army (Obolensky, 182). Again compare with the assault on Minas Tirith by a coalition of Orcs, Southrons, Easterlings, and Variags of Khand29 (RK, 828); their successful penetration of the first circle of Minas Tirith in the absence of the legal ruler of Minas Tirith, Denethor (RK, 804–7); and Gandalf ’s indispensable role in organizing the defense of the City and boosting the morale of its soldiers (806–9). The coalition of Mordor’s allies was forced to lift the siege first by the coming of the full muster of the Rohirrim led by King Théoden, and then by Aragorn’s unexpected arrival on board of the fleet of the Corsairs of Umbar. It was after the battle of the Pelennor Fields that men first hailed Aragorn as king (Peoples, 267). A tradition supposedly going back to Constantine the Great forbade the offspring of the imperial family to marry “barbarians.” Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus (905–959) in his treatise De administrando imperio explicitly repeated those prohibitions, excepting only the Frankish rulers, and warning his son to resist a marriage alliance with the tribes of the North (Obolensky, 196; see also Gibbon, 128–33). Compare with the rejection of foreign marriages by men of Númenórean descent in Gondor: “It was a thing unheard of before that the heir of the crown, or any son of the King, should wed one of lesser and alien race” (RK, 1022; and see also RK, 944). However, two and a half century earlier Justinian II Rhinotmetus (669– 711) had found a foreign marriage crucial for his survival. Justinian II had been deposed, mutilated, and exiled to Crimea. While in exile, Justinian received help from the khagan of the Khazars, who welcomed him enthusiastically and gave him his sister as wife. Justinian renamed her Theodora, after the wife of his great namesake Justinian I. She bore him an heir, Tiberios, who was later executed by orders of the rebel usurper Philippikos Bardanes (711). Back in 705, Justinian then sought the aid of Tervel of Bulgaria. Tervel agreed to provide all the military assistance necessary for Justinian to regain his throne in exchange for financial considerations, the award of a Caesar’s crown, and the hand of Justinian’s daughter Anastasia in marriage. With an army of fifteen thousand Bulgar horsemen, Justinian appeared before the walls of Constantinople in 705. After an exile of ten years, Justinian, like Eldacar, regained the throne, then had his rivals, Leontius and Tiberius, put to death (Obolensky, 170–1). Compare with the events leading to and through the Kin-strife: Valacar’s marriage with the North princess Vidumavi, daughter of the King of Rhovanion Vidugavia, the renaming of the barbarian princess

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as Galadwen (Peoples, 260), the reigning king Rómendacil’s somewhat forced consent in order to avoid offending Vidugavia (loc. cit.), the dethronement of Eldacar, Valacar’s and Vidumavi’s son, by the usurper Castamir, the execution of Ornendil Eldacar’s son by orders of Castamir, and Eldacar’s refuge among the Northmen, who aided in returning him to the throne of Gondor after the slaying of Castamir in battle (RK, 1021–2). As was the case of Theodora of Khazaria, imperial brides might be coached in the Greek language and Byzantine customs before arriving in Constantinople, and changed their names when they assumed Byzantine identity (McCormick, 694). Compare with Vidumavi’s case: “His wife (sc. Vidumavi, Valacar’s Northern wife) bore herself wisely and endeared herself to all those who knew her. She learned well the speech and manners of Gondor, and was willing to be called by the name Galadwen, a rendering of her Northern name into the Sindarin tongue” (Peoples, 260). Emperor Basil II Bulgaroktonos (958–1025) approached Vladimir I of Kiev for military aid in 988, as promised by treaty. Vladimir made good with an army of 6,000 Varangian horsemen, for which the price was Basil’s sister, Anna, in regnal matrimony. Basil II himself commanded these forces himself and carried the day (Obolensky, 195, 233). Compare with Valacar’s marriage of Vidumavi, the usurpation by Castamir, and Eldacar’s retaliation against Castamir aided by an army out of the North (RK, 1021–2); compare also with King Thengel’s marriage to Morwen of Lossarnach (1044), a kinswoman of Prince Imrahil of high Númenórean descent (UT, 286); their son Théoden’s and grandchild Éomer’s ride in aid of Gondor; and the marriage of Éomer King of Rohan to Lothíriel. As the daughter of Prince Imrahil, Lothíriel would have been highest princess of the Southern Dúnedain after the daughters of the King himself; just like Anna, the emperor’s sister, would have been the highest-ranking princess after the wife and daughters of Basil II. Basil II organized the Varangians into a tagma, and for the next two centuries they were prominent in field armies in the empire’s wars and as an elite palatine corps, whose loyalty and fidelity to the Emperor were never in doubt (Obolensky, 233–5; Blöndal and Benedikz, 48–9; Franklin and Cutler, 2152). Compare with the unit of mounted “proud princes of Rhovanion” that accompanied Eärnur’s relieving force sent to help Arthedain (RK, 1026). Phocas galloped forward, seeking personal combat with the Emperor who was riding in front of the lines. Just as he prepared to face Basil, however, Phocas was stricken down by an arrow, fell from his horse, and was found to be dead. Compare with Théoden’s encounter with the king of the Southrons (RK, 821– 2). The ferocity of the Varangians has been remarked on and noted (Blöndal and Benedikz, 49), even though they were fighting on the “good” side: they pursued and scattered the usurper’s fleeing army and hacked them to pieces.

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Compare with the Rohirrim’s almost manic lust for battle (RK, 820), the accusations leveled against them by the Dunledings that they burnt their prisoners alive,30 and their ancestors’ enthusiastic chase of retreating enemies (RK, 1039; see also UT, 290). After his assumption of the purple, Basil II’s sole pleasures were warring and a soldier’s life. He gave up wine and women, chose not to marry and remained celibate his whole life (Brand and Cutler, 262). Compare with King Eärnur’s similar temperament (RK, 1027). Basil II adopted the title Bulgaroktonos (“Bulgar-slaying”); one may think of King Tarostar’s defeat of the Easterlings and his assumption of the title Rómendacil, “East-slayer” (Peoples, 228). After the conquest of Bulgaria in 1025, the Byzantine empire reached the peak of its power: it controlled Bulgaria, Croatia, Serbia, Georgia, and part of Armenia (Stephenson, 32–47; Brand and Cutler, 261). Compare with Gondor’s acme reached after the victories of Kiryahir Hyarmendacil (“Southvictor”), the seeds of its decline already sewn in the realm of his successor, Atanatar Alcarin (RK, 1021). King Kiryahir defeated the king of Harad and made them acknowledge the overlordship of Gondor: “Gondor occupied all the land south of Anduin up to the river (Poros>) Harnen and the borders of Near Harad; and also all he coast-lands as far as Umbar, and after his victories the king took the name Hyarmendacil I, ‘South-slayer’”(Peoples, 198).

THE SOUTH

AND

SOUTHEAST: THE ARABS

In 634 the Arab armies invaded Syria and defeated Theodore, emperor Heraclius’s brother. Heraclius himself attacked the Arabs near the river Yarmuk (636), but his army was routed. After the battle of the Yarmuk, the Umayyad Khalifate had sway over the five former imperial provinces of Syria, Mesopotamia, Palestine, Egypt, and North Africa. Arabic conquers of Egypt and Syria and their unceasing raids of Anatolia compelled the Greek-speaking population to flee, thus depopulating Asia Minor and making conditions ideal for the Turk occupation of the 11th century (Mazal, 74). Compare with the depopulation of Ithilien: “All but the hardiest of its people deserted Ithilien and removed west over Anduin, for the land was infested with Mordor-orcs” (RK, 1029). The Arab thrust against Anatolia and Constantinople consisted of annual campaigns against the former and three sieges against the latter — in 669, 674–680, 717–8 — by both land and sea (Obolensky, 71; Harris, 183–4). Compare with the situation with Harad. Historically, its northern borders were held to be the river Harnen, but by the time of the War of the Ring all the land south of the river Poros was under the influence of the Haradrim. King Tarannon had extended the sway of Gondor along the coasts west and south

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of the Mouths of Anduin (RK, 1020). Eärnil I had taken Umbar and made it into a harbor and fortress of the power of Gondor (loc. cit.). Ciryaher crossed the River Harnen with his armies and utterly defeated the Men of the Harad; during his day Gondor reached the summit of his power (1021). However, Umbar was eventually lost, and the region of South Gondor became “a debatable land” between the Corsairs and the Kings (1023). Going back to the Arab-Byzantine wars, Arab military endeavors against the City failed (Shahîd, Kazhdan, and Cutler, 150), in part because the winter of 717–8 had been exceptionally cold (Asimov, 137). Compare with the situation created in southeastern Middle-earth by the Long Winter (RK, 1029). The general Leo the Isaurian forced the abdication of reigning emperor Theodosius III in order to organize the defense of the City against the Arabs; compare with Gandalf ’s takeover of the rule of Gondor in the absence of Denethor (RK, 808). The stubborn resistance put up by Leo, the use of Greek fire, and the arrival of reinforcement by Bulgarian allies to relieve the city forced the Arabs to abandon their designs on Constantinople (718). The Arabs never threatened Constantinople again: Leo III the Isaurian had saved Europe and European civilization (Asimov, 138). Compare with Captain Eärnil’s decisive actions during the war against the Wainriders in the absence of the King (RK, 1024). The war in the Mediterranean sea was more successful for the Arabs, though, and their fleet soon became the dominant power in the sea, taking Cyprus, Chios, and Crete (Shahîd, Kazhdan, and Cutler, 150). Crete had fallen into Muslim hands in 824, who established an emirate on the island. The Emirate of Crete became a center of Muslim piratical activity in the Aegean, and a source of hardships for Byzantium (Mazal, 34–5). Compare with Near Harad’s later alliance with the Corsairs of Umbar, and their involvement in a series of continual battles with Gondor over South Gondor or Harondor. Successive campaigns to recover Crete and eliminate its pirates failed until Emperor Nicephorus II Phocas reconquered from the Arabs Crete, Antioch and Cyprus (961–965), for a time (Harris, 1). Compare with Telumehtar’s short-lived reconquest of Umbar (RK, 1024). Constantinople had similar trouble over another island of the Mediterranean, Sicily. The naval commander Euphemius had rebelled against Emperor Michael II and after some military successes, he proclaimed himself emperor of the former Byzantine province of Sicily, now independent from Constantinople (826). He was defeated by Byzantine troops and escaped to North Africa, where he offered suzerain rights over Sicily to the Emir of Tunisia in return for being himself created governor of the island. The following year Euphemius returned to Sicily with a large Arab fleet (827). In 831, the Arabs took Palermo, and after a century and a

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half of continuous and bitter struggles with the Byzantine forces, who were trying to keep control of the island, the whole of Sicily was in the possession of Islam by 965. Although the Byzantines were still attempting to recover the island by 1038–1042, it was the Normans who eventually completed the successful conquest of Sicily in 1060 (Kazhdan, 1892). Compare with the establishment of a new realm at Umbar by the descendants of Castamir (RK, 1022–3). As was the case with Sicily and the Normans, complete reconquest of Umbar had to wait until the reign of the King of the West, Elessar. It would be worth pausing to at this point summarize the previous findings. At a macroscopic level there appears to be a consistent pattern whereby Gondor compares with Constantinople, and its wars against Eastern and Southern nations are matched to the Constantinople’s long conflicts with Avars and Persians, Arabs, and the Rus. Arnor can be easily compared to Merovingian Gaul. The Northmen from Rhovanion and its latter-day descendants the Rohirrim parallel the Goths and Varangians.31 Aragorn’s reunited kingdom of Arnor and Gondor resembles Charlemagne’s reign and his successors’ rule in the Holy Roman Empire. Charlemagne claimed to be the sole true heir of the Roman Empire, just as did Aragorn with the two ancient realms of Númenor in exile. In this regard, Charlemagne was in opposition to similar claims on the part of Byzantium; we need only remember Gondor’s contemptuous rejection of the right to the crown of Isildur’s descendants, exemplified by Denethor’s bitter refusal to step down to what he considers an upstart (RK, 836). As can be easily seen from the above details and summary, the same historical sources may be employed in two or more episodes in The Lord of the Rings according to differing narrative purposes, exploiting some interpretative ambiguity already present in said historical sources. Some examples of the reuse of historical sources in The Lord of the Rings are Attila, Justinian I, and the Varangians. Let us begin with Attila. As the enemy of the West par excellence, the terrifying Hunnish sovereign is compared to the Witch-king, the lord of terror, and to Sauron. On the other hand, perhaps due to the ambivalent sympathy found in some Gothic quarters for Attila’s purpose and policies that is evident from his Gothic nickname, Attila, meaning “little father” (Letters, 264, 447; see also Shippey, Road, 16), Attila, in his pride, is a parallel for that most ambiguous and nuanced character, Denethor. Justinian I is likened to Denethor in his distrust of Belisarius, the best of his generals; yet in his efforts to restore the glory of the Roman Empire he is a model for Falastur’s and Elessar’s activities. The Varangians appear in two different guises in Byzantine history: as mercenaries and soldiers and as a solid, faithful, loyal pillar in Byzantine armies (Obolensky, 234–5), the Varangians are likened to the Northmen and the Rohirrim. However, as raiders and invaders the Varangians

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are compared also to the savage Variags from Khand, a people associated with the axe-wielding Easterlings. On the other hand, several different historical sources can underlie a single event or character in The Lord of the Rings: take, for instance, the various sieges of Constantinople, the siege of Benevento, and the battles of the Frigidus River and the Catalaunian Fields that went in to shape the narrative of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Hints of Belisarius, Justinian I, and Charlemagne (among others) construct the varying facets of a single character like Aragorn. Justinian II Rhinotmetus, Basil II Bulgaroktonos, and Manuel I Comnenus provide biographical and historical material for the actors in the Kin-strife. The purpose of this unobtrusive and delicate layering is, I submit, to infuse the narrative of The Lord of the Rings with historical weight and depth (Shippey, Road, 308–9) without slavishly copying single historical events and periods, and to provide the reader with the perception of something that truly happened in the long past, that is, with the illusion of real times and places (Letters, 188). Furthermore, different episodes in the narrative of The Lord of the Rings echo and mirror each other through the allusion to a shared intertext provided by the same historical sources, thereby inviting the reader to generate new meanings for the episodes by the mere juxtaposition and comparison of both narrative situations. An example of this technique may be the motif of the intermarriage of ethnically or culturally different partners, seen in the pairs Eldacar/Vidumavi, Thengel/Morwen, Faramir/Éowyn, Éomer/Lothíriel, and lastly Aragorn/Awen.32 Another example might be the siege of Constantinople in 676 by an alliance of Avars, Bulgars, Persians, and Slavs, which underpins not only the assaults on Gondor by the Wainriders and the Balchoth, but also the siege of and battle for Minas Tirith during the War of the Ring. Another consequence that is apparent from Tolkien’s sifting of historical sources is an attempt to filter away, or at least tone down, some of the most cruel or unethical aspects that are evident in the historical material. Tolkien’s tendency towards soft-heartedness, and towards the softening of hard solutions in his narrative (a tendency he continuously fought) have invited previous comment (Shippey, Road, 232, 319). I would like to add two examples of this practice: the fate of Emperor Justinian II Rhinotmetus, and the Varangians’ reputation for brutality. As will be remembered, Justinian II Rhinotmetus is one of the main models for Kings Valacar and Eldacar. However, none of the cruelest details in his biography (his mutilation, his tyrannical suppression of all opposition, and his execution) are alluded to, let alone used, by Tolkien. Turning to the Varangians, their viciousness in the service of the Emperors received particular mention in Byzantine histories (Blöndal and Benedikz, 49). However, their counterpart in Tolkien, the Rohirrim, while ferocious, are never shown to merit accusations of brutality or savagery.33

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A further conclusion might be drawn from Tolkien’s use of historical sources in The Lord of the Rings. Gondor is saved three times not by its own forces, as was the case historically with Constantinople, but by the generous military aid of Northern peoples: once by the Northmen of Rhovanion, twice by the Rohirrim (UT, 290). During the Fourth Age, Éomer takes coequal part in Elessar’s wars side by side with the forces of the Reunited Kingdom (RK, 1045). Might it be that we can detect an attempt at writing contrafactual history on Tolkien’s part? The crucial role played by the Northmen and the Rohirrim in the preservation of Gondor and the glory of the Reunited Kingdom may give an answer to a question that remains a bone of contention among scholars34: what would have become of the Roman Empire, had there been a successful political and cultural fusion between the Empire and the Goths, and had the latter not vanished, tragically, into oblivion?35

The Bones and the Soup: Narrative Purposes So far, we have examined some of the many bones that Tolkien selected for his Cauldron of Story. But what of the soup itself, what of the new meanings and creative purposes they were put to (MC, 119–20)? Why was Tolkien so interested in the history of Goths and Langobards? I suspect that the answer to this question may lie in the oldest strata of Tolkien’s legendarium, contained in the Book of Lost Tales.36 The stage is set with Christopher Tolkien’s lucid explanation of the tangled early mythology of the island of Luthany, involving the Elves of Kôr and Ing/Ingwë, king of the ancestors of the Anglo-Saxons. In essence, the “lost tale” redefines the entire history of the British Isles (LT2, 315). Later, Ælfwine (“elf-friend”), a descendant of Ing from the Anglo-Saxon period, learns about the Elves and their traditions (Lost Road, 85; Sauron, 270); one of those items of traditional knowledge was the legend of King Sheave (Lost Road, 86, 88). Ælfwine takes a ship to seek the land from which King Sheave came (Sauron, 278), and in the process he finds the Straight Road, casts anchor in Tol Eressëa, and listens to the Book of Stories (279). In point of fact, the verse version of King Sheave, (called King Sheave V37) is held to have been recited by Ælfwine himself (Lost Road, 96) or by his close friend and travel companion, Tréowine (Sauron, 273). Thus for Tolkien, the children of Ing — Angles, Saxons, Jutes, and Frisians (LT2, 312)— had inherited by tradition a direct knowledge and perception of the Elves, whereas the Romans did not even believe in their existence. The meaning of the names Ælfwine and Alboin, “Elf-friend,” attests to that fact. Goths and Langobards are culturally and genetically connected to an awareness of the existence of Elves and the Valar that lay beyond the perception of the

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supposedly more “civilized” and militarily powerful Romans. This contention is proven by Tolkien’s use of historically attested Langobardic onomastics38— and his insistence on their cultural and historical descent, and that of the Goths,39 from King Sheave40 (Sauron, 243; Letters, 257). As is well known, in Tolkien’s legendarium King Sheave is the culture hero that came straight from the True West to teach culture and craft to the Northern men (Lost Road, 99; there is a later prose form in Sauron, 273–6). The direct link between the True West and the Langobards and Ostrogoths (among others) through the mediation of King Sheave is stated clearly in Tolkien’s poem “King Sheave,”41 the matter of which Tolkien planned to include as part of the Anglo-Saxon chapter of the abandoned novel, The Lost Road (Letters, 257). It was later reworked in prose as part of the similarly abandoned narrative The Notion Club Papers (Shippey, Road, 295). In Tolkien’s verse treatment of the King Sheave legend (Lost Road ), 87–91), he explicitly invokes Langobards, Sea-danes and Goths, Franks and Frisians, among other Germanic tribes. Thus, in Christopher Tolkien’s words, through “the very significant figure of the Anglo-Saxon Ælfwine” that “would be both ‘extended’ into the future ... and ‘extended’ also into a many-layered past,” Tolkien was “envisaging a massive and explicit linking of his own legends with those of many other places and times: all concerned with the stories and dreams of peoples who dwelt by the coasts of the great Western Sea” (Lost Road, 109). But how is all of this relevant to the initial thesis of this chapter; that is, the use of the relations among Goths, Langobards, and Constantinople in The Lord of the Rings? It bears keeping in mind that Tolkien was reworking these themes again as late as 1945 for The Notion Club Papers, before finishing The Lord of the Rings (Lost Road, 109), in his final attempt to embody the riddle of Ælfwine and Eadwine in a “tale of time” (Sauron, 152). Therefore, the matter of Ælfwine and King Sheaf, and, by extension, the connection between Langobards, Goths, and the True West, was entirely present in Tolkien’s mind by December, 1944, when he had just finished Book IV of The Lord of the Rings and begun a few pages of the chapters “Minas Tirith” and “The Muster of Rohan” (Sauron, 145). We have seen that in Tolkien’s construction of the past onomastics and descent from King Sheave linked Goths and Langobards with the awareness of the existence of Elves and the Valar. But what was Tolkien’s attitude to the Goths’ and Langobards’ bitter enemy of long-standing, Constantinople? During the long Gothic Wars the Byzantine Empire had all but erased the presence of Goths in Italy, and their centuries-long struggle with the Langobard duchy of Benevento for the possession of South Italy was merciless, bitter, and prolonged (Brown, 1249; Obolensky, 50, 52). From the very beginning, Tolkien had drawn a clear distinction between

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the mythology he had desired to create for England and the mythologies of the South: “It should possess the tone and quality that I desired, somewhat cool and clear, be redolent of our ‘air’ (the clime and soil of the North West, meaning Britain and the higher parts of Europe: not Italy or the Aegean, still less the East)” (Letters, 144). In Tolkien’s legendarium the Romans were peculiarly hostile to the Elves of Luthany (LT2, 336n26). In “Ælfwine I” he had written: “when the ancient Men of the South from Micelgeard the Heartless Town set their mighty feet upon the soil of Lúthien” (loc. cit.). Micelgeard was an Old English word modeled on Old Norse Mikligarsr (loc. cit.), the name for the fabulous Constantinople of Nordic saga (Obolensky, 232). It must be remembered, as well, that in keeping with Tolkien’s own assimilation of late Gondor with Byzantium, “the South” is also a common denomination for the realm of Gondor (e.g., FR, 238); when we are first introduced to Boromir he is presented as “a man from the South” (234), just like the Byzantines. Tolkien’s dislike of Constantinople, “the heartless town,” was more fully set out in a poem written “some time during the war” (Carpenter, 123) in mockery of the Arthurian-Byzantine mythology in Charles Williams’ poem “The Vision of the Empire,” one of the pieces included in his collection Taliessin through Logres, published in 1938 (108). Tolkien found the Byzantine setting of some of the Taliessin poems irritating, and Williams’s ArthurianByzantine mythology utterly unpalatable: The Throne, the war-lords, and the logothetes, The endless steps, the domes, the crowded streets, The tolls, the taxes, the commercial fleets, Byzantium, New Rome! I love her less Than Rome the Old [120–4].

One may compare Tolkien’s almost savage poem with Liutprand of Cremona’s impassioned defense of the cultural worth of, among others, Langobards, Saxons, and Franks against their thorough and disdainful dismissal as feeble barbarians by the Byzantine court (see also Henderson, 448). Therefore, for Tolkien Constantinople stood for corrupt worldly politics, the unshakeable assurance that they were the sole possessors of truth and right, and the forceful crushing of alternative or differing visions, such as would be embodied by Constantinople’s enemies and opponents, like the Goths, Langobards, or Franks. The attitude towards Byzantium revealed in this poem must be compared with Tolkien’s strong condemnation of Denethor’s motives and policies: “Denethor was tainted with mere politics.... It had become for him a prime motive to preserve the polity of Gondor.... He had become a political leader: sc. Gondor against the rest” (Letters, 241). In short, as we have seen, Constantinople was for Tolkien a template for the corruption and degeneration of a prideful political state and its rulers,

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who had sought to impose their own policies on the rest by any means necessary. He made use of this template to describe Gondor’s final days under Denethor’s rule. This is clearly illustrated by Denethor’s willful opposition to Gandalf (UT, 407), who was, we must not forget, the Valars’ messenger, dispatched to carry out divinely sanctioned plans (RK, 1031, 1059; UT, 395). Another piece of evidence is Gondor’s late mistrust of Elves (TT, 664; see also Shippey, Roots and Branches, 231). Therefore, like Micelgeard, the heartless town in Tolkien’s construction of the mythic past of Great Britain, Denethor’s Gondor proves itself culpably ignorant of the plans of the Valar, and mistrustful of the Elves. In their self-centered cultural and political autarchy (FR, 242, 261), their prideful determination to consider themselves superior on account of their mighty ancestors, their ossification, and their dismissal of the counsel of those who, like Gandalf and the Elves, have a wider interest at heart than the unchanging preservation of Gondor’s constitution (RK, 741– 2, 795), late Gondor is functionally equivalent to Constantinople. But they are nonetheless equivalent as well in their dogged persistence in upholding and defending the legacy of a civilization long-lost against all odds, in the deep love of and respect for their history and traditions (e.g., the Standing Silence), in the courage of their captains and the superior technology of their armies, and in their role as the ultimate barrier and bulwark against “infidels” assaulting the West from the East and South (see FR, 239; Peoples, 203–4). The Langobards, the last keepers of the knowledge about the True West, are thus set in opposition to Constantinople, a cultural and political power that, unaware of that higher reality that is part of the Langobardic heritage, seeks to subject them to their uniforming rule and culture. In this light Tolkien’s consideration of Aragorn’s Reunited Kingdom as “the re-establishment of an effective Holy Roman Empire with its seat in Rome” (Letters, 376) becomes entirely meaningful: Charlemagne, proclaimed king of the Langobards in 774 and recipient of the Iron Crown of Lombardy, and by extension Charlemagne’s descendants and founders of the Holy Roman Empire, was the true heir of the Langobards (Goffert, 406, 411). In this view Tolkien might be following Paul the Deacon, who regarded the Carolingian conquest of the Langobardic kingdom of Pavia in 774 as willed by God, and Benevento’s submission to the Carolingian courts of Aachen and Pavia as an opportunity to complete the great task of conquering Italy from the Byzantines and making it secure from heterodoxy at their hands (Goffer, 430).

Conclusion At a macroscopic level, Tolkien made Gondor functionally similar to Constantinople. Gondor’s wars against Easterlings (including Wainriders and

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the Balchoth), Corsairs of Umbar, and Haradrim are assimilated to Byzantium’s conflicts against Avars, Persians, Arabs, and the Rus. The Northmen from Rhovanion and the Rohirrim are patterned after Goths and Varangians. Aragorn’s reunited kingdom alludes to Charlemagne’s reign and to the Holy Roman Empire. Tolkien re-used the same historical sources in several episodes in The Lord of the Rings according to differing narrative purposes, and thus revealed and exploited ambiguities already present in the historical source. Different episodes in the narrative of The Lord of the Rings were inspired by the same historical source(s) and thus mirror each other through the allusion to a shared historical intertext. The most ethically objectionable parts in the source material are generally toned down. Tolkien might have attempted to allude to a contrafactual history of Late Antiquity, in which Goths and Romans merged to jointly reshape and restore the old Empire. The conjunction of these factors aids to establish an illusion of depth, of historical verisimilitude, while avoiding the slavish copying of historical sources. Tolkien felt that onomastics and descent from the legendary King Sheaf proved that Goths and Langobards, together with Anglo-Saxons, preserved some inkling of the existence of the Elves and the True West still; whereas, the Roman Empire, and specifically Constantinople, remained in ignorance or in opposition to these. Constantinople was thus assimilated to the policies pursued by late Gondor, especially under Denethor’s rule.

NOTES 1. Jordanes (fl. 550) was a military secretary of Gothic descent serving in Constantinople who wrote The Origins and Deeds of the Goths (De origine actibusque Getarum, in Th. Mommsen, Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Auctores antiquissimi 5.1, Hannover 1882). Paul the Deacon, a Benedictine monk of Langobardic origin (720–799), composed a History of the Langobards (Historia Langobardorum, in L. Bethmann-G. Waitz, Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum saec. VI–IX, Hannover 1878). On their value as sources for Tolkien see Shippey, Road, 350, and Christopher Tolkien in Lost Road, 53–4. 2. See Straubhaar, 109. 3. One example shall suffice: regarding the conditions imposed by Elrond on Aragorn for Arwen’s hand one may be certainly reminded of similar conditions like those described in Proc. Goth. 8.3.27.1–2, where the king of the Franks rejects Totila’s suit for his daughter on the grounds that he needed to be king of Italy first, but the more probable explanation is that this was an event modeled on Tolkien’s own painful experiences with Father Francis’s rejection of his youthful courtship of Edith. 4. For an extended discussion, see Honegger in this collection. 5. “The progress of the tale ends in what is far more like the re-establishment of an effective Holy Roman Empire with its seat in Rome than anything that would be devised by a ‘Nordic’” (Letters, 376). 6. In this I follow Ford, 53–73. She makes a compelling case for parallelism between the earlier history of Gondor and that of Rome (62–3); for my part, I wish to prove that there are concrete similarities between the later history of Gondor and that of the Eastern Roman Empire. 7. “It is an interesting fact, not referred to I believe in any of my father’s writing, that the

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names of the early kings and princes of the Northmen and the Éothéod are Gothic in form” (Christopher Tolkien in UT, 311n6). 8. See Peoples, 99. Alaric I was the famous Visigothic leader who sacked Rome in 410. Roderic (d. 711) was one of the last Visigothic kings of Spain. Theodoric the Great (d. 526) was king of the Ostrogoths, ruler of Italy and a hero of Germanic legend. Athanaric (d. 381) was the Gothic king who negotiated a favorable peace for his people with Emperor Valens. 9. See the indexes for Lost Road and Sauron. Audoin was king of the Langobards (d. 565). His son, the nearly mythical figure Alboin (d. 572), brought the Langobards into Italy, where he established a Langobardic kingdom. 10. See Peoples, 103, 105. Belisarius (d. 565) was Emperor Justinian’s most successful general during the reconquest of lost territories that took place during his reign. Basilissa was, together with Augusta, the official title of Byzantine empresses (McCormick, 694). Porphyrogenitus (literally “born in the purple chamber”) was the title given to the child of a reigning Eastern Roman Emperor. 11. E.g. Letters, 357. See also Shippey, Road, 14–9, 127, 295–6; Straubhaar, 108–9. 12. See Straubhaar, 109. 13. Ford, 60–1, identifies Minas Tirith with “Byzantine-influenced” Ravenna, but I believe that the description, form, and function of Minas Tirith fits Constantinople, the “mother-city” herself, better. In any case, parallels from art and architecture are not very helpful here, in that Tolkien himself had ostensibly chosen Venice as the city that represented best this aspect of Minas Tirith (Letters, 223). 14. See Obolensky, 15–6, 45, 67, Harris, 4. 15. See Obolensky, 290; Harris, 4. 16. A convenient translation can be found in Henderson 1910, 440–77. Gibbon’s lively account of Liutprand’s missions is very much worth reading (1811, 99–100, 114–28). 17. Harris, 6; Stephenson, 58–9. 18. See Heather, 159–60; Obolensky, 32, 200. 19. See Obolensky, 151–2; Harris, 29–30. 20. Regardless of the north-eastern origin of the Goths, from the vantage point of the Eastern Empire most of its historical involvement with both Visigoths and Ostrogoths took place in the West. 21. See also Heather, 158, 170. 22. RK, 1044: “He ... led his men to victory at the Hornburg, and soon after to the Fields of Pelennor, the greatest battle of the Age.” 23. This account is of course greatly simplified. For the elucidation of the Gothic kings and the veracity and trustworthiness of Jordanes one must consult Christensen, 124–57. 24. See also Goffert, 27. 25. For more extensive parallels between Aragorn’s reunited kingdom and Charlemagne’s restauratio imperii see Ford, 68–71. 26. Actually the Bulgars, who originated in Central Asia, had settled in modern Bulgaria, west of Constantinople, but because of their origins and their alliances with other Eastern nations it seemed to me more appropriate to class them among attacks that came from the East. 27. For more parallels between Huns and Wainriders see Ford, 65. 28. Compare with: “More companies of the enemy were swiftly setting up ... great engines for the casting of missiles,” “slowly the great siege-towers built in Osgiliath rolled forward through the dark” (RK, 804, 806). 29. The Variags of Khand are associated with the axe-wielding Easterlings but are distinct from them (RK, 828). Varyag is the Russian name for the Varangians, Viking Northmen often conflated by the Byzantine with the Rus, who went eastwards and southwards through Russia, Belarus, and Ukraine mainly in the 9th and 10th centuries and raided Byzantine territory with alarming regularity. They launched no fewer than three expeditions against Constantinople (in 860, 907, and 941). On the other hand, the Varangians were also very sought-after and highly expert mercenaries, and served as auxiliaries in Constantinople’s campaigns against Crete (911, 949) and in the Arab war in Asia Minor. They were armed with heavy axes and two-edged

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swords that provoked a good deal of commentary in the City. See Obolensky, 232–3; Franklin and Cutler, 2152. 30. See Shippey’s commentary on this respect (Road, 127). 31. An identification made all the simpler by the fact that from the 11th century onwards the term “Varangian” covered Anglo-Saxon mercenaries serving in Byzantium as well. See Blöndal and Benedikz 1978, 6; Franklin and Cutler, 2152. 32. See also Straubhaar. 33. Shippey, Road, 202: “The Rohirrim ... do not hold slaves, commit incest, practice polygamy. Their society has in a word been bowdlerised.” 34. See for instance O’Donnell. 35. See Letters, 357: “A beautiful language [sc. Gothic], which reached the eminence of liturgical use, but failed owing to the tragic history of the Goths to become one of the liturgical languages of the West.” 36. See Shippey, Roots and Branches, 117–8; Honegger; Drout, 230–1, with bibliography. 37. According to Christopher Tolkien, the verse version is substantially earlier than the prose version that was printed in Sauron, 294–5. 38. See Sauron, 236–7 and Shippey, Road, 297. What was of primary interest to Tolkien was not so much the historical deeds of Audoin and Alboin but the meaning of their names: see also Shippey, Road, 296. 39. On the important role played by the Goths in Tolkien’s mythology and his imaginative construction of an early English pseudo-history see Drout, 238. 40. E.g. Sauron, 273. It must be born in mind that Tolkien apparently regarded the Beowulfian Scyld (King Sheave) as having replaced Ing in the mind of Beowulf poet: “Older and even more mysterious traditions may well still have been current concerning Danish origins: the legend of Ing who came and went back over the waves (see II.305). Our poet’s Scyld has (as it were) replaced Ing,” Lost Road, 105. 41. On the complex textual history and dating of this poem and its later prose form see Sauron, 294–5.

WORKS CONSULTED Asimov, Isaac. Constantinople: The Forgotten Empire. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1970. Blöndal, Sigfús, and Benedikt Benedikz. The Varangians of Byzantium. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978. Brand, Charles M., and Anthony Cutler. “Basil II.” In Kazhdan. 261–2. Brown, Thomas S. “Lombards.” In Kazhdan. 1249. _____. “Ostrogoths.” In Kazhdan. 1541. Cameron, Averil. “The Construction of Court Ritual: The Byzantine Book of Ceremonies.” Rituals of Royalty. Power and Ceremonial in Traditional Societies. Ed. David Cannadine and Simon Price. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992. 106–136. Carpenter, Humphrey. The Inklings: C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Charles Williams and Their Friends. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1978. Chance, Jane, ed. Tolkien and the Invention of Myth: A Reader. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2004. Christensen, Arne Søby. Cassiodorus, Jordanes and the History of the Goths: Studies in a Migration Myth. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 2002. Drout, Michael D.C. “A Mythology for Anglo-Saxon England.” In Chance. 229–47. Flieger, Verlyn. Splintered Light: Logos and Language in Tolkien’s World. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1983. Ford, Judy Ann. “The White City: The Lord of the Rings as an Early Medieval Myth of the Restoration of the Roman Empire.” Tolkien Studies 2 (2005): 53–73. Foss, Clive F.W. “Nicea.” In Kazhdan. 1463–4.

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_____. “Nikomedeia.” In Kazhdan. 1483–4. Franklin, Simon, and Anthony Cutler. “Varagian.” In Kazhdan. 2152. Geary, Patrick J. The Myth of Nations: the Medieval Origins of Europe. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003. Gibbon, Edward. History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Vol. X. Edinburgh, 1811. Goffart, Walter. The Narrators of Barbarian History (A.D. 550 –800): Jordanes, Gregory of Tours, Bede and Paul the Deacon. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988. Gregory, T.E., and Alexander Cutler. “Catalaunian Fields.” In Kazhdan. 389–90. _____. “Stilicho.” In Kazhdan. 1957. _____. “Theodoric the Great.” In Kazhdan. 2049–50. Hammond, Wayne G., and Christina Scull. The Lord of the Rings: A Reader’s Companion. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2005. Harris, Jonathan. Byzantium and the Crusades. London and New York: Hambledon and London, 2003. Heather, Peter. Goths and Romans, 332 –489. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991. Henderson, Ernest F. Select Historical Documents of the Middle Ages. London: G. Bell, 1910. Hollingsworth, P.A. “Charlemagne.” In Kazhdan. 413–4. Honegger, Thomas. “A Mythology for England? Looking a Gift Horse in the Mouth.” Myth and Magic: Art According to the Inklings. Ed. E. Segura and Thomas Honegger. ZurichBerne: Walking Tree, 2007. 109–130. Kaegi, Walter Emil. “Narses.” In Kazhdan. 1438. _____, and Alexander Cutler. “Herakleios.” In Kazhdan. 916–7. _____. “Justinian I.” In Kazhdan. 1083–4. Kaegi, Walter Emil, and Anthony Cutler. “Belisarios.” In Kazhdan. 278. Kazhdan, Alexander. “Huns.” In Kazhdan. 957–8. _____. “Sicily.” In Kashdan. 1891–2. Kazhdan, Alexander, ed. The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1991. Madsen, Catherine. “‘Light from an Invisible Lamp’: Natural Religion in The Lord of the Rings.” In Chance. 35–47. Mazal, Otto. Manuel d’études byzantines. Turnhout: Brepols, 1995. McCormick, Michael “Empress.” In Kazhdan. 694. Obolensky, Dimitri. The Byzantine Commonwealth: Eastern Europe, 500 –1453. London: Praeger, 1971. O’Donnell, James Joseph. The Ruin of the Roman Empire: A New History. New York: Ecco, 2008. Poppe, Andrzej. “Goths.” In Kazhdan. 862. Pritsak, Omeljan. “Danube.” In Kazhdan. 586. Reinsch Diether R. “Byzantium.” Brill’s New Pauly: Encyclopaedia of the Ancient World: Classical Tradition. Leiden and Boston: Brill Academic, 2006. 602. Rosen, William. Justinian’s Flea: The First Great Plague and the End of the Roman Empire. London: Viking, 2008. Shahîd, Irfan A., Alexander Kazhdan, and Anthony Cutler. “Arabs.” In Kazhdan. 149–51. Shippey, Tom. The Road to Middle-earth: How J.R.R. Tolkien Created a New Mytholog y. Rev. and exp. ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2003. _____. Roots and Branches: Selected Papers on Tolkien by Tom Shippey. Zurich-Berne: Walking Tree, 2007. Stephenson, Paul. The Legend of Basil the Bulgar-Slayer. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Straubhaar, Sandra Ballif. “Myth, Late Roman History, and Multiculturalism in Tolkien’s Middle-earth.” In Chance. 101–17. Tinnefeld, Franz. “Belisarius.” Brill’s New Pauly: Encyclopaedia of the Ancient World. Leiden and Boston: Brill’s Academic, 2003. 585–6. von Falkenhausen, Vera, and Alexander Kazhdan. “Longobardia.” In Kazhdan. 1249–50.

The Rohirrim: “Anglo-Saxons on Horseback”? An Inquiry into Tolkien’s Use of Sources Thomas Honegger Introduction The Rohirrim, along with the elves, are one of the peoples of Middleearth who have fascinated many a reader of Tolkien’s epic. They provide, structurally speaking, the heroic counterpart to the bucolic hobbits of the opening sections of the book, and the two peoples are complementary (and largely idealized) depictions of “typically English” elements.1 Rohan is to the Shire as the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Offa of Mercia is to the rural “Merry Old England” of the late Victorian period. The sources for the Riders of Rohan are quite obvious to anyone familiar with Anglo-Saxon literature and culture, and Tom Shippey’s characterization of the Rohirrim as “Anglo-Saxons on Horseback” astutely highlights the two major components that went into the making of Rohan: Anglo-Saxon culture (as presented in their poetry) and horses (an element usually not associated with the Germanic invaders of Britain). Christopher Tolkien, too, seems to favor such a derivation and everybody would be in agreement if Tolkien himself had not spoken explicitly against such an identification. My discussion of the ‘sources’ of the Rohirrim, then, is not so much an attempt at uncovering new or overlooked material, but rather an investigation into how scholars have been viewing and interpreting the evidence.2 The contradictory interpretations of the Rohirrim are, as I will show, not based on factual differences but rooted in the respective scholars’ underlying (implicit) assumptions. As a consequence, it is possible to reconcile these seemingly opposing points of view and shed some new light on Tolkien’s use of sourcematerial. 116

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The Rohirrim in The Lord of the Rings The reader encounters the Rohirrim for the first time in The Two Towers. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli have been pursuing Saruman’s Uruk-hai, who captured Pippin and Merry on Amon Hen four days before. The three hunters are journeying across the rolling grassland-plains of Rohan when they spot a troop of horsemen approaching. Gimli, putting into words the unspoken question of the reader, asks about them. Aragorn replies: “They are proud and wilful, but they are true-hearted, generous in thought and deed; bold but not cruel; wise but unlearned, writing no books but singing many songs, after the manner of the children of Men before the Dark Years....” ... Their horses were of great stature, strong and cleanlimbed; their grey coats glistened, their long tails flowed in the wind, their manes were braided on their proud necks. The Men that rode them matched them well: tall and long-limbed; their hair, flaxen-pale, flowed under their light helms, and streamed in long braids behind them; their faces were stern and keen. In their hands were tall spears of ash, painted shields were slung at their backs, long swords were at their belts, their burnished shirts of mail hung down upon their knees [TT, 430–31].

The first impression we receive is one of warlike spirit. Horses and riders alike radiate power, an aggressive energy, and a certain authentic wildness. The narrator strengthens the parallelism between riders and their mounts not only by explicitly commenting on their “suitability” for each other, but also by repeating (or taking up) verbal elements (proud, cleanlimbed/long-limbed, braided/braids). The reader may also recall Boromir’s comment at the Council of Elrond about the relationship between the Rohirrim and their horses: “‘They love their horses next to their kin. And not without reason, for the horses of the Riddermark come from the fields of the North, far from the Shadow, and their race, as that of their masters, is descended from the free days of old’” (FR, 262). Again, we are well advised to pay close attention to the exact wording. The Riders of Rohan, though they love their steeds, are the “masters” of their horses. This formulation implicitly sets them apart from other, potentially comparable Dark Age riders, such as the Huns, whose almost complete reliance on their mounts prompted some chroniclers to interpret the unchecked “bestial” ferocity of the rider in terms of animal behavior and thus fuse beast and man into one entity. The ultimate blueprint for such an interpretation is, of course, the centaur of antiquity. Whatever its original real-world inspiration, the centaur was frequently depicted as an overly indulgent carouser given to violence when intoxicated, and thus became an embodiment of aggressive, instinct-driven man.3 The Physiologus, one of the most influential works (in the European culture) for the interpretation of the world during the Middle Ages, also mentions the

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centaur, together with the siren. Here the centaur is an allegory for the dual nature of man, whose “bestial” traits (the horse-part, so to speak) will dominate him if he is left to his own devices and not subject to the “social control” of the community (see Seel, 23–24). Centaurs, largely due to their appearance in some of the Narnia and Harry Potter novels and movies, have a better reputation among modern audiences. The Rohirrim, however, must be seen against an early medieval background4 and, within this framework, Tolkien is careful to put some distance between them and the less savory models of the centaur and the Hun.5 His riders may still partake in original equine impetuousness, yet details such as “braided manes/hair” point towards a harnessing of these energies. This initial assessment is further substantiated by the events and actions that follow. Thus, the Rohirrim prove energetic, outspoken, proud (though not haughty), keen on the preservation of their individual as well as “national” independence, yet at the same time disciplined without succumbing into blind obedience or allencompassing uniformity.6 The riders of the éored are all equipped with similar amour and weapons, yet we do not get the impression of a “uniform” (which would be an anachronistic element in a Germanic Dark Age framework).7 It is the requirements of mounted warfare that motivate the choice of equipment, and not considerations of appearance. Also, the horsemanship displayed during the first encounter, though impressive and — as Tolkien knew from firsthand experience from his time as a cavalryman — not to be attained without hard work, does not give the impression of “army drill.” It seems to be rather the result of the harmonic relationship between rider and mount on the one hand and, on the other, among the riders themselves. As such it is a perfect illustration of the Old English maxim “Eorl sceal on éos bóge, éorod [MS ‘worod’] sceal getrume rídan” “Eorl shall on horse’s back, warband ride in a body” (see Shippey, Road, 20–21). Tolkien, in the further course of the description of the Rohirrim, presents us with an archaic warrior-society, based on “Germanic” forms of societal organization and, as we gather from passing comments, living mostly from agriculture and animal husbandry. Although it would not be unlike Tolkien to have jotted down an outline of Rohan economy, with special consideration of their horse breeding, readers are usually happy to remain as ignorant about the agriculture and food-production of the Mark as they are about the ropemanufacturing industry in Lothlórien. The narrative focus is clearly on other matters and Tolkien, in contrast to the detailed and exhaustive description of the Shire, gives us a very selective characterization of these (from a hobbitpoint of view) foreign cultures, highlighting only those elements that are prominent and typical. The Rohirrim’s passionate love for their horses comes all the more to the fore against this merely sketched early medieval (or, more

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specific, “Anglo-Saxon”) background — and cavalry, as a logical consequence, is their most dangerous and efficient military weapon. What, then, is the history of these riders? They seem to “belong” to the wide plains they inhabit, as Legolas observes when commenting on their language, calling it “like to this land itself; rich and rolling in part, and else hard and stern as the mountains” (TT, 508). The Silmarillion does not mention the Rohirrim, nor do they occur in any of the parts of Tolkien’s legendarium except those linked to The Lord of the Rings. Thus, we find some information in Unfinished Tales and the Appendices to The Lord of the Rings— and in the later parts of the epic itself where Tolkien provides some additional historical background information by means of Faramir’s comment on the relationship between Gondor and Rohan (TT, 678–79). The Rohirrim, according to this and Aragorn’s earlier characterizations, are a people out of the North whose level of cultural and technological development is somewhat lower than that of Gondor. Though distantly related to the Gondorians (and thus to the Númenóreans), they represent a “young” (or “younger”) culture that has come into (originally warlike) contact with an ancient and venerable civilization — in which they participate to some degree, yet without giving up their original cultural identity. Tolkien, in a footnote to Appendix F, writes that the Rohirrim are “a simpler and more primitive people living in contact with a higher and more venerable culture, and occupying lands that had once been part of its domain” (RK, 1136n1). Such a relationship is best compared to the one between the Germanic tribes, such as the Goths, and the Roman Empire in the early stages of the Germanic migration period. More “primitive people” invaded the Roman Empire and, either after having been defeated or as part of a treaty with the Empire, were resettled within the bounds of the empire, mostly in the border-provinces. They thus acted as protective buffers against other invading tribes and were enlisted as auxiliary troops into the Roman army. The question of historical or literary real-world models for the Riders of Rohan will occupy us in the next section.8

Real-World Parallels LANGUAGES Tolkien, when first mentioning the horse-masters of Rohan, had not yet attained a clear picture of who the Rohirrim were and on whose side they stood.9 The crucial decision that would influence the future development of the narrative and the character of the Rohirrim came with the choice of language. I have elsewhere discussed in detail the role of languages in establishing

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the relationship between the (humanoid) peoples of Middle-earth (Honegger). Suffice it to say that Tolkien, in imitation of his highly developed system of Elv ish tongues, took individual Mannish core-languages (Language of the Shire/Westron, Rohirric, Language of Dale) and set them in relation to each other. As a result, they form a “web of languages” that, in its complexity, rivals the structure of real-world language families. This linguistic play is of importance because The Lord of the Rings is presented as an edition and translation of The Red Book of the Westmarch, originally written in Westron, the Common Speech (RK, 1133). Thus, if Westron is translated into Modern English, it is necessary to find suitable real-world equivalents for all the other Mannish languages.10 Tolkien comments on this in Appendix F : Having gone so far in my attempt to modernize and make familiar the language and names of Hobbits, I found myself involved in a further process. The Mannish languages that were related to the Westron should, it seemed to me, be turned into forms related to English. The language of Rohan I have accordingly made to resemble ancient English, since it was related both (more distantly) to the Common Speech, and (very closely) to the former tongue of the northern Hobbits, and was in comparison with the Westron archaic. In the Red Book it is noted in several places that when Hobbits heard the speech of Rohan they recognized many words and felt the language to be akin to their own, so that it seemed absurd to leave the recorded names and words of the Rohirrim in a wholly alien style [RK, 1136].

It was as late as February 1942 that Tolkien finally hit upon a solution to this problem. While working on the chapter “The Riders of Rohan,” he drew up the following table of linguistic correspondences: Language of Shire = modern English Language of Dale = Norse (used by Dwarves of that region) Language of Rohan = Old English “Modern English” is lingua franca spoken by all people (except a few secluded folk like Lórien)— but little and ill by orcs [Peoples, 70].

What he wanted to achieve is the representation of the relative linguistic “distance” between the languages in question. The idea of equating the Common Speech with modern English and, as a logical conclusion, to represent Rohirric by Old English, also suggested the solution to his problem of how to accommodate the “rabble of Eddaic-named dwarves out of Völuspá” that he had inherited from The Hobbit (Shadow, 7). Christopher Tolkien comments: But now this inescapable Norse element had to be accounted for; and from that “rabble of Eddaic-named dwarves out of Völuspá” the conception emerged that the Dwarves had “outer names” derived from the tongues of Men with whom they

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had dealings, concealing their true names which they kept altogether secret. And this was very evidently an important component in the theory of the “transposition of languages”: for the Dwarves had Norse names because they lived among Men who were represented in The Lord of the Rings as speaking Norse [Peoples, 71].

An important, even crucial step had been taken with the establishment of these analogies since the identification of the Rohirrim as speakers of Old (Mercian) English11 would influence the further development. The fact that the choice of language would determine the as yet sketchy nature of the Riders of Rohan and help to establish their cultural identity is in line with everything we know about Tolkien’s ideas about language and culture12 and the Rohirrim’s “Anglo-Saxonness” is hardly surprising. In the light of these clear analogies, it is therefore rather puzzling that Tolkien himself seems to deny them. He argues, in a footnote on the “procedure of translation,” as follows: This linguistic procedure does not imply that the Rohirrim closely resembled the ancient English otherwise, in culture or art, in weapons or modes of warfare, except in a general way due to their circumstances: a simpler and more primitive people living in contact with a higher and more venerable culture, and occupying lands that had once been part of its domain [RK, 1136n1].

Elsewhere, Tolkien opines that “[n]o one would learn anything valid about the ‘Anglo-Saxons’ from any of my lore, not even that concerning the Rohirrim; I never intended that they should” (Lee and Solopova, 202). None other than Tom Shippey (Road, 122–31; Author, 90–102) and Christopher Tolkien beg to differ with these statements. Shippey (Road, 117) writes that “this claim is totally untrue,” and Christopher Tolkien (Peoples, 71), less directly, judges the limitation of similarities solely to matters of language “difficult to accept: one may feel that the impulse that produced the Riders of Rohan and the Golden Hall was more profound, and that my father’s statement should be viewed as an aspect of ‘the fiction of authenticity’” and comes to the conclusion that “the emergent ‘transpositional’ idea (Modern English — Old English — Old Norse) may well have played a part in my father’s vision of Rohan.” Both agree that the Rohirrim are basically AngloSaxons — though with some differences.13 In my opinion, both sides (i.e., J.R.R. Tolkien on the one side, Tom Shippey and Christopher Tolkien on the other) have a point and, in the following, I am going to explore the nature of this “impulse” in some depth. Yet before focusing on the problem itself, I must briefly digress in order to provide a necessary sketch of the historical framework. Millions of people are familiar with the Rohirrim, yet only a few have a more or less accurate knowledge of their arguable model(s), namely the Anglo-Saxons and, to some extent, the Goths.

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HISTORICAL EVENTS

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NAMES

The term “Anglo-Saxons” covers all those people of Germanic origin who came over to Britain in the 5th and 6th centuries A.D. and began to conquer and settle the former Roman province Britannia (A.D. 43 to 410). Modern historians have identified Angles, Saxons, Frisians and Jutes from northern Europe (what today is southern Denmark, northern Germany and the Netherlands) as the four major components that went into the making of “AngloSaxons.” Medieval chronicles (e.g. the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, begun ca. A.D. 890) and historical accounts (e.g., Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, written ca. A.D. 731) tell us that the first groups of these Germanic invaders had been hired as mercenaries by the Celtic inhabitants of Britain. These, after the withdrawal of the last Roman legions in 409, had found themselves without sufficient protection against the raiding Picts in the North, the marauding Irish from across the Irish Sea, and the plundering Saxon pirates who targeted especially the east coast, the so-called “Saxon shore.” One of the Celtic chieftains or kings, whose name is usually given as Vortigern (which in itself may be merely a title meaning “king”), took a group of Germanic warriors into his service. These men were led by the brothers Hengest (“stallion,” cp. German Hengst) and Horsa (“horse”) and were successful in either defeating or holding off Vortigern’s enemies. However, the Germanic mercenaries soon became a problem in themselves. Lured by the promise of fertile land and plunder, and by news about the military weakness of the British, more and more Germanic warriors (often together with their families) crossed the sea and joined Hengest and Horsa. The ensuing and escalating conflict between the original Romano-British inhabitants of Britain and the Germanic newcomers lasted for more than two centuries and ended with the establishment of Germanic rule and the subjugation of the Celtic population. Britannia, the Land of the British, has become England (Engla-lond), the Land of the Angles. So much for the “real-world” history of the Anglo-Saxons, which provides numerous important elements for the fictitious history of the Riders of Rohan — and the Hobbits! The immigration of the latter into the Shire, for example, is led by two brothers, named Marcho and Blanco (LotR, 4). Their names are most likely modeled on the “equine” names of the leaders of the Anglo-Saxon invasion and derive from Old English mearh (m., gen. sing. meares) = “horse” (cp. German Mähre) and Old English blanca = “(white) horse.” The “equine” quality of their names becomes even more obvious when we take into account that Tolkien at first called the two Hobbit brothers Marcho and Cavallo (Peoples, 6). While the latter term also means “horse,” it is the odd one out since it is derived from (medieval) Latin caballus (vs. Ger-

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manic *hursam), which then gave us the Romance varieties such as French cheval, Italian cavallo, and Spanish caballo. Tolkien obviously had second thoughts about a Hobbit carrying a Romance-language name and replaced it with a Germanic one — which is understandable in view of his wish to make the Hobbits one of at least two representatives of “Englishness” in The Lord of the Rings (the other being, of course, the Rohirrim). Similarities end here, and the “invasion” of the Shire by the ancestors of the Hobbits is not so much a conquest as a re-settlement of a deserted yet once fertile district — and thus quite different from the notso-peaceful parallel events in 5th century Britain. The Rohirrim, on the other side, are in this respect closer to the invading Germanic tribes. They, too, are a “younger, more primitive” people who comes to the aid of a more ancient culture (Romano-Celtic Britain and Gondor, respectively). The crucial difference lies in the further development, with the Anglo-Saxons turning against their former employers and taking the land by force, while the Rohirrim remain on friendly terms with Gondor and are given leave to settle in the depopulated province of Calenardhon, which is thereafter re-named Rohan. This brings the Rohirrim actually closer to another Germanic people — the Goths. They settled, at least for a while, first in the area of the Black Sea bordering the Roman empire and later in the border-province of Thracia (southeastern Europe) itself. (Visi-)Gothic warriors served as foederati, i.e., auxiliary troops, in the Roman army and the Visigothic cavalry and army under Theodoric made possible the Roman victory in the battle against the Huns on the Catalaunian Plains in A.D. 451. This last point brings to the fore yet another crucial difference that sets the Rohirrim apart from the Anglo-Saxons and aligns them with the Goths: their use of cavalry in battle. The pre-conquest ancestors of the English knew and appreciated horses, yet they did not fight on horseback (see Harrison, 12). The Anglo-Saxon noblemen under the command of Byrhtnoth, for example, rode to the battle of Maldon (A.D. 991), yet alighted before engaging the enemy and fought on foot. Seven decades later, the army of Harold Godwinson, who tried to repel the invading Normans under William at Hastings, seemed to have consisted of infantry only. William’s cavalry may have given him the crucial advantage over the Anglo-Saxon footsoldiers and thus been decisive for the outcome of the battle. So, AngloSaxons and cavalry are strange bed-fellows and the pervasive ‘equine element’ among the Rohirrim brings them in line with the East Germanic tribe of the Goths, the “‘horse-folk’ par excellence” (Shippey, Roots and Branches, 118) rather than with the West Germanic Anglo-Saxons.14 We find further evidence for a “Gothic connection” in the list of ancestral names of the Éothéod, as the Rohirrim were called when they were still living up north in the valley of the Upper Anduin. Two of their princes have names

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of Gothic origin: Vidugavia and Marhari (UT, 402–3, note 6 to “Cirion and Eorl”). Vidugavia is the Latinized form of Gothic Widugauja = “forestdweller,”15 and Marhari contains the Gothic element *marh = “horse.”

POETRY

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NORTHERN HEORIC SPIRIT

Yet in spite of all the parallels mentioned, the Riders of Rohan speak Mercian Old English and not Gothic — and we may ask: Why is this so? It certainly is not a matter of “know how.” Tolkien loved and studied the Gothic language in depth,16 lectured on Gothic and the Goths during his years in Oxford,17 and wrote poetry in (neo–)Gothic.18 In his lecture notes, Tolkien argues that the study — and, to some extent, the reconstruction — of the Gothic language, “is as well served by Ulfilas [i.e., the surviving translation of parts of the New Testament into Gothic by Bishop Ulfilas (A.D. 311–382) in the 4th century] as it would be by the lost colloquial language, or specimens of the ancient Gothic poetry.”19 He admits, however, that conclusions about the syntax of the Gothic language must be treated with caution since the wordorder is likely to be influenced by the structure of the (Greek) original text of the Septuagint. More importantly, Tolkien is painfully aware of the impossibility of bringing back the lost “lays” and poems, i.e., the “literature” of the Goths. In this case, Ulfilas’s Bible translation and the other few (mostly religious) texts that have survived are of no avail.20 This is all the more tragic since the Romantics (and, in their wake, also the Victorians and the founding-fathers of philology) believed that the original, genuine vernacular poetic tradition of a people provided the ideal way to recover its lost “essence.” The image of the Goths, however much we get to know about them from later historians and chroniclers, thus lacks a vital element which cannot be substituted by anything else. The corpus of surviving Anglo-Saxon texts, by contrast, offers a rich and varied cross-section of Old English literature.21 Although the ancient (especially pre–Christian) myths, legends and tales were lost, most likely because they were not as often written down as their Christian counterparts, we still have older and more numerous secular texts in Old English than in any other European vernacular. This is mostly due to the fact that Alfred the Great and his successors propagated the use of West Saxon Old English as the (official) language of administration, education, literature, and the Church in the civic reconstruction of the devastated territories after the deflection of the Viking threat. There are, of course, many translations — mostly from Latin — and numerous texts of little literary value such as deeds, official documents, laws, sermons, handbooks etc. Yet we also find a relatively large number of literary-poetic texts ranging from adaptations of biblical matter (e.g., Genesis,

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Exodus, Judith, Christ, Judgment Day, etc.), clerically inspired meditations (e.g., The Seafarer) to poems, such as Beowulf, that preserve originally pre– Christian continental Anglo-Saxon (or even pan–Germanic) plots. Suffice it to say that the Old English literary corpus, in spite of all the losses and gaps, offers one of the few (relatively) early “windows” into the hearts and minds of a Germanic people. The transmission of knowledge before the advent of Christianity was mostly in oral form and the pagan Anglo-Saxons may indeed be characterized as “wise but unlearned, writing no books but singing many songs, after the manner of the children of Men before the Dark Years” (TT, 430). Aragorn’s words are, as Sandra Ballif Straubhaar has noted, deliberately modeled upon Tacitus’s famous passage in his Germania: “Celebrant carminibus antiquis, quod unum apud illos memoriae et annalium genus est, Tuistonem deum terra editum.”22 The production of literary texts — and especially the writing of books — was a consequence of the Christian missionary work undertaken independently by Irish monks in the north and Augustine and his followers in the south. By about A.D. 700 more or less all of Anglo-Saxon England had been converted to the new faith and almost all surviving texts have passed through the hands of Christian scribes who were, of course, not interested in recording pagan matter. We know therefore very little about the original religious beliefs and practices of the Anglo-Saxons.23 Nevertheless, even those secular poems that show the interfering hand of the Christian adaptor or scribe or which have been composed entirely by a Christian poet, may still contain sufficient material to give the modern reader a vague idea of the “original” Anglo-Saxons and their mindset. We can see them through a glass darkly — doubly so since the scribe/poet would present them from a Christian point of view and often with more than a modicum of nostalgia. The protagonists of Old English poems must therefore not be taken as realistic portrayals of historic people, but rather as literary characters. This need not have bothered Tolkien at all — on the contrary. His depiction of the Rohirrim is to be seen in the same tradition24 and such a “literary” attitude towards historical and poetical sources allows him to transfer social and, to some extent, ritualized interaction from Old English poetry onto the Rohirrim. The most prominent examples of such parallel sequences of events are the reception of Beowulf and his followers at Heorot, and that of Aragorn, Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli at Meduseld, respectively (see Road, 124). Both texts feature an interview with and scrutiny by the hall-warden, the deposition of weapons outside the hall before entering, and provocation by the royal counselor. The effect of such “calquing” is a surplus of authenticity for the fictional text. It does not matter, in this context, that the Beowulf-passage takes place at the Danish royal court or that Beowulf is a Geat from southern Sweden.

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Nor is it detrimental to the overall argument that Beowulf does not feature a single Anglo-Saxon25 nor that England is never mentioned.26 The poet depicts and celebrates common Germanic ideals in an idealized Germanic past. This is exactly what Tolkien wishes to bring back to (literary) life in his Rohirrim — and not “real-world” Anglo-Saxons, Goths, or Vikings. Whether or not Tolkien’s idealized Germanic warriors fight on horseback is, within such a framework, of little importance. What matters is the existence of a shared common Germanic ethos — which finds expression in some of the Old English poems as well as in the actions and behavior of the Rohirrim. They become the embodiment of the “northern heroic spirit,” which Tolkien had identified as the motivating force behind the brave last stand of some retainers at the battle of Maldon. The words uttered by Beorhtwold in the Old English poem The Battle of Maldon are usually seen as the finest (verbal) expression of this spirit. Beorhtwold is a veteran warrior and belongs to the household of the Ealdorman Byrhtnoth, who has led his troops into a pitched battle against the invading Vikings — with disastrous results. Byrhtnoth has fallen and the greater part of the Anglo-Saxon army has either fled or been killed. Only Beorhtwold and a few loyal retainers, after having rejected the Vikings’ appeal to lay down their weapons and save their lives, gather around the body of their leader for a last and desperate stand. Beorhtwold now utters the following lines: Hige sceal þ e heardra, heorte þ e cenre, mod sceal þ e mare þ e ure mPgen lytlas. “Will shall be the sterner, heart the bolder, spirit the greater as our strength lessens” [TL, 124].

Tolkien, in his poem-cum-essay “The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth, Beorhthelm’s Son” identifies Beorhtwold’s words as an almost pure manifestation of the northern heroic spirit. Beorhtwold and his companions could have “purchased” their lives by either deserting or by yielding to the overwhelming enemy force — either of which would render them faithless cowards. They thus choose to try and avenge their leader and, if necessary (and likely), to follow him into death.27 Yet this “northern heroic spirit” is hardly ever encountered in its pure form — neither in historical nor in “literary” reality. Tolkien was well aware of this, as his comment on The Battle of Maldon shows: For this “northern heroic spirit” is never quite pure; it is of gold and an alloy. Unalloyed it would direct a man to endure even death unflinching, when necessary: that is when death may help the achievement of some object of will, or when life can only be purchased by denial of what one stands for. But since such conduct is held admirable, the alloy of personal good name was never wholly absent [TL, 144].

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The creation of a “fictional” people such as the Rohirrim, then, provides Tolkien with the unique opportunity to illustrate this ‘northern heroic spirit’ in its unalloyed form. As an author of fiction, he is no longer obliged to remain within the narrow framework of historical facts. However, Tolkien uses this creative freedom responsibly and his deviations from historical fact serve a purpose. The Rohirrim are, on the one hand, an informed speculative answer to the question of what would have happened if the Angles, Saxons and Jutes had not crossed over to Britain, but struck east and settled the wide plains of Eastern Europe. On the other, they represent an even more idealized version of those Germanic peoples Tolkien had first encountered in Old English poetry. The Riders of Rohan may know the concept of posthumous fame, yet this is not their primary motivation for heroic deeds — at least not as presented in The Lord of the Rings. Théoden, for example, addresses Aragorn before their desperate sortie from the Hornburg with the following words: “The end will not be long,” said the king. “But I will not end here, taken like an old badger in a trap.... When dawn comes, I will bid men sound Helm’s horn, and I will ride forth. Will you ride with me then, 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” [TT, 539].

Tolkien might as well have given him Beorhtwold’s lines. It becomes clear that Théoden does not undertake this hopeless last attack for the sake of posthumous fame,28 but from a deep-seated conviction that to fall in open battle is the only fitting end for a king of the Rohirrim — and he is not the only example. Éomer, who succeeds Théoden after his death on the Pelennor Fields, proves likewise heroic of heart and mind. Surrounded and cut off from re-enforcements after having been carried too far in the impetus of the attack, he rallies his men to a last stand: Stern now was Éomer’s mood, and his mind clear again. He let blow the horns to rally all men to his banner.... Out of doubt, out of dark to the day’s rising I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing. To hope’s end I rode and to heart’s breaking: Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall! These staves he spoke, yet he laughed as he said them [RK, 847].

Interestingly, the more desperate the situation gets, the more AngloSaxon the Rohirrim become. In dire need they no longer rely on their horsemanship or on orchestrated cavalry-attacks, but alight from their horses and put up a shield-wall, the classic Anglo-Saxon formation for battle — which, at the same time, is the obvious choice for a defensive stance.29 And the narrator once more stresses the fact that they are determined to do deeds of song

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though no man should be left in the West to sing them. Tolkien, on the one hand, consciously alludes to the Germanic-Anglo-Saxon tradition of keeping the fame of the deceased alive by songs of praise. On the other, he contrasts this sort of heroic motivation with Éomer’s determination of doing the deeds even if there is no one left who will remember them. This radical and absolute will to end one’s life in a heroic manner regardless of any future reward — be it transcendental or secular — is without historical parallel. Firstly, the AngloSaxon culture has never been threatened with full-scale extermination.30 Secondly, they could hope, since the conversion to Christianity in the 7th century, for a transcendental reward and life everlasting. Éomer, by contrast, sees his people threatened with extinction and has no transcendental backdoor in view.31 The reader is thus being shown a leader who is faced with certain death and the wiping out of his people.32 Hope has ended and the heart is breaking — now the time has come to die honorably.

Conclusion I began my essay with the question whether the Rohirrim are AngloSaxons on horseback — in the same sense that orcs are Huns without horses. As has become obvious, the answer cannot be an unequivocal “yes” or “no”— because Tolkien did more than simply put historical (or even only “literary”) Anglo-Saxons onto the backs of horses and transfer them to Middle-earth. Seen from this point of view, it would indeed be wrong to identify the Rohirrim as Anglo-Saxons. The northern heroic spirit constitutes the core of Rohirrim identity. The fact that they embody this spirit to an unprecedentedly pure and unalloyed degree makes them share an important element found in most Germanic cultures, yet it also sets them apart. The Riders of Rohan are therefore best interpreted as representing a Germanic archetype, an essence, which has found different and differing forms of manifestation in the various historical Germanic peoples. Tolkien, for the concrete literary and cultural representation of this archetype, fell back onto existing literary and historical sources and chose primarily those he was thoroughly familiar with and which he loved: the literature of the Anglo-Saxons.33 This makes good sense since the Old English literary tradition is not only one of the oldest but also one of the richest among Germanic vernacular literatures and thus offers the best chance to study the ethos and the social interactional rituals of early Germanic cultures in some detail. In conclusion we can say that the Rohirrim are primarily the embodiment of the common Germanic ideal of the northern heroic spirit and as such not to be identified with any historically known (Germanic) peoples. Yet Tolkien

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used elements from primarily Anglo-Saxon and, to a lesser degree, other Germanic cultures and literatures for the concrete realization of this ideal; and it is this skilful borrowing from existing Germanic cultures which renders the Rohirrim authentic and true in spite of their basically idealized nature. All these elements help explain why Tom Shippey and Christopher Tolkien on the one side, and J.R.R. Tolkien on the other, reached such seemingly incompatible assessments of Rohan and its culture. For Tolkien, the Rohirrim are primarily an idea that had to be cast into a concrete literary form — enter the Anglo-Saxons on horseback. He proceeded deductively. Tom Shippey and Christopher Tolkien, by contrast, argue in favor of an inductive approach and consider the Anglo-Saxons as the starting point from which Tolkien senior developed his Rohirrim by modifying the original model. It is therefore not so much a question of quality (both parties seem to assess the Riders of Rohan similarly), but of point of view. Regardless of whether one sees the Rohirrim as inspired by the Anglo-Saxons or by the concept of northern heroic spirit: they remain either way the people most dear to Tolkien and all medievalists.

NOTES 1. See Shippey, Author, 9–11. See also Straubhaar: “In many ways it works best for Hobbits to be Edwardians, for Rohirrim to be Anglo-Saxons or Normans....” (110). 2. See also Michael D.C. Drout’s excellent essay “A Mythology for Anglo-Saxon England” where, among other things, he investigates the “problem of the Rohirrim” in the context of Tolkien’s work as author and scholar, as well as Stuart D. Lee and Elizabeth Solopova’s comparison of the Rohirrim and Anglo-Saxons, 194–202. 3. The gentle and wise centaur Cheiron/Chiron, tutor of, among others, Achilles, Asclepius, Heracles, Jason, Aeneas, and Peleus, is the notable exception to the rule. 4. A modern (especially U.S.) audience may also see associations to the “noble savage” and the tribes of the Great Plains (see Shippey, Author, 100–1); however, such parallels are, to my mind, secondary and of no importance for our further analysis. 5. The medieval perception of the Hun, of course, provided the inspiration for the orcs; but this time Tolkien took away the horses. See Shippey, Roots and Branches, 120–1, on the description of the Huns. 6. See Shippey’s analysis of these aspects (Author, 96). 7. As opposed to Gondor, where we do see clear uniforms. There, the model is something more like the Roman centurion; again, opposed to Huns or Goths. 8. See also Straubhaar for a discussion of the various cultural and historical elements (and their intermingling) that went into the making of Rohan and Gondor. 9. See Shadow, 422, 434–5, and, for detailed discussion of the development of the chapter “The Riders of Rohan,” see The Treason of Isengard, 389–407. 10. Tolkien’s “Nomenclature of The Lord of the Rings” (Hammond and Scull, 750–82) illustrates the amount of thought that went into the selection of names. 11. Shippey was the first critic to point out that the language of the Rohirrim is Mercian Old English (see Road, 123). See Fisher for a more recent elaboration on this topic. 12. See Ross Smith, “Fitting Sense to Sound” and Inside Language; and Fimi, 76–92. 13. Martinez (Visualizing Middle-earth, 64–70, 78–90; Parma Endorion, 59–70) uses these

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differences to argue against (primarily) Shippey’s interpretation. However, Martinez’s discussion remains limited to the factual differences between the historical Germanic tribes and the Rohirrim/Éothéod and fails to take into consideration the deeper conceptual similarities and parallels. 14. See Drout, “A Mythology for Anglo-Saxon England,” for an exploration of the possible connections between Geats, Goths, and Anglo-Saxons. 15. Jordanes, in his History of the Goths, chapter V, mentions a legendary Gothic hero named Widigoia. 16. See Biography, 45; Garth, 16; Arden Smith; and Jared Lobdell’s entry “Gothic Language” in Drout, J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia, 253–54. 17. Scull and Hammond in Chronolog y, 148, under 20 January 1929, mention a lecture on “Legends of the Goths,” Tuesdays at 10:00 A.M. in the Examination Schools, beginning 22 January. Tolkien’s lecture notes are among his papers at the Bodleian (Tolkien A 15/2). 18. See the poem “Bagme Bloma” in Shippey (Road, 354–55). 19. Tolkien A 15/2, fol. 127r. © The J.R.R. Tolkien Copyright Trust, 2011. 20. See Krause, Handbuch des Gotischen, or Lambdin, An Introduction to the Gothic Language, for an informed overview on the Gothic language and texts. 21. The interested reader may get a good first impression of the diversity of Anglo-Saxon literature by means of Bradley’s (1982) translations. 22. Translation: “They [the Germanic people] celebrate Tuisto, an earth-born god, in ancient songs/lays, which are their only forms of historical record.” 23. See Herbert. The Icelandic Eddas are, of course, more informative in matters religious and mythical, yet the surviving manuscripts are at least two centuries younger than most Old English texts and were written within a clearly established Christian framework. They present thus an adulterated view of the pre–Christian religion. 24. Which is why Martinez’s criticism, in my opinion, misses the point. 25. Pace Hengest, who could be seen as a “proto–Anglo-Saxon.” See the entry “Finn and Hengest” by Honegger in Drout, J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia, 209–11. 26. See, however, Drout, “A Mythology for Anglo-Saxon England,” on the hidden connections between the Geats, Beowulf, and Anglo-Saxon England. 27. Fili and Kili’s death in the Battle of the Five Armies follows this pattern. Sam, on the Pass of Cirith Ungol, also briefly feels the temptation of dying in heroic defense of the body of his master rather than putting aside personal heroic aspirations and continue with the mission. See Woolf and Frank for a (critical) discussion of the dissemination of the ideal of dying with one’s lord. 28. Théoden, in contrast to Byrhtnoth, turns “heroic” only after having done all he could to save his people. 29. The Rohirrim also dismount to fight in desperate circumstances on one or two other occasions: in Théodred’s defense of the Fords of Isen (UT, 357); and presumably in the battle before the Black Gate at the climax of The Lord of the Rings (RK, 167). 30. Even the Danish invasions at their high-points never threatened to wipe out the AngloSaxons as a people and culture. 31. See Petty, 31: “The Norse worldview with its acceptance of fate without benefit of a heavenly savior informs much of the behaviour of men in Middle-earth, from Beren to Éomer.” Théoden’s dying words to Merry imply a sort of afterlife (RK, 842), yet Tolkien does not elaborate this point and he obviously wants us to take Éomer’s last stand at face value. 32. Shippey, Author, 150: “In a sense this Northern mythology asks more of people than Christianity does, for it offers them no heaven, no salvation, no reward for virtue except the somber satisfaction of having done right. Even the heathen Valhalla is only a waiting-room and training-ground for the final defeat. Tolkien wanted his characters in The Lord of the Rings to live up to the same high standard, and was careful therefore to remove easy hope from them, to make them conscious of long-term defeat and doom.” 33. His choice of (Mercian) Old English as the language of the Rohirrim has, of course, also influenced all his further decisions concerning the characterization of the “Horse Kings.”

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WORKS CONSULTED Basney, Lionel. “Myth, History, and Time in The Lord of the Rings.” Tolkien: New Critical Perspectives. Ed. Neil D. Isaacs and Rose A. Zimbardo. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1981. 8–18. Battarbee, K.J., ed. Scholarship and Fantasy: Proceedings of The Tolkien Phenomenon, May 1992, University of Turku, Finland. Anglica Turkuensia 12. Turku: University of Turku, 1993. Bibire, Paul. “Sægde seòe cuòe: J.R.R. Tolkien as Anglo-Saxonist.” In Battarbee. 111–31. Boenig, Robert. “Tolkien and Old Germanic Ethics.” Mythlore 48 (1986): 9–12. Bradley, S.A.J., trans. Anglo-Saxon Poetry. London: Dent, 1982. Carpenter, Humphrey. Tolkien: A Biography. London: HarperCollins, 1995 [1977]. Chance, Jane, ed. Tolkien and the Invention of Myth: A Reader. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2004. Croft, Janet Brennan. “The Morality of Military Leadership.” Mallorn 42 (2004): 47–50. Deyo, Steven Mark. “Wyrd and Will. Fate, Fatalism and Free Will in Northern Elegy and J.R.R. Tolkien.” Mythlore 53 (1988): 59–62. Drout, Michael D.C., ed. J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia. Scholarship and Critical Assessment. New York: Routledge, 2006. _____. “A Mythology for Anglo-Saxon England.” In Chance. 229–47. Fimi, Dimitra. Tolkien, Race and Cultural History. From Fairies to Hobbits. New York and London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. Fisher, Jason. “Horns of Dawn: The Tradition of Alliterative Verse in Rohan.” Middle-earth Minstrel: Essays on Music in Tolkien. Ed. Bradford Lee Eden. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2010. 7–25. Frank, Roberta. “The Ideal of Men Dying with Their Lord in The Battle of Maldon: Anachronism or Nouvelle Vague.” People and Places in Northern Europe 500 –1600. Essays in Honour of Peter Hayes Sawyer. Ed. Ian Wood and Niels Lund. Woodbridge: Boydell, 1991. 95–106. Garth, John. Tolkien and the Great War: The Threshold of Middle-earth. London: HarperCollins, 2003. Hammond, Wayne G., and Christina Scull. The Lord of the Rings: A Reader’s Companion. London: HarperCollins, 2005. Harrison, Mark. Anglo-Saxon Thegn (A.D. 449 –1066). Oxford: Osprey, 1993. Herbert, Kathleen. Looking for the Lost Gods of England. Frithgarth: Anglo-Saxon, 1994. Honegger, Thomas. “The Westron Turned into Modern English: The Translator and Tolkien’s Web of Languages.” Translating Tolkien: Text and Film. Cormarë Series 6. Ed. Thomas Honegger. Zurich and Berne: Walking Tree, 2004. 1–20. Jordanis. Gotengeschichte (Getica). Trans. Wilhelm Martens. Essen: Phaidon, 1986. Krause, Wolfgang. Handbuch des Gotischen. 3d ed. Munich: C.H. Beck, 1968. Lambdin, Thomas O. An Introduction to the Gothic Language. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2006. Lee, Stuart D., and Elizabeth Solopova. The Keys of Middle-earth: Discovering Medieval Literature through the Fiction of J.R.R. Tolkien. Basingstoke, U.K.: Palgrave Macmillian, 2005. Martinez, Michael. Parma Endorion: Essays on Middle-earth. 3rd ed. [N.P.], 2001. _____. Visualizing Middle-earth. Philadelphia: Xlibiris, 2000. Petty, Anne C. Tolkien in the Land of Heroes. Cold Spring Harbor, NY: Cold Spring, 2003. Scull, Christina. “The Influence of Archaeology and History on Tolkien’s World.” In Battarbee. 33–51. — and Wayne G. Hammond. The J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide: Chronolog y. London: HarperCollins, 2006. Seel, Otto, ed. and trans. Der Physiologus. Zurich: Artemis, 1992. Shippey, Tom. “Goths and Huns: The Rediscovery of the Northern Cultures in the Nineteenth Century.” (First published 1982.) Roots and Branches: Selected Papers on Tolkien by Tom Shippey. Cormarë Series 11. Ed. Tom Shippey. Zurich and Berne: Walking Tree Publishers, 2007. 115–36.

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_____. J.R.R. Tolkien. Author of the Century. London: HarperCollins, 2000. _____. The Road to Middle-earth: How J.R.R. Tolkien Created a New Mytholog y. 3d ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2003. _____. “Tolkien and the Appeal of the Pagan: Edda and Kalevala.” In Chance. 145–61. Smith, Arden R. “Old English Influence on the Danian Language of J.R.R. Tolkien.” Interdigitations: Essays for Irmengard Rauch. Ed. Gerlad F. Carr. New York: Lang, 1999. 231–7. _____. “Tolkienian Gothic.” The Lord of the Rings 1954 –2004: Scholarship in Honor of Richard E. Blackwelder. Ed. Wayne G. Hammond and Christina Scull. Milwaukee: Marquette University Press, 2006. 267–81. Smith, Ross. “Fitting Sense to Sound: Linguistic Aesthetics and Phonosemantics in the Work of J.R.R. Tolkien.” Tolkien Studies 3 (2006): 1–20. _____. Inside Language: Linguistic and Aesthetic Theory in Tolkien. Cormarë Series 12. Zurich and Berne: Walking Tree, 2007. Straubhaar, Sandra Ballif. “Myth, Late Roman History, and Multiculturalism in Tolkien’s Middle-earth.” In Chance. 101–17. Tacitus. Germania. Lateinisch/Deutsch. Ed. and trans. Manfred Fuhrmann. Stuttgart: Reclam, 2000. Tinkler, John. “Old English in Rohan.” Tolkien and the Critics. Essays on J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Ed. Neil D. Isaacs and Rose A. Zimbardo. Notre Dame and London: University of Notre Dame Press, 1968.164–169. Tolkien, J.R.R. The Lord of the Rings. 50th anniversary ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2004. _____. The Peoples of Middle-earth. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: HarperCollins, 1997. _____. The Return of the Shadow: The History of The Lord of the Rings, Part One. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: HarperCollins, 1994 [1988]. _____. Tolkien A 15/2. Tolkien Papers. Oxford: Bodleian Library. (Dating to before 1929.) _____. The Treason of Isengard: The History of The Lord of the Rings, Part Two. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: HarperCollins, 1993 [1989]. _____. Tree and Leaf, Including the Poem Mythopoeia [and] The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: HarperCollins, 2001. _____. Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle-earth. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: HarperCollins, 2000. Tolley, Clive. “Tolkien and the Unfinished.” In Battarbee. 151–164. Ugolnik, Anthony J. “Wordhord Onleac: The Medieval Sources of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Linguistic Aesthetic.” Mosaic 10.2 (1977): 15–31. Woolf, Rosemary. “The Ideal of Men Dying with Their Lord in the Germania and in The Battle of Maldon.” Anglo-Saxon England 5 (1976): 63–81. Wytenbroek, J.R. “Apocalyptic Vision in The Lord of the Rings.” Mythlore 54 (14.4; 1988): 7– 12.

William Caxton’s The Golden Legend as a Source for Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings Judy Ann Ford Central to the plot of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings is the One Ring, forged by the Dark Lord Sauron. During most of the novel, Frodo carries the ring fastened to him by a chain (FR, 51). The One Ring is a source of power, perfidious and evil power, because it will not truly serve the will of any owner other than Sauron. Gandalf refuses the ring when it is offered to him, realizing that he would succumb to the temptation to use it in an effort to do good, thereby allowing the ring the opportunity to change him to become like the Dark Lord (67–8). Moreover, the One Ring can abandon an owner of its own accord, as Gandalf explains to Frodo: “A Ring of Power looks after itself, Frodo. It may slip off treacherously...” (60). In William Caxton’s The Golden Legend, a fifteenth-century edition of medieval saints’ stories from the thirteenth-century Legenda Aurea, one may also find an account of an extraordinary ring. The story appears in the legend of Saint Stephen and is set after the saint’s death. It reads: ... a lady called Petronia had been sick much grievously, and had sought many remedies for to be healed of her malady, but she felt no heal. But in the end she had counsel of a Jew, which gave her a ring with a stone, and that she should bind this ring with a lace to her bare flesh, and by virtue of that stone she should be whole. And when she saw that this helped her not, she went to the church of the protomartyr, and prayed the blessed S. Stephen for her health, and anon, without breaking of the lace or of the ring, the ring fell down to the ground, and she felt herself anon all whole [Ellis, II:159].

In this narrative, a character hopes to use a ring miraculously to do good, and is unable to do so. The ring which, in the context of this setting, seems 133

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opposed to forces of the good, subsequently leaves of its own accord. Much scholarship has been written about literary models of magic rings which may have been adapted by Tolkien for his fiction. For example, a fairly recent book by David Day, Tolkien’s Ring, explores a range of ancient and medieval mythological and literary sources which may have helped shape Tolkien’s ideas. Sauron’s ring is not, however, usually associated with Christian sources such as Caxton’s legend of Saint Stephen. The argument being made here is not that the legend of Saint Stephen is the only or even the best model for Sauron’s ring. Certainly, The Lord of the Rings does not express the Anti-Semitic stance whereby Jews are employed to indicate an association with evil, nor is Tolkien’s One Ring credited with the ability to heal. What is being argued in this chapter is that Tolkien may have drawn upon stories about miraculous and supernatural beings and objects available in medieval Christian sources as well those in medieval secular literature and pagan mythology. The observation that medieval hagiographic texts may also have served as inspiration for Tolkien does not constitute disagreement with any of the claims regarding medieval secular and pagan sources. The elements that may have been adapted by Tolkien from medieval sermons had, in many cases, parallels and counterparts in medieval literature as well as medieval pagan mythology because notions of the divine and supernatural flowed rather freely between pagan and Christian ideas as well as between religious and secular texts during much of the Middle Ages. This chapter explores the ways in which aspects of Middle-earth previously attributed exclusively to Tolkien’s response to medieval pagan and secular sources may have also been influenced by popular medieval Christian texts. While there is considerable published research on the Christian, and specifically Catholic, nature of The Lord of the Rings, this scholarship tends to focus on broad themes, such as sacrifice or humility, rather than specific images or situations.1 Moreover, allowing for exceptions such as Michael W. Maher’s study of medieval images of Mary and their influence on the characterization of Galadriel, scholars exploring the Christian sources of Tolkien’s inspiration tend to limit their concept of Christian influences to the somewhat narrow framework of the Bible and Catholic practice from the time of Tolkien’s own life (225–36). There is evidence that popular medieval Christian texts, specifically saints’ legends, should also be considered as resources that Tolkien used to shape those elements of Middle-earth that seem magical to modern audiences. This chapter examines the legends in the Legenda Aurea, a mid–thirteenth century Latin collection of readings on the saints by the Italian friar Jacobus de Voragine, as a source that may have influenced the seemingly magical elements in Tolkien’s fiction. The Legenda Aurea, or Golden Legend, was very

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popular in the Middle Ages. As approximately one thousand copies have survived, measured by manuscript survival, Jacobus’s collection of readings on the saints was arguably the most popular in medieval Europe (Ryan, I:xiii). The saints’ stories contained in it served as the inspiration for a great deal of ecclesiastical art, so their content was communicated to many people who could not read. During the first fifty years after the introduction of the printing press in Europe, editions of The Golden Legend, including both the original Latin and vernacular translations, such as William Caxton’s English translation, outnumbered those of the Bible (Görlach, 7n2). In the words of Sherry Reames, The Golden Legend “was not just a popular book in our sense; it was almost a cultural institution” (Reams, 3). Although the original thirteenth-century Legenda Aurea seems to have been written for a largely clerical and mendicant audience to serve as a reference work for those composing sermons, Caxton printed and sold his books to a relatively broad spectrum of fifteenth-century secular society including nobles, gentry, and urban merchants (Adams, 2). In his introduction to the collection, Caxton attributes his motivation to complete the translation and publication of The Golden Legend to a request made by William, Earl of Arundel, and to promises by the earl to purchase “a reasonable quantity” when the books were finished and to grant Caxton an annuity (Ellis, I:54). The Golden Legend enjoyed a renewed interest during the Pre-Raphaelite movement in England. In 1892, William Morris used his newly founded Kelmscott Press to publish a deluxe, three-volume edition of the work with illustrations by himself and Edward Burne-Jones, one of only thirteen books issued by Kelmscott to be illustrated by Burne-Jones (Richmond, 2). Other scholars have drawn attention to William Morris’s likely influence on Tolkien (Northrup, 815). There is evidence that Tolkien was familiar with Caxton’s fifteenth-century English translation of The Golden Legend. When he returned to England from his military service in World War I, Tolkien began work as a lexicographer for The Oxford English Dictionary. He worked on the etymology of a number of words beginning with the letter W (Gilliver, Marshall, and Weiner, 42). One of these words was “wake.” Included in the etymological list for the third division of the first meaning — namely, “to stay awake or pass the night in prayer; to stay up during the night as an exercise of devotion; to keep vigil (in church, by a corpse, etc.)”— is a reference to Caxton’s The Golden Legend (1483): “He woke in prayers and made hys body lene” (Oxford English Dictionary 1933, 33).2 Tolkien’s etymological work in The Oxford English Dictionary provides direct evidence of his familiarity only with Caxton’s version.3 In addition to the ring already described in the legend of Saint Stephen, other magical or supernatural elements in The Lord of the Rings that may have been inspired, at least in part, by parts of The Golden Legend include

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people and objects with special powers and extraordinary beasts such as dragons. In Caxton’s The Golden Legend may be found people possessing the ability to influence or control the weather and those with the ability to send the dead into battle. Remarkable objects include a door that can be opened only by the recitation of certain words, cloaks or tunics that have special powers, and a plant that has the ability to heal when touched by a king. In The Lord of the Rings are episodes in which weather, particularly bad weather, is created by characters with supernatural abilities. In “The House of Tom Bombadil,” for example, early in The Fellowship of the Rings, Goldberry’s washing day and autumn-cleaning is marked by such heavy rain that Bombadil tells the hobbits: “[T]his is Goldberry’s washing day.... Too wet for hobbit-folk — let them rest while they are able!” (FR, 146).4 This instance of the manipulation of nature seems benign, but later in The Fellowship of the Ring there is a malevolent episode when the company is compelled to turn aside from Caradhras because of the snow and stones hurled at them. Members of the company agree that the weather is intentionally created to disrupt their mission, although they are not sure if the agent is or is not in league with Sauron (324–5). The Golden Legend includes episodes of rain and wind caused for benign or noble intentions, and tempests on mountains created for both holy and malevolent purposes. In Caxton’s collection there are a number of saints credited with the ability to control the weather, either directly or through intercession with God. The legend of Saint Martin states that he could control the elements, explaining that “all things obeyed to this holy man, as well things not sensible as vegetative, and not reasonable, as things insensible, as the fire and water” (Ellis, VI:147). An example is provided in which, when Martin ordered his followers to burn down a temple, the fire spread to the neighboring house. Martin protected the house of the innocent neighbor. He climbed on top of the house “and set himself against the fire, and anon the flame returned against the might of the wind, so that there was seen the fighting of the elements” (Ellis, VI:147). According to the legend of Saint Benedict, the saint’s sister, Scholastica, wanted her brother to remain overnight while visiting her. When he refused, “she inclined her head and made her prayers to our Lord, and anon it began to thunder and to lighten, and the air to wax dark which tofore was fair and clear, and a great rain fell down so that nothing might depart. And like as she wept with her eyes, right so forthwith the rain and storm came, and she lifted up her head” (Ellis, III:92). Benedict spent the night in conversation with his sister before returning to his abbey. Three days later, Scholastica died. The legend of Saint Donatus closes with a narrative in which certain “miscreants” made false accusations against the saint to Emperor Theodosius, claiming that Donatus caused a drought. At the emperor’s request

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Donatus “prayed our Lord that he would send them rain, and he sent them so great abundance that all the others were wet, and he went home alone dry” (Ellis, IV:205). There are other passages in Caxton in which the control of the weather seems more to emanate from the saint rather than having been willed by him. The legend of Saint Bernard includes a story in which a sudden rain storm appeared while the saint was dictating a letter to a scribe. The scribe wanted to stop in order to prevent the parchment from getting wet. Bernard ordered him to continue. The text reads: “And then he wrote the letter in the midst of the rain without being wet, and yet it rained all about them; for the virtue of charity took away the moisture of the rain from them” (Ellis, V:24). There is a similar story in the legend of Saint Mark. The legend explains that at Mark’s death in Alexandria, the pagans tried to burn his body, “but the air began suddenly to change and to hail, lightning and thunder, in such wise that every man enforced him to flee, and left there the holy body alone. Then came the christian men and bare it away, and buried it in the church, with great joy, honour, and reverence” (Ellis, III:137). The Lord of the Rings also features a character who can walk in the rain without getting wet: “Tom Bombadil came trotting round the corner of the house, waving his arms as if he was warding off the rain — and indeed when he sprang over the threshold he seemed quite dry, except for his boots” (FR, 140). Caxton’s collection includes a number of episodes concerning mountain storms created by supernatural forces. A narrative in the legend of Saint Amande explains that the saint was saved by a miraculous storm while being led to his death on a high mountain-top. Amande was intending to found a monastery at the request of the king, and the neighboring bishop ordered his servants, under the pretense of showing Amande a promising location, to kill him. The text reads: “but anon suddenly descended from heaven such a tempest of rain and of orage, that it covered all the mountain so much that one could not see the other, and supposed to have died suddenly. And they fell down to the earth upon their knees, praying him to pardon them, and that they might depart thence alive. For whom he put himself to prayer, and anon the storm was appeased and the weather fair. They went to their place, and S. Amande thus escaped from this peril” (Ellis, III:42). The legend of Saint Michael the Archangel also includes a mountain storm. The narrative recounts a conflict between Christians and pagans in Naples in which the Christian men called a truce for three days to fast and pray to Michael for help. Michael appeared to the bishop advising the Christians, saying that that their prayers had been heard and that the Christians would have victory; Michael commanded them to attack at the fourth hour of the next day. Then, the text reads: “when they ran against them the mountain of Gargan began strongly

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to tremble and a great tempest arose, so that lightning flew about and a dark cloud covered the mountain, so that six hundred of their adversaries died of the fiery hours that came from the air” (Ellis, V:188). Finally, in the legend of Saint Nicholas there is a miracle story set after the saint’s death in which a boy, taken prisoner and made a servant to a king, became sad on Nicholas’s feast day, wishing that he could join his family in their customary celebration of the saint’s day. The boy sighed while holding out a cup from which the king was to drink. Then, the text reads: “the king demanded him what ailed him and the cause of his sighing; and he told him every word wholly. And when the king knew it he said to him: Whatsomever thy Nicholas do or do not, thou shalt abide here with us. And suddenly there blew a much strong wind, that made all the house to tremble, and the child was ravished with the cup, and was set tofore the gate where his father held the solemnity of S. Nicholas, in such wise that they all demeaned great joy” (Ellis, II:121). Among the aspects of power over nature exhibited in The Lord of the Rings other than the ability to change the weather was the ability to send the dead into battle. In The Lord of the Rings, when Théoden is unable to raise his army as quickly as he and Aragorn had hoped, Aragorn rides to the Stone of Erech to tell the dead oathbreakers that the hour had come when they could redeem themselves by fighting for Gondor, acquiring ships from the Corsairs (RK, 51–4). The ability to send the dead into military service also appears in Caxton’s collection. In the legend of Saint Julian, there is a section explaining that Saint Julian and Emperor Julian the apostate were not the same person. This section includes a miracle story in which a soldier was sent back from the dead into a battle. In the narrative, Emperor Julian became angry at Saint Basil of Caesarea and promised to destroy Caesarea after he had finished his campaign in Persia. Saint Basil had a vision that night while in a church dedicated to Mary in which he saw Mary on a throne, surrounded by a multitude of angels, call to have Mercury, a knight slain by Julian and buried in that church, brought to her. Mercury appeared before Mary in his armor “and at the commandment of the lady he went into battle” (Ellis III:15– 6). Upon awakening, Basil had Mercury’s grave checked to find that the body and the armor buried with it were missing. The next morning, Basil found that the body and the armor had returned to their rightful place, although the armor and the spear were covered with blood. The text continues: And anon came one from the battle which said that Julian the apostata and emperor was in the battle, and thither came a knight unknown all armed with his spear, which hardily smote his horse with his spurs and came to Julian the emperor, and brandished his sword and smote him through the body, and suddenly he departed and never after was seen again. And yet when he should die he took his hand full of blood and cast it into the air saying: Thou hast vanquished man of Galilee!

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Thou hast overcome! And in crying thus, miserably he expired, and died in great pain, and was left without sepulture of all his men [Ellis, III:16].

In both The Lord of the Rings and Caxton’s Golden Legend, there are a number of objects that operate in a way that seems magical or supernatural. There are objects in both works that seem sufficiently parallel for Caxton’s work possibly to have served as a source for Tolkien’s work. For example, when the Company leaves Caradhras and tries to pass through Moria they are impeded by the Doors of Durin, until one of them can speak the word that will cause the doors to open. In Gandalf ’s first attempt, he “lightly touched with his staff ” a point on the door while reciting two lines of Elvish. Eventually, Gandalf divines the correct word to open the door (FR, 345). In the legend of Saint Basil, there is a narrative in which the saint miraculously opens sealed doors. The context is a dispute between the Arian party and the orthodox party, here called the Catholics, over the ownership of a church during the reign of the Roman Emperor Valens. Saint Basil decided to end the dispute by awarding the church to whichever party could miraculously open the doors after they had been locked and sealed with the seals of each party. The two parties agreed to this arrangement. First, the Arians tried to open the door by praying for three days and nights but were unsuccessful. Then, the text explains, Saint Basil “ordained a procession, and came to the church, and knocked a stroke with his crook, saying: Attollite portas principes vestras, etc., and anon as he had said the verse the doors opened, and they entered in” (Ellis, II:260–1). In The Lord of the Rings, the cloaks given to the Fellowship by the Elves in Lothlórien are special garments. Pippin asks if they are “magic,” only to encounter the problem that Elves and Hobbits do not define that word in the same way; Pippin is told that the cloaks will be “a great aid in keeping out of the sight of unfriendly eyes” (FR, 415–16). Caxton’s collection includes an account of Pontius Pilate in the legend of the Passion in which a special cloak helps Pilate avoid hostile encounters. In this narrative, Emperor Tiberius became very sick and, upon being told that there was a man in Jerusalem who could cure all kinds of illness, became angry when he discovered that this man, Jesus, had been executed by Pilate. Tiberius then obtained Veronica’s image of Jesus and was cured by it (Ellis, I:83–4). Tiberius ordered Pilate to Rome, intending to punish him for causing the death of the miraculous healer. The text then reads: And when the Emperor heard that Pilate was come to Rome, he was much wroth, and inflamed against him, and bade that he should be brought tofore him. Pilate ware always the garment of our Lord which was without seam, wherewith he was clad when he came before the Emperor. And as soon as the Emperor saw him all his wrath was gone, and the ire out of his heart; he could not say an evil word to

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him. And in his absence he was sore cruel towards him, and in his presence he was always sweet.... Now was there one by the inspiration of God, or at the persuasion of some Christian man, caused the Emperor to dispoil him of that coat. And anon as he had put it off, the Emperor had in his heart as great ire and fury as he had before, wherefore the Emperor marvelled of this coat, and it was told to him that it was the coat of Jesus. Then the Emperor made Pilate to be set in prison ... sentence was given that he should die a villain’s death [Ellis, I:84–5].

The legend of Saint Peter Martyr also includes an account of a miraculous cloak, but miraculous in the more conventional method of curing illness. In the narrative, the son of a gentleman was reported as having a horrible disease in his throat, which Peter Martyr cured: first he made the sign of the cross and then he “laid his cope on the place where the sore was,” healing the patient (Ellis, III:148). Peter Martyr used the same cope (i.e., a long liturgical mantle or cloak) to cure the man a second time when he became ill in his chest; he “cast out a worm with two heads which was rough, and after he was brought in good health and anon all whole” (Ellis, III:149). The legend of Saint John the Evangelist includes also a miracle story in which the saint’s cloak brings two men back from the dead. The narrative is set in Asia, where John had a confrontation with the pagan priest Aristodemus in which he promised to convert if John could drink poison and survive. Two men who had been condemned to death were brought from the Roman proconsul and compelled to drink poison. When they died, John made the sign of the cross over the poison then drank it with no ill effect. Aristodemus claimed to still have doubts and asked for a further demonstration of power by John in bringing the two prisoners back to life. The text reads: “Then the apostle delivered him his coat, to whom he said: Why givest thou to me thy coat? And S. John said because that thou ashamed and confused shalt go from and forsake thy infidelity. To whom he said: Trowest thou that thy coat shall make me believe? And the apostle said: Go and lay it upon the bodies of the dead men, saying: The apostle of Christ hath sent me to you that ye arise in the name of Christ, which when he had done, anon they arose from death to life.” Aristodemus and the proconsul were both baptized (Ellis, II:170). Healing the sick is probably the most common type of miracle associated with saints and their relics in medieval documents. In The Lord of the Rings, the ability to heal is attributed to the plant athelas which, according to the rhymes remembered by old wives, gives “Life to the dying / In the king’s hand lying! ” (RK, 143). The quality of healing was ascribed to the combination of the plant and the king’s touch. The idea of “the royal touch” as a healing property of sacral kingship would have been widely accepted by scholars during Tolkien’s time (Chaney, passim; Myers and Herwig, 1–14; Leyser, 74–107; Zacour, 97). Yet the need to work through a plant is not a common part of

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the tradition of the Royal Touch. In Caxton’s collection, in the legend of Martha, is the story of a woman, called, the text explains, Emorissa by Eusebius and Martha by Ambrose, who made an image of Christ in her garden clothed as Christ had been when she had been healed by him. She worshipped Christ through the statue. The herbs that grew in that garden previously had no curative powers, but the herbs that grew under the image and touched the hem of its garment were “of such virtue that many sick people by them were healed” (Ellis, IV:137–8). In light of the common appellation of Christ as “Christ the King,” this element of Martha’s legend may have influenced Tolkien’s conception of athelas. In addition to humans or near-humans with astonishing abilities and objects with extraordinary powers, marvelous elements in Tolkien’s fiction include wondrous beasts. Dragons are, of all supernatural beasts, most associated with modern fantasy’s borrowings from medieval pagan mythology and secular literature. In Tolkien’s works, Smaug, the dragon from The Hobbit, has frequently been associated with the dragon in the Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf. Dragons are less present in The Lord of the Rings than in either The Hobbit or The Silmarillion, but they make a few appearances in the dialogue. For example, Smaug is discussed in Rivendell; Elves and dragons are mentioned in conversation among the Hobbits at The Ivy Bush; Sam claims, at the doors of Moria, that Bill the pony would follow Frodo into a dragon’s den (FR, 257, 24, 341). Moreover, the great winged beast that carries the Lord of the Nazgûl to the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, while not a dragon, is nonetheless dragon-like in its size, its feather-less wings, and its stench (RK, 113). Dragons are present in many medieval secular texts, but they are common in medieval sermon literature as well. In addition to the iconic battle between Saint George and a dragon, and the fairly well-known encounter between Saint Margaret and a dragon, dragons appear in nine other saints’ legends in Caxton’s collection, namely, those of Saints Philip, James, Silvester, Benedict, Martha, Dominic, Matthew, Michael, and Barlaam (Ellis, III:126, IV:68, III:156, IV:103, II:203, III:91, IV:136, IV:188, V:151, V:181, VII:93). Caxton’s collection describes dragons in a variety of ways, which is not surprising as its source, the Legenda Aurea, was itself a compilation and translation of a wide range of sources, both canonical and apocryphal. A number of the dragons appear as actual beasts and enemies of Christianity in conversion tales, sometimes set in what might have seemed to be exotic places to Caxton’s audience; these dragons killed with their foul breath or stench, or by breathing fire. Silvester’s dragon lived at the bottom of a deep pit, one hundred and fifty steps down from the surface of the city of Rome, killing men with his foul breath and stench. Silvester sealed its mouth with a thread while reciting a prayer and baptized many of the grateful people

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(Ellis, II:203–4). Philip’s dragon emerged from a statue of the god Mars in Scythia and “corrupted the people with his breath” until they were sick or dead. Philip ordered the dragon into the desert where it was to live without harming anyone; he then cured the sick, raised the dead, and baptized them all into Christianity within the year (Ellis, III:156). George’s dragon lived in a pond in Cappadocia. While it “venomed the people with his breath,” it also killed and ate them if not fed sheep by the people of the neighboring city. George wounded the dragon with a sword while charging it on horseback and making the sign of the cross, then, binding its neck with the belt of the king’s daughter, he allowed the princess to lead it into the city where George cut off its head in exchange for the king and people agreeing to become baptized Christians (Ellis, III:126–8). This story does not match that of Smaug in The Hobbit very closely, but the image of a dragon being overcome, tied up, and led forth tame is familiar from Tolkien’s shorter fiction. In Farmer Giles of Ham, Giles and Chrysophylax Dives clearly parody the legend of St. George. In the legend of Saint James the Greater, a fire-breathing dragon living on a mountain in Spain attempted to stop the Christians who were trying to bury James after his death during a mission to convert the pagans there. The dragon was killed by the sign of the cross (Ellis, IV:103). Saint Matthew’s dragons also breathed fire, casting “fire and sulphur out of their mouths” and killing men in Ethiopia (Ellis, V:151). They were brought among the people by a group of enchanters. Matthew caused the dragons to sleep by making the sign of the cross, mocked the enchanters for being unable to awaken them, and, in a large assembly, ordered the dragons to live away from people and stop doing harm (Ellis, V:151). On a few occasions, the dragons mentioned in Caxton’s text do not seem to be intended to be understood as actual beasts. In the legend of Saint Michael the Archangel, “the dragon and his angels” who were cast out of heaven could be none other than Lucifer and his followers (Ellis, V:181). In the legend of Saint Barlaam, the dragon appeared in an extended analogy in which the dragon was stated as standing for the mouth of hell (Ellis, VII:93). Some of the dragons in Caxton’s collection serve the forces of Christianity, but they seem to be visions of dragons rather than actual beasts. In the legend of Saint Benedict, a monk tired of living in a monastery leaves only to flee back after encountering an open-mouthed dragon — a dragon visible to none of the other monks (Ellis, III:91). In the legend of Saint Dominic there is an episode in Spain in which the saint had a vision of a great dragon swallowing him and his companions. He understood the vision to mean that he and his brethren needed to resist the enemy strongly (Ellis, IV:188). The two legends in which women slay dragons are ones in which the dragons are portrayed as actual beasts, but these legends are not conversion

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tales. The legend of Saint Margaret explains that while she was imprisoned by the Romans, she prayed that the fiend against whom she struggled be made visible to her. First she saw a terrible dragon who would have devoured her had she not caused it to vanish by making the sign of the cross. Then the devil appeared to her in the likeness of a man. When she threw him to the ground and stood on his neck, he complained of having been overcome by a maiden rather than a man (Ellis, IV:68–9). Martha killed a dragon that was part sea-monster living in the Rhone river between Arles and Avignon. The description reads that it was a great dragon, half beast and half fish, greater than an ox, longer than a horse, having teeth sharp as a sword, and horned on either side, head like a lion, tail like a serpent, and defended him with two wings on either side, and could not be beaten with cast of stones ne with other armour, and was as strong as twelve lions or bears; which dragon lay hiding and lurking in the river, and perished them that passed by and drowned ships [Ellis, IV:136].

Martha, at the request of the people, confronted the dragon in the woods, where she came upon him eating a man. She overpowered the dragon with holy water and a cross, bound it with her belt, and held it still while the people killed it with spears (Ellis, IV:136). Although neither of these narratives closely resembles the encounter between Éowyn and the Lord of the Nazgûl on his dragon-like beast, they do offer medieval models in which women on the side of the good overcome evil beasts. Tolkien, as a philologist, would have been familiar with a broader range of historical texts than one would expect of a scholar who confined his work to literary criticism. In searching for sources that may have inspired Tolkien’s imagination in the creation of Middle-earth, it would be worthwhile to cast the net sufficiently wide so as to include medieval Christian texts such as the saints’ stories of The Golden Legend.

NOTES 1. For much the same point, see Birns, elsewhere in this collection. 2. It is worth noting that every other citation made in this chapter to Caxton’s Golden Legend also appears in the Latin Legenda Aurea, so Tolkien could have found all these elements in Jacobus de Voragine’s version. 3. In addition to this, the examination paper on the History of English Literature which Tolkien sat in 1915 required him to “Estimate the importance of Caxton as a writer and translator.” 4. Tolkien is actually somewhat ambiguous about whether Goldberry is really in control of the weather. She appears to be, yet at another point, Tom Bombadil says, “I am no weathermaster, ... nor is aught that goes on two legs” (FR, 145). Even though she has two legs, it is possible that Tom does not mean to include Goldberry, who is, like Tom himself, rather an enigma.

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WORKS CONSULTED Adams, Tracy. “‘Noble, Wyse and Grete Lordes, Gentilmen and Marchauntes’: Caxton’s Prologues as Conduct Books for Merchants.” Parergon 22: 2 (2005): 53–76. Boyd, Ian, and Stratford Caldecott, eds. J.R.R. Tolkien: Mythos and Modernity in Middle-earth. Special issue of Chesterton Review 28: 1–2 (2002). Chaney, William A. The Cult of Kingship in Anglo-Saxon England: The Transition from Paganism to Christianity. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1970. Christensen, Bonniejean. “Tolkien’s Creative Technique: Beowulf and The Hobbit.” Mythlore 15: 3 (1989): 4–10. Clark, George, and Daniel Timmons, eds. J.R.R. Tolkien and His Literary Resonances: Views of Middle-earth. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2000. Cunningham, Michael. “In the Shadow of the Tree: A Study of the Motif of the White Tree in the Context of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle-earth.” Mallorn 44 (2006): 3–8. Day, David. Tolkien’s Ring. New York: Barnes and Noble, 2002. Duboise, Tom, and Scott Mellor. “The Nordic Roots of Tolkien’s Middle-earth.” Scandinavian Review 90: 1 (2002): 35–40. Ellis, F.S., ed. The Golden Legend or Lives of the Saints as Englished by William Caxton. Vols. I– VII. Temple Classics. London: J.M. Dent, 1900. Garbowski, Christopher. “Tolkien’s Middle-earth and the Catholic Imagination.” Mallorn 41 (2003): 9–11. Gilliver, Peter, Jeremy Marshall, and Edmund Weiner. The Ring of Words: Tolkien and the Oxford English Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Görlach, Manfred. The South English Legendary, Gilte Legende and Golden Legend. Braunschweig: Institut für Anglistik und Amerikanistik, 1972. Leyser, K.J. “Sacral Kingship.” In Rule and Conflict in an Early Medieval Society. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989. Maher, Michael W. “‘A Land Without Stain’: Medieval Images of Mary and Their Use in the Characterization of Galadriel.” Tolkien the Medievalist. Ed. Jane Chance. New York: Routledge, 2003. 225–36. Myers, Henry A., and Herwig Wolfram. “The Dual Origins of Medieval Kingship.” Medieval Kingship. Chicago: Nelson-Hall, 1982. Northrup, Clyde B. “The Qualities of a Tolkienian Fairy-Story.” Modern Fiction Studies 50: 1 (Winter 2004): 814–37. The Oxford English Dictionary. Being a Corrected Re-Issue with an Introduction, Supplement and Bibliography of a New English Dictionary on Historical Principles Founded Mainly on Materials Collected by the Philological Society. Vol. XII. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1933. Pearce, Joseph. Tolkien: Man and Myth. A Literary Life. London: HarperCollins, 1988. Reames, Sherry L. The Legenda aurea: A Reexamination of Its Paradoxical History. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985. Richmond, Velma Bourgeois. “Edward Burne-Jones’s Chaucer Portraits in the Kelmscott ‘Chaucer.’” Chaucer Review 40: 1 (2005): 1–38. Ryan, William Granger. “Introduction.” The Golden Legend: Readings on the Saints, Jacobus de Voragine. Trans. William Granger Ryan. Vol. I. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1933. Seybolt, Robert Francis. “Fifteenth Century Editions of the Legenda Aurea.” Speculum 21 (1946): 325–38. _____. “The Legenda Aurea, Bible, and Historia Ecclesiastica.” Speculum 21 (1946): 339–42. Tolkien, J.R.R. The Fellowship of the Ring. New York: Ballantine, 1965. _____. The Return of the King. New York: Ballantine Books, 1965. _____. The Two Towers. New York: Ballantine, 1965. Voragine, Jacobi de. Legenda Aurea, Vulgo Historia Lombardica Dicta. Trans. Theodore Graesse. Reproductio phototypica editionis tertiae 1890. Osnabruck: Otto Zeller Verlag, 1969. Zacour, Norman. An Introduction to Medieval Institutions. 2d ed. New York: Saint Martin’s, 1976.

She and Tolkien, Revisited

1

John D. Rateliff In a 1966 telephone interview, Henry Resnik asked J.R.R. Tolkien, “Could you name two or three of your favorite books? Do you have favorite books, either at the moment, or books that have endured over your span of reading?” To which the seventy-four-year-old Tolkien replied: No, I don’t think so. I think I was born with what you might call an inventive mind, and the books that have remained in my mind remain as those things which I acquired and don’t really seem much like the book itself. For instance, I now find that I can’t stand George McDonald [sic] books at any price at all. I find that now I can’t take him. The same with most books that I’ve read.2

Note that this puts Tolkien at a polar opposite from C.S. Lewis, who famously championed the re-reading of favorite books and once went so far as to express deep suspicions of those who read a book only once. [A]sking whether [someone] often re-reads the same story ... is ... a good test for every reader of every kind of book. An unliterary man may be defined as one who reads books only once.... If you find that [a] reader ... goes back to his old favourites again and again, then you have pretty good evidence that they are to him a sort of poetry [Lewis, “On Stories,” 102].

Tolkien’s experience as a reader, however, was clearly very different. Whereas Lewis was both a voracious reader of new books and found comfort in reading the same old favorites over and over again, a year after the Resnik interview Tolkien expressed much the same point as before in an interview with Charlotte and Denis Plimmer, where he is quoted as saying, “I don’t read much now, not even fairy-stories. And then I’m always looking for something I can’t find.” We asked what that was. He replied, “Something like what I wrote myself.” In a letter to the Plimmers commenting on the draft version of this passage,3 Tolkien clarified his remark: I read quite a lot — or more truly, try to read many books (notably so-called Science Fiction and Fantasy). But I seldom find any modern books that hold my attention. I suppose because I am under “inner” pressure to complete my own work — and

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because of the reason stated [in the interview]: “I am looking for something I can’t find.”4

Note Tolkien’s important caveat that here he is speaking about modern books — that is, light reading, as opposed to literature (in which he was wellversed) and medieval works such as Beowulf and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (which clearly held his lifelong attention and affection).5

The Sherd of Amenartas To return to the Resnik interview, it is striking that, after decrying a figure as seminal as George MacDonald in the revival of the English fairytale, Tolkien immediately turns to praise another author of the same era: H. Rider Haggard, saying: “I suppose as a boy She interested me as much as anything — like the Greek shard of Amynatas,6 which was the kind of machine by which everything got moving.” Now, by “machine” here Tolkien means neither a literal piece of nuts-and-bolts engineering of the type beloved of goblins nor a deus ex machina but a plot device,7 something along the lines of what Alfred Hitchcock liked to call a “McGuffin”— an item which, once encountered, jolts the protagonist out of his or her daily routine and into adventure and perils. And it is striking, given Tolkien’s comment, how strong the parallels are between the opening of Haggard’s book and the first two chapters of The Lord of the Rings. In each, we have an artifact of the ancient past (the Ring and the Sherd, respectively), thousands of years old, handed down from a previous generation (Uncle Bilbo and Leo’s father) that, after an initial chapter centered around a discussion between the current owner and a third party to make sure the item goes to the intended new recipient, lays quiescent for years (17 and 20, respectively) while its new owner grows to adulthood (figuratively in Frodo’s case, literally in Leo’s). Once the time comes and the ancient writing on each is properly deciphered, it reveals a dangerous legacy that causes the heroes to set out on a difficult journey east and south to resolve a crisis left unfinished millennia before, a quest implicit in taking ownership of the artifact once its provenance and significance have been established.8 Once Tolkien has drawn our attention to Haggard’s book, and the impact it had on him as an impressionable youth, it’s natural to ask whether it might have influenced Tolkien’s work in any other way, aside from the initial impetus provided by the Sherd and Ring. And I think the evidence strongly suggests that the answer is an unambiguous yes. And so for the rest of this piece I’d like to set out some of those parallels by exploring the links between The Lord of the Rings and H. Rider Haggard’s classic series about Ayesha, She-Who-

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Must-Be-Obeyed — not just the original book from 1887, but its sequel Ayesha (1905), set a generation later, and two prequels written in the last years of Haggard’s life, She and Allan (1921) and Wisdom’s Daughter (1923), with this last in fact being a prequel to the prequel.9 That Tolkien was familiar with Haggard’s work beyond the single novel mentioned in this interview is shown by his praise, in a lecture, of Haggard’s Viking story Eric Brighteyes (1891), which he referred to as being “as good as most sagas and as heroic”— high praise indeed.10 John Garth notes that “Haggard [was] a favourite in the King Edward’s [school] library,” citing a facetious “ban” the student librarians (Tolkien, Christopher Wiseman, and a friend) had placed on “Henty, Haggard, School Tales, etc. ... that can be read out in one breath”; this took place in 1911. Garth also offers evidence which suggests that “lost race” novels of the kind Haggard popularized were apparently a favorite of Tolkien’s, since in 1912 Tolkien gave his old school library a copy of Alexander MacDonald’s The Lost Explorers, a “Haggardesque” story set in the Great Outback (Garth, 77–78).11 That Tolkien did indeed read She “as a boy” (i.e., in his schoolboy days, before entering Oxford) is suggested by an August 1913 letter he wrote when serving as private tutor for three Mexican boys (and escort for their two aunts) on their month-long trip to Paris and Brittany. Reporting back to their guardian in England on August 20th, Tolkien wrote, “I have tried to find out what of the best, most readable, and least palpably ‘instructive’ of boy’s books they haven’t read. Many of these I have got in cheap editions ... such as King Solomon’s Mines [by Haggard, 1885], Kim [by Rudyard Kipling, 1901], and so forth ... [one of the boys] is now reading The White Company [by Conan Doyle, 1891]” (Scull and Hammond, 45). It would help if we knew what age these Mexican boys were, but still it shows that Tolkien must have been familiar with King Solomon’s Mines (like virtually everyone else of his generation) for him to have ranked it among the best “boy’s books” available. Finally, we have Roger Lancelyn Green’s account, regarding the period when Tolkien was supervising the revision of his B.Litt. thesis (Fall 1943): An author whom he, like C.S. Lewis and myself, ranked very high was Rider Haggard; and I was able to lend him at least one, The Wanderer’s Necklace [1914], which he had never read. But we failed to agree on its merits — probably Tolkien did not like Haggard’s treatment of the Viking background in the earlier parts of the story [Green, 7].

It sounds, from Green’s account, as if upon learning of a Haggard novel that he had not read, Tolkien promptly borrowed and read it; I suspect his lack of enthusiasm for it owed more to his having first read it as an adult rather than in boyhood, as had been the case with She —just as I suspect the main reason he could still praise She in 1966 was that he had not made the mistake

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of going back and re-reading a work he’d once liked decades before, as he had done with MacDonald just two years earlier. All in all, the evidence suggests that Tolkien’s familiarity with Haggard’s work went far beyond simply his two or three best-known works. It is thus entirely plausible that, having greatly enjoyed She, that he should have read its sequels as well.

Ayesha/Galadriel The most obvious parallel between Haggard’s work and Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings is between She herself— Ayesha, Wisdom’s Daughter, Hiya, Hesea, She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed — and Galadriel the Elven Queen, one of Tolkien’s most memorable characters. An exceedingly beautiful woman, so beautiful that all who see her remember the sight ever after, She rules over a small, isolated, ancient kingdom, the borders of which none are allowed to pass. Strangers are permitted entrance only if she has sent word beforehand to admit them, and even then they must make part of the journey blindfolded. Beautiful and terrible, worshipful but fearsome, she is not only wise and beautiful but also immortal. All of this description, down to the last detail, could also be said of Galadriel, who like She is immortal, wise, queenly, and beautiful beyond belief. They even share the same fault — too much pride and a desire to rule over the whole world. Each is veiled (literally in the case of She, figuratively with Galadriel) when our heroes first encounter them, but there is a telling scene in each case where each almost reveals herself as she really is, or as she might become, beautiful and terrifying and worshipful all at the same time.12 Another strong parallel lies in the Mirror of Galadriel. In The Lord of the Rings, this is described as “a low pedestal carved like a branching tree” upon which stands “a basin of silver, wide and shallow” filled with clear water (LotR, 380). In She (176), we are told of “a vessel like a font cut in carved stone ... full of pure water”; it is described in She and Allan as “a marble tripod on which stood a basin half full of water” (274). Both Galadriel and Ayesha use this “mirror” to show the heroes visions of distant places and use it themselves to see what is happening in the outer world. But although they are described in very similar terms, the two mirrors are not identical, and differ in several important aspects. Ayesha says of hers “[I]t is no magic.... There is no such thing as magic, though there is such a thing as knowledge of the hidden ways of Nature. This water is my glass; in it I see what passes when at times it is my will to summon it before me. Therein I can show thee what thou wilt of the past, if it be anything that has to do with this country and with what I have known, or anything that thou, the gazer, hast known. Think

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of a face if thou wilt, and it shall be reflected from thy mind upon the water. I know not all the secret yet — I can read nothing of the future. But it is an old secret; I did not find it” [She, 183].

Galadriel says of hers “Many things I can command the Mirror to reveal ... and to some I can show what they desire to see. But the Mirror will also show things unbidden, and those are often stranger and more profitable than things which we wish to behold. What you will see, if you leave the Mirror free to work, I cannot tell. For it shows things that were, and things that are, and things that yet may be. But which it is that he sees, even the wisest cannot always tell. Do you wish to look?” (LotR, 381). She also adds, “this is what your folk would call magic, I believe; though I do not understand clearly what they mean...” (loc. cit.). I think Tolkien’s having given Galadriel her Mirror when within his legendarium a crystal ball, one of the palantíri, would have done just as well, supports the case for a close association in his mind, consciously or otherwise, between the two women. This does not mean there are not important differences between Ayesha and Galadriel — there most certainly are, not least in physical description, Galadriel being renowned for her beautiful golden hair and Ayesha having lustrous black hair (both of which their admirers preserve a portion of and thereafter carry as a talisman). Unlike the passionate but eternally virginal She, who at the climax of Ayesha inadvertently stops her lover’s heart and slays him when they finally begin to consummate their union with a longdeferred kiss, Galadriel is a wife, mother, and grandmother (to Celeborn, Celebrían, and Arwen, respectively), beloved rather than feared by her people. Nor, despite the lurid imaginations of fanfic writers and at least one wouldbe Lord of the Rings scriptwriter,13 does the Elven queen fall in love with the travelers who visit her land, instead remaining coolly aloof (in this, she rather resembles Ayesha’s behavior towards Allan Quatermain in She and Allan than anything in the original novel She itself ). Nonetheless the similarities are striking, especially when we remember that one figure can inspire or influence the description of another without the two being, in any sense, the same character. A good example lies in another comparison often made concerning Galadriel, that between the elven queen and Mother Mary (the physical depiction of whom in traditional iconography is again entirely unlike that of Galadriel, with Mary’s dark hair and blue robes forming a striking contrast to Galadriel’s golden hair and dressing all in white). Tolkien himself never made this identification, although when it was pointed out to him by readers on at least three separate occasions he acknowledged that he could see their point. This is in keeping with Tolkien’s strong belief in what he called applicability (cf. LotR, 11): the idea that a reader can find analogies and applications in a story

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to his or her own life and knowledge that were not intended or planted there by the author.

Kôr It is the setting of She, the ruined city of Kôr, which presents what I think is the clearest case of Haggard’s influence on Tolkien. Indeed, Christopher Tolkien himself singles out Kôr as a likely borrowing in more than just name, writing that while “[t]here is no external evidence [that Tolkien took the name Kôr from Haggard’s She], ... it can hardly be doubted. In this case it might be thought that since the African Kôr was a city built on the top of a great mountain standing in isolation the relationship was more than purely ‘phonetic’” (LT2, 329).14 Haggard’s Kôr stands in the center of a green plain which is completely surrounded by a ring of mountains. The plain and mountains are the remains of an enormous volcano whose crater once contained a great lake. The way to reach the ruined city is to go through a long tunnel which has a stream flowing through it. In addition, there is a secret, hidden path over the surrounding mountains which the heroes use as an escape route at the end of the book (She, 151, 380–381). This description of Kôr would also be an excellent description of the hidden vale of Tumladen and the city of Gondolin, as depicted by Tolkien in the drawing Gondolin & the Vale of Tumladen from Cristhorn (Pictures by J.R.R. Tolkien, Plate 35; Hammond and Scull, #58) and described in The Silmarillion as built on a low hill in the center of a green plain (once a great lake), surrounded by the Encircling Mountains. Gondolin can only be reached by “a deep way under the mountains delved in the darkness of the world by waters that flowed out to join the streams of Sirion” (S, 125). When Gondolin is finally attacked and destroyed, the survivors of the battle escape by a secret path over the mountains (243). Curiously enough, in the original version of his myth, the Eärendel poems and cycle of poems which made up The Trumpets of Faery (1914–1916), Tolkien applied the name “Kôr” not to Gondolin but to the original city of the Elves in Faery (Eldamar), which in later versions of the legendarium came to be called Tirion upon Túna. In fact, he applied the name to not one but two cities: first the original Kôr in Eldamar, which is abandoned by the Exiles and left empty thereafter, and to a new city built in its image by the Exiles called Kortirion, this being at the earliest stage of the mythology the lost Elven name for Warwick — which English town is, so far as I have been able to determine, not geographically like Haggard’s Kôr in any way — being inland, on a river (the Avon), and definitely not surrounded by mountains

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(cf. LT2, 291–292). We have a vivid description of Kortirion as it now appears (i.e., in the early years of in the twentieth century) in Tolkien’s 1915 poem “Kortirion Among the Trees” (heavily revised in 1937 and again in 1962; cf. LT1, 33–43), and for the elven Kôr itself we have both a poem (in fact, a sonnet; reprinted in Garth, 79) and a remarkable painting of the abandoned city (Hammond and Scull, #44) which shows a white city on a black hill that, unlike Haggard’s Kôr, was on the coast by the sea (this painting’s title being in fact The Shores of Faery); a second picture, titled Tanaqui, (Hammond and Scull, #43) dates from about the same time or possibly very slightly earlier and probably shows the same scene from a different angle.15 Thus Tolkien can be seen to be freely borrowing from Haggard yet immediately giving what he borrows a whole new application within his own mythology; we also see that Tolkien’s borrowings go back to the very earliest stages of the legendarium, even predating the composition of The Book of Lost Tales.

Proto-Númenóreans Besides the obvious similarities between the descriptions of Kôr and Gondolin, Kôr and its people are also strongly reminiscent of Tolkien’s Númenóreans, whose history is briefly recounted in the Akallabêth (S, 259– 282) and in Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings and, at more length, in “The Fall of Númenor” and the unfinished novel The Lost Road, and in The Notion Club Papers and its associated texts, such as “The Drowning of Anadûnê.” Like the people of Kôr, the Númenóreans ruled the world and, like them, they were obsessed with tombs and death. She describes the mountains surrounding Kôr as being almost completely hollowed out to serve as tombs. Like the people of Kôr, the Númenóreans and their descendants possessed the secret of preserving bodies for ages in perfect condition (unlike the Egyptians, who were forced to disembowel their mummies). Both the Númenóreans and the people of Kôr turned to evil in the end, after thousands of years of glorious civilization,16 and cults of human sacrifice arose in both lands. As a result, in Kôr “Heaven smote the people with a mighty pestilence, so that they perished and perished till few were left. Thus Kôr fell by the sword of God” (Wisdom’s Daughter, 220).17 Númenor, Tolkien’s Atlantis, was also destroyed by God (Ilúvatar himself ) as a result of its evil, suddenly cast down into the sea (S, 278–281). In both Haggard and Tolkien, though, a few escaped the disaster: some evil and some good. According to Haggard, some of those who fled Kôr to escape the plague were the ancestors of the ancient Egyptians, who preserved fragments of Kôr’s culture but could not equal their homeland’s achievements (She, 216–219, 221). In Tolkien’s myth, the Númenóreans who

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escaped the drowning of their homeland founded a North Kingdom and a South Kingdom, Arnor and Gondor, which nicely parallel the two kingdoms of Upper and Lower Egypt. Tolkien once wrote of their descendants, “[t]he Númenóreans of Gondor were proud, peculiar, and archaic, and I think they are best pictured in (say) Egyptian terms. In many ways they resembled ‘Egyptians’— the love of, and power to construct, the gigantic and massive. And in their great interest in ancestry and in tombs” (Letters, 281). All in all, it seems safe to say that both Tolkien and Haggard present their own ur–Egyptian peoples, whose backstories share considerable affinities.

Leo and Ayesha / Beren and Lúthien Haggard’s story may have also played a contributing part in helping to inspire or shape the story that meant the most to Tolkien: the legend of Beren and Lúthien. The love of an immortal for a mortal, or between two people belonging to different states of being, with the woman always belonging to the ‘higher’ race and the man to the ‘lower,’ occurs again and again in both Tolkien’s legendarium and throughout Ayesha and Wisdom’s Daughter, along with the consequences thereof. Referring to the Biblical passage about how “the sons of Heaven came down to the daughters of men, and found that they were fair,” the re-incarnated Ayesha says of herself, “might it not have chanced that once a daughter of Heaven came down to a man of Earth and loved him well?” (Ayesha, 272–273). This is exactly what happens in The Silmarillion when Lúthien’s mother, a Maia (angel), wed her father, a king of elves (S, 55–56), taking on an incarnate form to do so. Their child, Lúthien, was royal, divine, immortal, and the “most beautiful of all living things” (Ibid., 183). She was far above any mortal man but, like Ayesha, she fell in love with the man who loved her, and when he died, she died as well, preferring to join him in death than to live without him (Ibid., 186). Ayesha says to her love, after they have been separated by death (first his, then hers, and then reunited in re-incarnate forms), “come what may, never, never more shall we be separate who are ordained one. Whilst thou livest I live at thy side, and when thou diest, if die thy [sic] must, I’ll follow thee through worlds and firmaments, nor shall all the doors of heaven or hell avail against my love. Where thou goest, thither I will go.” (Ayesha, 345). And when he does die, Ayesha sends a messenger to him, bidding him to tell her love to “await me in the Gate of Death where it is granted that I greet him presently.” (Ayesha, 349). Compare this with Lúthien’s words to the dying Beren —“[She] kissed him, bidding him await her beyond the Western Sea” (S, 186). We know Tolkien had other inspirations for the Beren and Lúthien story, not least in his personal

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autobiography, but these parallel loves of Ayesha and Lúthien Tinúviel may have shaped some elements of the Lúthien legend as it developed and the form its climax ultimately took.

Quantified Immortality A more direct, and potentially greater, influence may come in one of Tolkien’s signature contributions to the fantasy genre: the idea of quantified immortality. Most readers of The Hobbit are surprised to learn that the woodelves are immortal but can be killed — that is, that their lifespan is potentially limitless but this does not make them immune to death by violence — a unique construction on Tolkien’s part that carried over into The Lord of the Rings and the rest of his Middle-earth legendarium. In a 1964 BBC radio interview, Tolkien clarified, “I had to use the word ‘immortal’ [to describe the elves]. I didn’t mean that they were eternally immortal, merely that they’re very longeval, and their longevity probably lasted as long as the inhabitability of the Earth.”18 This innovation has since been so widely adapted by fantasy authors following Tolkien that its stunning conceptual break of establishing a third intermediate state between being mortal and the immortality of the Gods is now easy to overlook. It is thus startling to find that Tolkien’s conception owes much to Haggard — an author known for his action-adventure plots, not his ideas (cf. C.S. Lewis’s swipe, “If she is really Wisdom’s Daughter, she did not take after her parent”).19 In She, Ayesha patiently explains to Holly and later to Leo that she is not truly “immortal” in the sense of living forever, merely that she will live as long as Nature itself lives (what Tolkien in the quote above called “the inhabitability of the Earth”). That Nature can die, she says, is indicated by the Moon, whose Nature has indeed died: Tell me, stranger ... why ... should not life be lengthened for a while? What are ten or twenty or fifty thousand years in the history of life?... Life is wonderful, ay, but that it should be a little lengthened is not wonderful. Nature hath her animating spirit as well as man ... and he who can find that spirit, and let it breathe upon him, shall live with her life. He shall not live eternally, for Nature is not eternal, and she herself must die, even as the nature of the moon hath died ... and while [Nature] lives, so shall he who hath all her secret live with her [She, 182].20

Even the idea of The Gift of Man might owe a little to Haggard’s depiction of She as someone cursed with immortality, who after she has lost her stillmortal lover to untimely death is forced to live on century after century until he is reborn (Haggard, unlike Tolkien, being a believer in re-incarnation21). When he ultimately dies again, she unhesitatingly joins him in death, now

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enabled to do so by the fact that she has just taken on a fully mortal form by becoming his wife (Ayesha, 343–345); Lúthien too has just married Beren (cf. S, 185) very shortly before his death, whereupon she follows him into the darkness. Certainly Holly, the narrator of both She and Ayesha, is firm in his renunciation of unending life: Who would endure ... for many lives?... It is hard to die.... But harder still, to my thought, would it be to live on, green in the leaf and fair, but dead and rotten at the core.... Nay, O She, I will live my day and grow old with my generation, and die my appointed death, and be forgotten. For I do hope for an immortality ... which my faith doth promise me ... free from the bonds that here must tie my spirit down [She, 304–305].22

The point here being that immortality is unnatural for beings meant to be mortal, like humans and hobbits, and attempts to alter their fundamental nature in this way tend not to turn out well, as the examples of Gollum (“endless unmarked days without light or hope of betterment”) and the Nazgûl show. Elessar’s dying words (LotR, 1100) seem to me to accord well with Holly’s, and with those of the ancient sage Noot, who had been Ayesha’s mentor in the distant past before she entered the Flame and became immortal, himself refusing to do the same and at length dying a natural death, saying “Ill [is] it for man to live [i.e., live forever], for man is born to die” (She, 339).

Beyond She: Diffused Influence of Other Haggards Beyond significant elements — characters, settings, themes, etc.— such as the ones enumerated above, any reader of The Lord of the Rings who turns to Haggard’s books (or, contrariwise, any reader of Haggard who looks at The Lord of the Rings) will find each writer’s work full of echoes of the other.23 For example, just within the She series, both Haggard and Tolkien claimed that they were only editing tales written by the characters themselves (cf. Haggard’s Introduction to She and Tolkien’s Prologue to The Lord of the Rings).24 Their heroes cross swamps filled with fen fire (She, 109, 148 ) or corpse candles (LotR, 652ff ) and have a fondness for tobacco, their pipes causing great astonishment among the peoples they meet (She, 102; LotR, 580–581). Both She (252–253) and LotR (819–821, 908–911) contain descriptions of the March of the Dead, and the description of She’s sudden aging and death (She, 355– 357) is very similar to the sudden aging of Saruman’s body after he is killed by Gríma Wormtongue (LotR, 1058). There is even, I think, an echo of the One Ring in She and Allan when Allan Quatermain is given a magic amulet which he is warned to keep safe. He wears it on a chain around his neck and keeps it hidden under his shirt, only bringing it out on rare occasions or at

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great need. Soon after he receives it, an old wizard tells him he will not be able to throw it away even if he wanted to and challenges him to try. I did try, but something seemed to prevent me from accomplishing my purpose of giving the carving back to Zikali as I wished to do. First my pipe got in the way of my hand, then the elephant hairs caught in the collar of my coat; then a pang of rheumatism to which I was accustomed from an old injury, developed of a sudden in my left arm, and lastly I grew tired of bothering about the thing. Zikali, who had been watching my movements, burst out into one of his terrible laughs... [She and Allan, 11; compare to LotR, 74].

Nor are these echoes limited merely to the She series. We have already seen that the evidence suggests Tolkien was well acquainted with, and welldisposed towards, Haggard’s work as a whole (e.g., the Roger Lancelyn Green anecdote cited earlier). Many25 have found echoes of King Solomon’s Mines (1885), Haggard’s best-known work, in The Lord of the Rings, particularly in comparisons between Umbopa and Strider, both hidden kings who come into their own in the course of their respective stories, and between Gagool the witch-doctor and Gollum, for their malicious cunning and eccentric behavior; the scene in which one of the four adventurers, a pudgy fellow named Captain Good, almost dies from a spear-thrust but is saved by the excellence of his hidden mail-shirt has also been cited as a possible inspiration of Frodo’s similarly narrow escape in Moria. Allan Quatermain (1886), the third of Haggard’s three most popular works, is also occasionally cited more for the character of Quatermain himself, whom some see as hobbit-like, than for any specific plot-points — yet Rhona Beare has suggested it as a possible source for the Mouth of Sauron, the flets or talan of Lothlórien, and the description of Sauron’s temple on Númenor.26 Ranging further afield, Robert Giddings and Elizabeth Holland sought Tolkienian echoes in lesser-known works of Haggard’s like Cleopatra (1889) and When the World Shook (1919). More recently, Dale Nelson has been particularly assiduous in seeking for Haggard/Tolkien analogies, first in his section on Haggard in his contribution to the J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia, “Literary Influences, Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries,” which not only covers King Solomon’s Mines, She, and Ayesha but also Eric Brighteyes, Heu-Heu (1924), and The Treasure of the Lake (1926), and one short story to which we will return in a minute, and then in a follow-up article published last year in Mallorn (called simply “Tolkien’s Further Indebtedness to Haggard”), which adds Montezuma’s Daughter (1893), Heart of the World (1896),27 and Red Eve (1911) to the tally. Frankly, most of these suggested influences have so far failed to convince me that the elements put forward as borrowings are anything more than common ground shared by all adventure stories, with a few possible exceptions (e.g., Quatermain’s retreat into a cave to avoid a thunderstorm in

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Heu-Heu). One suspects that if fourteen of Haggard’s novels have thus far been plumbed as possible sources for Tolkien, it is only a matter of time before some determined researcher examines the remaining fifty-four books (fiction and non-fiction) as well — indeed, it’s rather surprising that no one, so far as I know, has picked up on Roger Lancelyn Green’s clue regarding The Wanderer’s Necklace, which we not only know Tolkien read but can date when he read it to within a few months. It would be easy to conclude that we are getting into an area of diminished returns once we move beyond the “big three”: She, King Solomon’s Mines, and perhaps Allan Quatermain, but the presence of strong parallels in the lesser-known books of the She series suggests this may not be the case, a point supported by one of Nelson’s discoveries that deserves to be better known. This is the 1886 short story “Long Odds,” which explains how Hunter Quatermain got his limp. The story itself, about a vicious vendetta Quatermain undertakes for petty reasons to single-handedly wipe out an entire family of lions that once embarrassed him, cubs and all, makes for unpleasant reading to modern audiences (most of whom will probably be rooting for the lions)— a good example of why Haggard has had his day and is unlikely to see his lost popularity revive anytime soon. But as Nelson points out, the story contains one remarkable analogue to Tolkien: Quatermain ends up with a badly wounded leg (an injury inflicted by the last mortally-wounded member of the massacred pride) that leaves him with a permanent limp, and we are told that every March thereafter, this being the month in which the injury originally occurred, the old injury troubles him again — all of which is very like Frodo’s recurrent troubles on the anniversaries of the attack on Weathertop and the destruction of the Ring, the latter of which also occurs every March. Given the obscurity of this story (one of nineteen Haggard wrote about the same character) and the strength of the parallel, this suggests that there may still be more to the Haggard-Tolkien connection yet undiscovered.

Conclusion: Influencing Tolkien In the end, I personally have no doubt that Haggard did indeed influence Tolkien — not in any systematic way, but in providing vivid characters and settings which Tolkien mentally took note of, added to his creative stock-pot, and later put to good use in his own works. It’s difficult to convey this feeling of indebtedness; reading Haggard’s books, we feel we’re in familiar territory and are unsurprised by how much this or that detail, too many to take note of in passing, reminds us of something in Tolkien. But to anyone who has not read the Haggards for themselves, a mere listing of similar motifs and

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turns of phrase sounds unconvincing. I hope that by pointing out those parallels that I found most striking, I have at least made the case for why I think She and its sequels should be taken seriously as one of Tolkien’s sources, both for The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion. The true value of the exercise, for me, is for the light it casts about the way Tolkien interacted with his sources, the way he re-worked material. He himself spoke in those various interviews cited in the beginning of this piece about how what he took away from works he read was transformed by his “inventive mind.” It’s the working of that inventive mind that most interests me, the creative alchemy by which Tolkien transformed whatever he took from his sources into something new and distinctively Tolkienesque. The Lord of the Rings is a greater work than anything Haggard ever wrought, but Haggard deserves recognition for having contributed his bit to the overall edifice. If Tolkien fans owe any debt to Haggard, it is that his books were a major source among the many from which Tolkien drew inspiration for his masterpiece.

NOTES 1. The original form of this essay, “She and Tolkien,” appeared in the journal Mythlore in the summer of 1981. In thoroughly revising it for this re-publication, I have retained some sections but dropped others and have taken this opportunity to add more, since more relevant material has become available in the interim (e.g., The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien and the entire History of Middle-earth series). Mine was, I believe, the first piece to investigate Tolkien’s debt to Haggard, aside from Lin Carter’s drawing readers’ attention to it in passing in Tolkien: A Look Behind The Lord of the Rings (1969), but very shortly after it appeared both Jared Lobdell’s and Robert Giddings and Elizabeth Holland’s books came out, showing that all four of us had been working along the same lines, though with very different goals and methods. I have not attempted to survey all the scholarship on the Tolkien/Haggard connection that has been published since my original piece but have cited from it where relevant. 2. “An Interview with Tolkien,” Niekas 18 (Spring 1967). This interview took place via a half-hour trans–Atlantic telephone call on March 2, 1966. Tolkien goes on to decry any influence from Charles Williams (“I’ve read a good many [of his books], but I don’t like them .... I disliked his whole Arthurian business with great intensity and considered it rather nonsense”) and, later in the same interview, called MacDonald “a horrible old grandmother.” I am grateful to Charles Noad for having first drawn this interview to my attention back in 1981. 3. The original draft of this passage seems to have run: “I don’t read much now, except for fairy-stories. I’m always looking for something I can’t find ... Something like what I wrote myself. There’s nothing like being vain, is there?” For more on the “being vain” comment, see Letters, 378, in which he goes on to describe his bargain with Lewis to write stories of the kind they liked to read to try to help fill the gap in what was being published. And see also Glyer and Long, later in the present volume. 4. Tolkien immediately added a note to this letter mentioning exceptions, such as “all that E.R. Eddison wrote,” John Christopher’s The Death of Grass (1956), “the S.F. of Isaac Azimov” [sic], and above all Mary Renault’s historical novels, specifically the two Theseus books, The King Must Die (1958) and The Bull from the Sea (1962). He also elsewhere comments in passing on the Peter Wimsey (Letters, 82) and Father Brown series (Kilby, 26), making it clear that he occasionally read detective novels — all of which shows that the seventy-five-year-old Tolkien was not nearly as detached as his initial comment might suggest.

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5. A few years later (1971, when he was almost eighty), Tolkien was among a number of authors asked “Which book or books were your favorites or influenced you most as a teenager and why,” to which he replied: “Teenage is a long period and there is a vast gap between one’s thirteenth birthday and one’s twentieth. I can name no book that influenced me deeply as a book. I found certain elements in books that I liked and stored away in memory. During most of this period I was not interested in ‘literature.’ In the early part of this period things I read with most pleasure were mostly scientific in reference, especially botany and astronomy. My most treasured volume was [C.A.] Johns’ Flowers of the Field [1853], an account of the flora of the British Isles” (Penzler, xii, 43, emphasis mine). 6. Like the earlier misspelling of “MacDonald” as McDonald, “Shard of Amynatas” is of course Resnik’s error for “Sherd of Amenartas,” as it is actually called in Haggard’s book; clearly the reporter was unfamiliar with the novel and made the best guess he could transcribing what Tolkien said (elsewhere in the interview he complains about the poor quality of the phone connection). 7. Cf. the OED’s entry on “machine,” where the definition most applicable to Tolkien’s usage here, number 7, reads in part as follows: “in literary use: A contrivance for the sake of effect”— i.e., what we would nowadays call a literary device (The Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. I, 1987). 8. Interestingly enough, this parallelism is not at all evident in the earliest draft, which contained nothing to correspond to the chapter later known as “Ancient History” (and eventually in the published book “The Shadow of the Past”). All this background information, so strongly reminiscent of Haggard’s book, is entirely absent in Tolkien’s First Phase (see Shadow, 250ff ), indeed not being added until the Second Phase, after the initial draft of “The New Hobbit” had reached as far as Rivendell. 9. Haggard at one point, before writing the two late prequels, contemplated writing yet another She book which would have continued the story from the point where all three of the main characters are dead, in the form of an Afterlife Romance that would have been a more or less direct sequel to Ayesha. He writes in his wartime diary: “Alas! I have to give up my proposed ‘She’ story. It will not do. My hands are too tied by the contents of She and Ayesha. Also it is impossible to keep up interest in a tale laid beyond the confines of our Earth, since before it the average human imagination fails. So there’s an end of She! ... On the whole I am glad I attempted the sequel, dangerous as it was. But there I think the venture had better end, although I had thought of some celestial — or infernal — scenes” (The Private Diaries of Sir H. Rider Haggard, entry for 15 November 1917, 121). For a hint of what these celestial/infernal scenes might have been like, see the opening chapter of Wisdom’s Daughter, which reports a confrontation between the goddesses Isis and Aphrodite which results in Aphrodite’s curse upon Ayesha, here depicted as a pre-incarnate angelic servant of Isis. 10. This information comes from the “Author Notes and Recommended Reading” entry on Haggard in Douglas A. Anderson’s Tales Before Tolkien: The Roots of Modern Fantasy, 430. 11. In support of this partiality, we have Tolkien’s 1938 letter — written about the time he was drafting the “Ancient History” chapter — to Stanley Unwin urging him to publish Lewis’s Out of the Silent Planet as a superior example of the “vera historia journey to a strange land” tale. Tolkien states “I am extremely fond of the genre, even having read [Joseph O’Neill’s] Land Under England [1935] with pleasure (though it was a weak example, and distasteful to me in many points)” (Letters, 33, emphasis mine). 12. Compare the two following passages: “She [Ayesha] began slowly to stroke her abundant hair, then her breast and body. Wherever her fingers passed the mystic light was born, until in that darkened room — for the dusk was gathering — she shimmered from head to foot like the water of a phosphorescent sea, a being glorious yet fearful to behold. Then she waved her hand, and, save for the gentle radiance on her brow, became as she had been” (Ayesha, 272). Compared to: “She [Galadriel] lifted up her hand and from the ring that she wore there issued a great light that illuminated her alone and left all else dark. She stood before Frodo seeming now tall beyond measurement, and beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful. Then she let her hand fall, and the light faded, and suddenly she laughed again, and lo! she was shrunken: a slender

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elf-woman, clad in simple white, whose gentle voice was soft and sad” (LotR, 385). This is a theme Tolkien makes much more use of than Haggard; compare also the scene in Chapter I of The Lord of the Rings, in which Bilbo is threatened with the sight of “Gandalf the Grey uncloaked” (46) and also Frodo’s glimpse of Glorfindel “as he is upon the other side” (239), as “a shining figure of white light” (231). 13. In John Boorman’s ca. 1970 film script for his unproduced movie, all the members of the Fellowship vie for Galadriel’s attentions, with Frodo being the ultimate recipient of her sexual favors. A copy of this script is now in the Tolkien Collection at Marquette University (Series 8, Box 2, Folder 1); cf. 69–76. 14. Christopher here is responding to a point made in his father’s 1967 letter to Mr. Rang regarding source studies, in which Tolkien asserts that simply identifying the real-world source of a name used in his work will reveal little about Tolkien’s use of the name within his legendarium. That is, researching the history of the Sumerian town Erech will reveal little about the Númenórean Stone of Erech. (For more on Erech, see Birns elsewhere in this volume.) There are of course exceptions to this, as Tolkien himself acknowledges in the case of Eärendel (Letters, 384–385); Christopher Tolkien is suggesting that the use of Kôr (complete with circumflex!) is another such exception, where his father borrowed more than just the name. 15. John Garth dates the sonnet to April 30, 1915 (79); Hammond and Scull date the Kortirion painting to May 10, 1915 (Artist and Illustrator, 47). 16. According to “The Tale of Years,” 3287 years for the Númenóreans, from their arrival on the Island of Gift until its Downfall (LotR, 1120–1121), while the last inscription describing Kôr’s abandonment is dated in the 4,803th year of the city (She, 218). 17. In She we are merely told that a pestilence struck the land and decimated the people; in Wisdom’s Daughter Haggard, who cared no more for consistency from story to story in a series than did his contemporary Conan Doyle in his Sherlock Holmes stories, (see also She and Allan [169–170] for yet another contradictory account) reveals instead that the people of Kôr had been struck down for apostasy, human sacrifice, and cannibalism — the first two, of course, also being characteristics of late Númenórean culture under Ar-Pharazôn. 18. This interview, with the BBC Radio’s Denys Gueroult, was recorded on January 20, 1965, but not broadcast until December 16, 1970 (Scull and Hammond, 628, 751). An audiotape recording of the broadcast was released in cassette form as part of the BBC Cassettes series (ca. 1980), distributed in the United States by Audio-Forum of Guildford, Connecticut. Tolkien later elaborated the extent and limitations of elven immortality at much greater length (but still agreeing in essence with Haggard’s conception) in the long essay “Laws and Customs Among the Eldar,” probably dating from the late 1950s; this essay is reprinted in Morgoth, 207– 253. 19. Lewis’s quip comes from his 1960 review of Morton Cohen’s biography of Haggard, reprinted in the collection On Stories (1982) as “The Mythopoeic Gift of Rider Haggard”; see in particular pages 98–99. In the review, Lewis praises Haggard’s storytelling gift —“what story in the world opens better than She?”— but criticizes him for not taking more time and care with his work (i.e., writing his novels too quickly) and for what Lewis saw as his “intellectual defects” (i.e., his “vaguely Christian, theosophical and spiritualistic notions”). It is worth noting that Lewis not only contrasts She with Ayesha (arguing that the latter is “not such good myth” but “better written”) but alludes to events in She and Allan (“Allan Quatermain neither succumbs to the charms of Ayesha nor believes her ‘tall’ autobiographical stories”) and references the title of Wisdom’s Daughter, suggesting familiarity with all four books. 20. Haggard follows this up in two later passages, both of which re-enforce the same point (She, 289, 339). The point about the Moon’s Nature having died, and with it all life on that orb, is also alluded to again near the end of the book (349). 21. That Haggard extended his belief in reincarnation beyond his fiction into real life is indicated by the essay “A Note on Religion,” written December 16, 1912, and appended as a final chapter onto his autobiography (The Days of My Life, 234–260). See in particular his discussion of individual souls undergoing multiple reincarnations (241–243). Haggard goes on to expound upon his theory that the apparent chaos of life can only be explained as part of larger

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pattern extending across many incarnations, and to reject the idea of a final judgment and eternal consignment to Heaven or Hell on the basis of a single lifetime’s deeds. 22. It is only fair to note that Holly is unable to stand by his principles when actually in the presence of the immortality-granting Flame of Life, where he reverses his earlier vow (much to She’s amusement) and declares “there is that in my heart which calleth me to taste of the flame, and live” (351). 23. Jared Lobdell, in an essay titled “Defining The Lord of the Rings: An Adventure Story in the Edwardian Mode,” goes so far as to “argue, with some confidence, that in The Lord of the Rings Tolkien set out to write an adventure story of the Rider Haggard sort” (15). This I think rather overstates things. I would argue, for example, that the opening chapters owe more to Hugh Lofting and Kenneth Grahame than Haggard, Chesterton, or Blackwood, much less Conan Doyle and Saki (all named by Lobdell as exemplars for the kind of book he thinks Tolkien had in mind), just as the inn-at-Bree chapters seem to me to carry more than a hint of John Buchan’s style of thriller. In any case, The Lord of the Rings contains so many different styles within its thousand-plus pages that limiting it to a single previous genre or mode seems an unduly limiting exercise. 24. Mark Hooker has dubbed this motif “The Feigned-manuscript Topos” and gives seventeen examples in his essay of the same name collected in his book A Tolkienian Mathomium, 153–177; the first author he deals with therein is none other than Haggard himself (155–159). 25. See, for example, Giddings and Holland, Nelson, Hooker, Rogers and Underwood, and Green. The latter has argued, rather unconvincingly, that King Solomon’s Mines provided the template upon which Tolkien based The Hobbit. 26. Personal correspondence, ca. 1981. I am also indebted to Dr. Beare for having first brought to my attention Tolkien’s use of the name “Kôr,” specifically in the excerpt from “The Lay of Eärendel” (ca. 1915) printed in Biography (77). 27. Mark Hooker also devotes a paragraph to Heart of the World in his “Feigned-manuscript Topos” essay; see A Tolkienian Mathomium, 158–159.

WORKS CONSULTED Anderson, Douglas A. The Annotated Hobbit. 2d ed., rev. and exp. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2002. _____, ed. Tales Before Tolkien: The Roots of Modern Fantasy. New York: Ballantine, 2003. Boorman, John, and Rospo Pallenberg. J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Unproduced screenplay, circa 1970. Marquette Tolkien Collection. Series 8, Box 2, Folder 1. Carpenter, Humphrey. Tolkien: A Biography. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1977. Carter, Lin. Tolkien: A Look Behind The Lord of the Rings. New York: Ballantine, 1969. Garth, John. Tolkien and the Great War: The Threshold of Middle-earth. London: HarperCollins, 2003. Giddings, Robert, and Elizabeth Holland. J.R.R. Tolkien: The Shores of Middle-earth. London: Junction, 1981. Green, Roger Lancelyn. “Recollections.” Amon Hen 44 (May 1980): 6–8. Green, William H. “King Thorin’s Mines: The Hobbit as Victorian Adventure Novel.” Extrapolation 42.1 (Spring 2001): 53–64. Gueroult, Denys. “Tolkien.” Radio BBC Oxford interview with J.R.R. Tolkien. Released as Aside of audiocassette “Tolkien and Basil Bunting.” BBC Cassettes series. Guilford, CT: Audio-Forum, [1980?]. Haggard, H. Rider. Allan Quatermain. In She/King Solomon’s Mines/Allan Quatermain: Three Adventure Novels of H. Rider Haggard. New York: Dover, 1951 [1886]. 416–636. _____. Ayesha: The Return of She. New York: Grosset and Dunlap, 1905. _____. King Solomon’s Mines. New York: Barnes and Noble, 2004 [1885]. _____. “Long Odds.” The Complete Allan Quatermain Series: 18 Books and Stories in One Volume. Halcyon Classics, 2009.

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_____. “A Note on Religion.” The Days of My Life: An Autobiography. Ed. C.J. Longman. London: Longmans, Green, 1926. Vol. II. 234–260. _____. The Private Diaries of Sir H. Rider Haggard 1914 –1925. Ed. D.S. Higgins. New York: Stern and Day, 1980. _____. She. New York and Boston: Books, Inc., [n.d.; 1887]. _____. She and Allan. New York: Ballantine, 1978 [1921]. _____. Wisdom’s Daughter: The Life and Love Story of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. New York: Ballantine, 1978 [1923]. Hammond, Wayne G., and Christina Scull. J.R.R. Tolkien: Artist and Illustrator. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1995. Hooker, Mark T. A Tolkien Mathomium: A Collection of Articles on J.R.R. Tolkien and His Legendarium. N.p.: Llyfrawr, 2006. Lewis, C.S. “The Mythopoeic Gift of Rider Haggard” On Stories and Other Essays on Literature. Ed. Walter Hooper. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1982. 97–100. _____. “On Stories.” Essays Presented to Charles Williams. Ed. C.S. Lewis. London: Oxford University Press, 1947. 90–104. Lobdell, Jared. “Defining The Lord of the Rings: An Adventure Story in the Edwardian Mode.” England and Always: Tolkien’s World of the Rings. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1981. 3– 25. Nelson, Dale. “Literary Influences, Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries.” J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical Assessment. Ed. Michael D. C. Drout. New York: Routledge, 2006. 366–378. _____. “Tolkien’s Further Indebtedness to Haggard.” Mallorn 47 (Spring 2009): 38–40. The Oxford English Dictionary, Compact Edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971. Penzler, Otto M., and Byrne, Evelyn B., ed. Attacks of Taste. New York: Gotham Book Mart, 1971. Rateliff, John D. “She and Tolkien.” Mythlore 28 (Summer 1981): 6–8. Resnik, Henry. “An Interview with Tolkien.” Niekas 18 (Spring 1967): 37–47. Rogers, William N., II, and Michael R. Underwood. “Gagool and Gollum: Exemplars of Degeneration in King Solomon’s Mines and The Hobbit.” J.R.R. Tolkien and His Literary Resonances: Views of Middle-earth. Ed. George Clark and Daniel Timmons. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2000. 121–131. Scull, Christina and Wayne G. Hammond. The J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide, Vol. 1: Chronolog y. London: HarperCollins, 2006. Tolkien, J.R.R. The Book of Lost Tales, Part I. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1984. _____. The Book of Lost Tales, Part II. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1984. _____. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien. Ed. Humphrey Carpenter. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981. _____. The Lord of the Rings. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1991. _____. The Lost Road and Other Writings: Language and Legend Before “The Lord of the Rings.” Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: Unwin Hyman, 1987. _____. Morgoth’s Ring: The Later Silmarillion, Part One: The Legends of Aman. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: HarperCollins, 1993. _____. Pictures by J.R.R. Tolkien. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1979. _____. The Return of the Shadow: The History of The Lord of the Rings, Part One. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: Unwin Hyman, 1988. _____. Sauron Defeated: The End of the Third Age. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: HarperCollins, 1992. _____. The Silmarillion. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1977.

Reading John Buchan in Search of Tolkien 1

Mark T. Hooker In his biography of J.R.R. Tolkien, Humphrey Carpenter notes that in the limited amount of time Tolkien could apply to the reading of fiction, he “preferred the lighter contemporary novels,” of which he gives the stories of John Buchan (1875–1940) as an example (184). Even a cursory survey of Buchan’s novels reveals a wealth of recognizable moments for the reader who met Tolkien first. Buchan’s Hannay novels are his most famous.2 Tolkien would have had every reason to empathize with Buchan’s redoubtable spy Richard Hannay, because the biographies of the two have a number of significant similarities. Hannay was born in Scotland ca. 1877 and emigrated to South Africa with his father at age six. Tolkien’s father emigrated to South Africa in 1889, and Tolkien was born in Bloemfontein in 1892. Tolkien returned to England in 1895. Hannay only returns in 1914, whereupon he becomes involved in his first adventure, The Thirty-Nine Steps (1915). Both Tolkien and Hannay were staunch English patriots, and served as line officers during World War I. Hannay is assigned to the Lennox Highlanders, but is wounded by shrapnel during the Loos offensive (September 1915) and sent back to Hampshire to convalesce. This event marks the start of his second adventure Greenmantle (1916), after which he is returned to the front. During the Battle of the Somme (1 July–18 November 1916), Hannay gets “a crack in [his] head and a D.S.O.”3 on 15 September, and is again returned to England to recuperate. This event is the lead-in to his third adventure, Mr. Standfast (1919). Tolkien served in the Lancashire Fusiliers, arriving in France just in time for the Battle of the Somme, where 19,240 British troops were killed on the first day of the Battle (1 July). He developed “trench fever” in October 1916, and was evacuated to Birmingham. Buchan’s descriptions of Hannay’s war covered a lot of the same geographic territory that Tolkien covered during his time at the front, and if Tolkien read the Hannay novels, he would certainly 162

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have been able to clearly picture the locales of their action. In addition, Tolkien was a linguist who, in his own writings, demonstrated an acute sensitivity for the language or dialect each character spoke. In his lecture “English and Welsh,” he noted that his own “cradle-tongue was English with a dash of Afrikaans” (MC, 191). Hannay’s recurring use of untranslated Afrikaans in his narration would not have escaped Tolkien’s attention, and would (one may speculate) have greatly added to his pleasure in reading the story. Despite these parallels between Hannay and Tolkien, there are no readily discernible, uniquely Hannayesque resonances in Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. From the point of view of a Tolkien literary critic, it cannot, therefore, be said with any certainty that Tolkien read the Hannay novels. Be that as it may, if Tolkien did read the Hannay novels, then there is much there that would have caught his attention. From the point of view of a Buchan literary critic, the parallels between the biographies of Hannay (a fictional character) and Tolkien (a real person) give Hannay’s character an extra degree of verisimilitude. Though, naturally, the latter could not have influenced the former, these similarities give an added dimension to admirers of both authors’ works. The Hannay novels are not, however, the only arrows in Buchan’s literary quiver. Buchan was a prolific author who wrote not only spy stories set in the twentieth century, but more importantly, tales of a type that Tolkien particularly liked. In a letter, Tolkien said that a basic passion of his was “for fairystory, and above all for heroic legend on the brink of fairy-tale and history, of which there is far too little in the world (accessible to me) for my appetite” (Letters, 144). Buchan wrote plenty that would satisfy Tolkien’s appetite, but for the sake of brevity, I will limit the discussion in this chapter to just three: Midwinter (1923), The Blanket of the Dark (1931), and Huntingtower (1922).4

Midwinter Midwinter is written using the feigned-manuscript topos, admittedly a literary device which has been employed by a great many authors,5 but a prominent feature in the literary landscape of Tolkien’s legendarium. Tolkien claims that The Lord of the Rings is a translation of The Red Book of Westmarch (RK, 513–520), and Buchan claims to be the editor of Midwinter, which is purportedly a manuscript found “among a mass of derelict papers” discovered during “a very drastic clearing out of cupboards and shelves” conducted by a friend of the editor’s when that friend became a senior partner in the law firm which bears his name (M, vii).6 Midwinter is named not for the time of year, but for Amos Midwinter,

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whose character traits suggest a kinship with Tolkien’s Tom Bombadil. To begin, Tom Bombadil says that he had known that the Hobbits were coming: “We heard news of you, and learned that you were wandering” (FR, 175). Bombadil also seems to know a lot about the Hobbits and their families (184). Midwinter, like Bombadil, knows in advance of the coming of Buchan’s hero, Alastair Maclean. He tells Alastair, “long before Banbury you entered the orbit of my knowledge” (M, 35). He also knows of Alastair’s errand, just as Bombadil is aware of Frodo’s (M, 35; FR, 184). Midwinter, however, knows that Alastair will fail (M, 35). Bombadil has no such foreknowledge of Frodo’s quest. Both Bombadil and Midwinter are musical, and the music they make has “magical” properties. Bombadil sings incessantly. It is an integral part of his character and his speech. When Frodo and Sam first hear Bombadil singing, they stop “as if enchanted” (FR, 168). Bombadil uses the “enchantment” of his song to force Old Man Willow to release Pippin. “I’ll sing his roots off,” says Bombadil (Ibid., 169). Midwinter plays a fiddle, and the music he makes with it is likewise magical. “If any drunken rustic is on the heath he will think the pixies are abroad,” says Midwinter as he prepares to play his violin (M, 158). When Alastair and Midwinter first meet, there is a scene in which they exchange names. Alastair gives a name appropriate to his cover story, for this — like many of Buchan’s tales — is a tale about a spy, and what is a spy without a cover story? Midwinter plays his fiddle to “interrogate” Alastair, making him cry “out in amazement,” touching him “at the heart” with his music. Having done so, Midwinter proceeds to call Alastair by his real name (M, 31). The equivalent trick in Tolkien’s tale is not that Bombadil knows Frodo’s name (though he does), but that he can see Frodo when Frodo is wearing the Ring that makes him invisible to everyone else (FR, 185). The other half of the scene revolves around the question of Midwinter’s/ Bombadil’s name. Frodo asks Bombadil who he is, and Bombadil’s answer is as enigmatic as is Midwinter’s. Bombadil replies: “Don’t you know my name yet? That’s the only answer. Tell me, who are you, alone, yourself and nameless?” (FR, 182). Midwinter answers: “I am nothing — a will-o’-the-wisp at your service — a clod of vivified dust whom its progenitors christened Amos Midwinter. I have no possession but my name, and no calling but that of philosopher. Naked I came from the earth, and naked I will return to it” (M, 31). Both Midwinter and Bombadil offer their respective travelers, Alastair and Frodo, shelter for the night (M, 34; FR, 175–6). One of Bombadil’s gifts to the Hobbits as they prepare to leave his house is a “rhyme to sing” in case they get “into any danger or difficulty” on their travels the next day (FR, 186).

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As Alastair prepares to take his leave of Midwinter, Midwinter says that he has taken a liking to Alastair, and should he “need a helper,” then perhaps one of the members of Midwinter’s Brotherhood will come to his aid if he whistles the tune that Midwinter taught him the night before (M, 38). Midwinter’s Brotherhood is called the “Spoonbills.” They suggest Tolkien’s Rangers of the North, “the wandering folk,” “the last remnant in the North of the great people, the Men of the West” who protect “the quiet lands” from evil things (Ibid., 214, 291, 326; RK, 62). Midwinter informs Alastair that the Spoonbills have many names From the Channel to the Tyne they call us the Spoonbills, and on Cumbrian moors they know us as the Bog-blitters. But our titles are as many as the by-names of Jupiter. Up in your country I have heard that men talk of us as the Left-Handed. He spoke the last word in Gaelic —ciotach [M, 33].

Their “true name” is, however, “the Naked Men.” While Tolkien’s Rangers have no such multiplicity of names, their leader does. In Bree, he is known as Strider (FR, 214); in Gondor, Thorongil (Sindarin: “Eagle of the Star,” RK, 417); his true name, however, is Aragorn, son of Arathorn (FR, 231, 445). When he ascends the Throne, he takes Telcontar as the surname for his house (Quenya: “Strider,” RK, 169), and rules under the name of Elessar (Quenya: “Elf-stone,” FR, 486; RK, 486). It is the Spoonbills who come to Alastair’s aid when he is in trouble. When Alastair is locked up in an old shack, about to be cast into a deep pit by a hired gypsy killer, he whistles the tune that Midwinter taught him and the killer cries, “Hell and damnation!... What warlock taught you that? Stop the cursed thing,” striking Alastair in the face (M, 227). The warlock, of course, was Midwinter, but Alastair’s rescuer is one of the other Spoonbills. When Frodo and his companions are trapped in a barrow and threatened with death, Frodo sings Bombadil’s rhyme, and Bombadil himself rescues them from the barrow (FR, 196). Bombadil then recites an incantation to exorcise the barrow-wight. This is followed by “a long trailing shriek, fading away into an unguessable distance” (FR, 197) that seems, ever so slightly, to echo the cry of the gypsy killer when he hears Midwinter’s (enchanted) tune. This takes place in the chapter titled “Journeyman John.”7 Alastair’s erstwhile murderer explains that Alastair is about to be cast into “the deepest pothole in all the land” (M, 221). Even though Buchan changed the names of the places in his story, this description is easily equated with Gaping Gill8 on the mountain of Ingleborough in the Yorkshire Dales. In his Curious Tales of Old North Yorkshire, Howard Peach calls Gaping Gill “the biggest and most famous pothole in Britain” (169). In Buchan’s time it was the deepest known pothole in Britain, at 105 meters (344 ft) deep. It only lost this title in 1999,

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when Titan (141.5 meters [464 feet] deep) was discovered in the Derbyshire Peak District. Buchan’s use of the made-up name of Eldingill for a nearby town suggests that Buchan wanted to help the reader make the association with Gaping Gill. His imaginary name repeats the element gill found in Gaping Gill, Crosby Gill, Fogg y Gill, Mill Gill, Owl Gill, Rise Gill, to name but a few. This is an element commonly glossed as Scandinavian/Scottish for narrow/deep ravine (Mann, 64). Buchan’s pothole also has an alliterative name ( Journeyman John), just like its real-life counterpart. For modern-day American readers of Buchan, the word pothole requires a bit of disambiguation. The intended meaning is a cave eroded into the limestone, often a very deep one, frequently revealing an underground watercourse. Buchan’s description of the pothole into which Alastair is about to be hurled clearly evokes a sense of dread, heightened by the sound of unseen waters rushing into a yawning abyss. Buchan draws the reader’s attention to the sound when his narrator says that “a noise came from that darkness beyond the door, a steady rumbling and grinding which had been a mere undercurrent of sound when the door was shut, but now dominated the place — a sound like mill-stones working under a full press of water” (M, 220). This finds an echo, appropriately enough, in a description Tolkien offers of the Mines of Moria: “There were fissures and chasms in the walls and floor, and every now and then a crack would open right before their feet. The widest was more than seven feet across, and it was long before Pippin could summon enough courage to leap over the dreadful gap. The noise of churning water came up from far below, as if some great mill-wheel was turning in the depths” (FR, 406). Buchan’s narrator later continues, “the undercurrent of sound seemed to be growing louder, and the wooden partition shook a little with the reverberation” (M, 224). As the scene reaches its climax, the narrator drives his point home, saying that “from the black pit thus revealed a thin grey vapour seemed to ascend, and the noise was like the snarling of hounds in kennel” (M, 228). In addition to those used of Moria, Tolkien’s descriptors of the Cracks of Doom are also replete with sound markers. When Sam and Frodo climb the mountain, the narrator says that “Sam felt a tremor in the ground beneath him, and he heard or sensed a deep remote rumble as of thunder imprisoned under the earth” (RK, 266). As Sam comes to the door of Sammath Naur, “a deep rumbling shook the air” (Ibid., 273). As Sam continues his exploration of the tunnel, Tolkien’s narrator uses a descriptor that resonates with Buchan’s “sound like mill-stones working.” His description of the sound that Sam can hear is that “all the while far below there was a rumour and a trouble as of great engines throbbing and labouring” (274). While the mill was a part of

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the Shire, and thus acceptable to Hobbits, Tolkien reserves the word engines for machinery run by Orcs (116, 124, 163, 201). In the context of Tolkien, therefore, Buchan’s image of a mill-stone is not as threatening as is the sound of an engine. As Tolkien’s episode on the brink of the abyss reaches its climax and Gollum falls into it, “there was a roar and a great confusion of noise” (276). In Buchan’s tale, there is only “the moaning of the measureless deep” (M, 230). For a religious reader like Tolkien, Buchan’s text is likewise full of the symbolism of Hell. It begins with “the outer darkness,”9 where “there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth” (Matthew 8:12), and descends into Hell (Apostles’ Creed10) to “the fire that never shall be quenched” (Mark 9:43). Buchan’s narrator introduces his readers to the terrors of the pothole, taking them through the outer darkness, by saying that the noise of the pothole comes from “that darkness beyond the door” (M, 220). The narrator returns to the “pit of echoing darkness” into which Alastair seems doomed to fall (M, 224), and Gypsy Ben picks up this thread, referring to “the cruel fall down, down into the darkness” that “most gentlemen fear ... more than death” (M, 224–225). To complete the scene, Gypsy Ben later informs Alastair that “it is sunny and warm [in the pothole], for the fires of Hell burn next door. Nay, nay,” continues Gypsy Ben, “John11 is not the Devil, but only a cousin on the spindle side” (M, 223).12 Tolkien’s narrator says that the door of Sammath Naur offers entry into “a long cave or tunnel that bored into the Mountain’s smoking cone” (RK, 274), evoking images suggestive of the real-world of Ingleborough Cave, near Clapham, which was once the outlet for Gaping Gill. In Buchan’s and Tolkien’s time, Ingleborough Cave was considered “one of the finest of the many Yorkshire caves” (Bevan, 113), and “one of the greatest natural curiosities that our country can boast” (Speight, 153). Its fame is such that, though there is no mention of it in Scull and Hammond’s J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide, it is certainly conceivable that Tolkien had heard of it. The description from a guidebook published in 1901— Tolkien would have been nine at the time — paints a picture of a group of tourists entering the cave that resonates with Sam’s progression into Sammath Naur. Tourists entering the cave today, in the age of electric lighting, will not have a comparable experience. The entrance to Ingleborough Cave is at the foot of a limestone cliff 70 feet in height, and at its first opening forms a natural arch of some height and width. This gradually narrows for several yards, and eventually leads to a gate which is kept as securely fastened as the doors of a theatre. Once within the portal the wonders of the cave begin to make themselves manifest. The light of day soon vanishes, and what is to be seen must be seen with the aid of artificial light. There is a certain weird fascination in watching the entrance of a group of sightseers,

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each armed with a spluttering tallow-candle, into the cave — the flame of each daring adventurer’s simple torch dances and flickers in the gloom and soon appears to be swallowed up in the mighty shadows of this subterranean palace [Fletcher, 196].

The guidebook to Ingleborough Cave has a further tale from the history of its early exploration that — in the light of Tolkien’s description of Bilbo’s discovery of Gollum’s lake in The Hobbit— makes the reader appreciate the bravery (or perhaps foolhardiness) of the early explorers of the cave. One such explorer of Ingleborough Cave “exposed himself in the interests of science to an adventure which few men, however intrepid, would willingly face” (Ibid., 197). Having found an entrance to a new segment of the cave at a lower level, where the sound of falling water could be heard into this lower cave Mr. James Farrer and his fellow-explorer courageously descended, though utterly ignorant of where they might be going. Coming to a ledge of rock, they found themselves standing at the edge of a dark pool, of a size considerable enough to prevent them from seeing across it. Mr. Farrer determined to explore this subterranean lake, and with a light fixed in his cap, and a rope secured about his waist, he entered the water, which is described as being of a deep blackness and is probably of vast depth, and swam boldly into the unknown regions beyond. He found himself impeded from further progress by a mighty barrier of limestone. Beyond that no one has ever penetrated further into the heart of the mountain [loc. cit.].

When Bilbo came upon the underground lake, “he did not dare to wade out into the darkness,” not only because he could not swim, but also because of thoughts of the “nasty slimy things, ... wriggling in the water, ... and other things more slimy than fish” (H, 78). If Mr. Farrer had such thoughts, he kept them to himself. This, however, does not exhaust the parallels between Buchan’s tale and Tolkien’s, for Buchan’s tale has an episode about a ring. Gypsy Ben requests that Alastair give him a ring that Alastair is wearing as a reminder of “a happy night and a sweet gentleman.” In exchange, Gypsy Ben will mercifully cut Alastair’s throat before he throws him into the pit, sparing him the “the cruel fall down, down into the darkness” (M, 224–225). Buchan is alluding to the practice of a condemned man giving the executioner a gold ring or other piece of jewelry to ensure a swift and painless death, but his treatment is more philosophically nuanced. Alastair asks Gypsy Ben why he has to “give” Ben the ring, when Ben could simply take it, because Alastair is securely bond. The gypsy replies “because a thing gifted is better than a thing taken. Plunder a man must sell, but a gift he can wear. If I had a dead man’s hat on my head took from his body, it would be crying out in my ears, but if he had kindly given it me, it would fit well and hold its peace. I want that ring that I may

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wear it and kiss it and call to mind my darling dear” (M, 224). The last words of Gypsy Ben’s explanation (“call to mind my darling dear”), almost involuntarily prompt those who have read Tolkien to recall Gollum’s use of “my precious,” when talking to the Ring. The first part of the gypsy’s maxim that “a thing gifted is better than a thing taken” is true in Tolkien’s tale as well. Isildur had taken the Ring as plunder, cutting it from Sauron’s hand, finger and all, but the Ring slipped from his finger, and he was killed (FR, 83). Gollum had likewise taken the Ring as plunder, having murdered Déagol for it, and he was banished from his village (84–85). Bilbo pretended that the Ring was his by right of victory in the riddling contest, but the not-entirely-honest manner of his winning weighed upon him (77). Frodo is the first in this line of Ring Bearers to have truly acquired the Ring as a gift. In Tolkien’s tale, however, the second part of the maxim has been altered. While the way in which possession of the Ring is transferred from bearer to bearer mitigates the amount of power that the Ring can wield over the bearer, the Ring, to use Buchan’s formulation, continues to cry out for its first owner from whose body it was taken by force, and it refuses to “hold its peace,” even for Frodo, who succumbs to its blandishments, claiming it for his own on the rim of the Cracks of Doom (RK, 274). In the end, Gollum again takes the Ring as plunder, perishing with it as a result (276). Gandalf describes this characteristic of the Ring as it having “an unwholesome power that set to work on its keeper at once” (FR, 77). Tolkien has taken Buchan’s suggestion of an inanimate object having a will of its own in the matter of who may bear it to the idea’s very logical conclusion. In Tolkien’s tale, the Ring is clearly a character with a will of its own: “It was not Gollum, Frodo, but the Ring itself that decided things. The Ring left him” (Ibid., 87). Tolkien’s and Buchan’s tales have yet another parallel: the climax. Both tales have the hero (Alastair/Frodo) in a life or death struggle with the protagonist (Gypsy Ben/Gollum) on the brink of a bottomless pit. Alastair is bound hand and foot, yet manages to get his feet free so that he can keep from being cast into the pit just long enough to be rescued by a “Ranger-like” character. Frodo is bested by Gollum at the edge of the precipice, but Gollum’s only interest is the Ring and not Frodo’s life. In Buchan’s tale, Gypsy Ben is preparing to slit Alastair’s throat to end his struggles, “but the blow never fell. For in the same fraction of time something bright quivered through the air, and struck deep in his [the gypsy’s] throat. The man gurgled, then grew limp like a sack, and dropped back on the ground. Then with a feeble clawing at the air he rolled over the brink, struck the side twice, and dropped till the noise of his fall was lost in the moaning of the measureless deep” (M, 230). Gollum bites the Ring from Frodo’s hand, finger and all, recalling the

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manner in which Isildur originally gained possession of the Ring. Frodo becomes visible again and falls to his knees “at the chasm’s edge.” There is no Ranger to rescue Frodo, nor is one needed. In his dance of joy at having regained the Ring, Gollum looks to his Precious rather than to his feet, a fateful mistake on the edge of an abyss. “He stepped too far, toppled, wavered for a moment on the brink, and then with a shriek he fell. Out of the depths came his last wail precious, and he was gone” (RK, 276). His fall into the bottomless pit at the end of the struggle is the closest parallel in this segment of Buchan’s and Tolkien’s tales. Buchan’s description is a bit more detailed, noting that the body struck the side of the pit twice before the sound of its fall was obscured by “the moaning of the measureless deep.” Tolkien’s description, as is his whole approach to the tale, is the more philosophical, providing the reader with Gollum’s last word as he fell to his doom. We find other parallels at other points in both novels. When Bombadil comes to the end of his country, he advises the Hobbits to spend the night at The Prancing Pony in Bree, where the innkeeper is Barliman Butterbur (FR, 203). Midwinter, on the other hand, takes Alastair to the door of The Sleeping Deer, where the innkeeper is named Tappet (M, 169). The names of the two inn-keepers have a certain semantic resonance, as do their inns. Butterbur’s first name (Barliman) is suggestive of someone who serves/brews beer, because the traditional ingredients of beer are water, malted barley and hops. The name Tappet is likewise suggestive of someone who serves beer — in an inn, the room where beer is served is called the tap-room. Midwinter instructs Tappet to follow Alastair’s orders as if they were his own, and then departs on horseback through the swirling snow, for he has business that requires he be in the next shire before he sleeps (M, 169). In the early drafts of The Lord of the Rings, Bombadil tells the Hobbits that they only need mention his name to the keeper, and he “will treat you fairly” (Shadow, 135). When the Hobbits ask for rooms at the inn, in these early drafts, Butterbur is at first reluctant to offer them rooms for the night, but at the mention of Bombadil’s name, he says, “In that case anything can be managed!” (Ibid., 135). When Frodo announces his intention “to cut straight across country” to the Bucklebury Ferry, Pippin replies, “Short cuts make long delays” (FR, 127– 8). This proverb finds an interesting mirror-like resonance in Buchan’s tale, when Alastair is intentionally sent the wrong way by the story’s villain, Mr. Kyd. Kyd tells Alastair that he should ride to Flambury, but Alastair thinks that this road takes him too far to the east. Kyd’s response is “in this country the straight road’s apt to be the long road” (M, 89). Kyd’s routing delays Alastair just as Frodo’s “short cut” delays the Hobbits (FR, 202). Having escaped from the trap that Kyd set for him, Alastair finds himself being hunted by

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mounted men, and back in Midwinter’s company. Midwinter’s solution to his problem is to leave the road and “sink into Old England” (M, 157), for “[b]oot and spur must stick to the paths, and the paths are but a tiny bit of England” (M, 160). This finds an echo in Frodo’s reasoning about why they should leave the road on their trip to the Bucklebury Ferry: “‘It is less easy to find people in the woods and fields,’ answered Frodo. ‘And if you are supposed to be on the road, there is some chance that you will be looked for on the road and not off it’” (FR, 128). Let me close the discussion of Midwinter by returning to Tom Bombadil. The action of Buchan’s novel takes place in 1746, the year of the Jacobite Rising in which “Bonnie Prince Charlie” came south out of Scotland to displace the Hanoverian sovereign, King George II (reigned 1727–1760), and was defeated at the Battle of Culloden. The focus of the tale, however, is on Alastair Maclean, one of the Prince’s spies who precedes the Prince, seeking information and support for the rebellion. Tolkien’s tale is the history of the War of the Ring. In both tales, the question of which side of the clash of powers a character belongs to is extremely important, yet both Midwinter and Bombadil are neutrals. In a letter, Tolkien tried to explain who Tom Bombadil is. The core of Tolkien’s description of Bombadil could with equal effectiveness be applied to Midwinter. Tolkien explains Bombadil in terms of imagining what it would be like if you had “as it were taken ‘a vow of poverty,’ renounced control, and take your delight in things for themselves without reference to yourself, watching, observing, and to some extent knowing, then the question of the rights and wrongs of power and control might become utterly meaningless to you, and the means of power quite valueless” (Letters, 179). Midwinter says that he is “of no party,” for the Spoonbills do not “trouble their heads with Governments” (M, 31). He says that he has “nothing,” and calls himself “a dweller in Old England” (M, 36), a term which Midwinter defines at length for Alastair. There is an Old England which has outlived Roman and Saxon and Dane and Norman and will outlast the Hanoverian. It has seen priest turn to presbyter and presbyter to parson and has only smiled. It is the land of the edge of moorlands and the rims of forests and the twilight before dawn, and strange knowledge still dwells in it. Lords and Parliament-men bustle about, but the dust of their coaches stops at the roadside hedges, and they do not see the quiet eyes watching them at the fords. Those eyes are their masters, young sir. I am gentle born, as you guess, and have been in my day scholar and soldier, but now my companions are the moor-men and the purley-men and the hill-shepherds and the raggle-taggle gypsies. And I am wholly content, for my calling is philosophy. I stand aside in life, and strike no blows and make no bargain, but I learn that which is hid from others [M, 36–37].

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The last line of Midwinter’s explanation could just as easily be applied to Bombadil. He is full of the lore of the “lives of the forest” (FR, 180). And he stands aside during the War of the Ring. He strikes no blows and makes no bargains. Alastair is confused by Midwinter’s explanation, for he and Midwinter are “at opposite poles of mind.” The question of who should rule and why is of great importance to Alastair, but not to Midwinter. Midwinter explains that Alastair travels “with a huge baggage of ambitions and loyalties,” while Midwinter himself makes it his “business to travel light, caring nothing for King or party or church.” This is why the true name of the Spoonbills is “the Naked Men” (M, 37). As the story draws to its close, Midwinter points out that “[n]akedness has its merits and its faults. A naked man travels fast and light, for he has nothing that he can lose, and his mind is free from cares, so that it is better swept and garnished for the reception of wisdom. But if he be naked he is also defenseless, and the shod feet of the world can hurt him” (M, 310). This last remark is reflected in the evaluation of Bombadil as a guardian of the Ring at the Council of Elrond. While the Ring has no power over Bombadil, Bombadil has no power to “alter the Ring itself, nor break its power over others” (FR, 348). He is indeed at risk of being hurt by the world, or as Glorfindel and Galdor put it, Bombadil does not have the power to defy the Dark Lord alone (FR, 348). Bombadil, on the other hand, is not quite as “naked” as Midwinter. Bombadil has a house and Goldberry. Midwinter has neither hearth nor wife. Tolkien apparently found that much asceticism a bit too much for “the spirit of the (vanishing) Oxford and Berkshire countryside” (Letters, 26), an epithet that clearly echoes Midwinter’s own definition of himself: “I am a dweller in Old England” (M, 36). As Buchan’s story closes, Alastair is stripped of the last of his “baggage.” “I am bare to the bone,” says Alastair, “I have given up my lady, and I have failed in duty to my Prince. I have no rag of pride left on me, nor ambition, nor hope” (M, 310). Frodo never had a lady to give up, but he ultimately does fail in his duty to fulfill the anti-quest that was his charge. Frodo refuses to destroy the Ring, claiming it for his own. It is Gollum who destroys the Ring, but quite by accident. With the Ring gone, “at the end of all things,” Frodo is “himself again; and in his eyes there was peace now, neither strain of will, nor madness, nor any fear. His burden was taken away” (RK, 277, 280). “He was free” (276–277), but also without hope (281). Frodo, like Alastair, has become a Naked Man, or perhaps more correctly a Naked Hobbit.

The Blanket of the Dark In The Blanket of the Dark, Buchan returns to the folk of “Old England,” and to a rebellion against the king, in this particular case, against Henry VIII

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(reigned 1509–1547). The story lines of The Blanket of the Dark and Midwinter are very similar. There are characters who very much resemble Midwinter and Alastair, and there is a group that resembles the Spoonbills as well. For all their similarity, however, the two tales differ on one key point. The Midwinter-like character and the “Rangers” of Old England have taken a stand in the conflict. “As for us of Old England, ... we like not the Welshman [Henry VIII] nor his ways” (B, 88). In The Blanket of the Dark, the Alastair-like hero is Peter Bohun, the pretender to the throne. The Midwinter-like hero is Solomon Darking, who acts as Peter’s guide through the wilds of Old England. The philosophical shift from political neutrality in Midwinter to political partisanship in The Blanket of the Dark rearranges the correspondence between Tolkien’s and Buchan’s heroes. While the pairing of Buchan’s and Tolkien’s heroes in Midwinter is Frodo = Alastair and Bombadil = Midwinter, in The Blanket of the Dark, the resemblances are between Bohun and Aragorn and between Darking and Ghân-Buri-Ghân, the leader of the aboriginal inhabitants of Middle-earth. Peter Bohun’s attempt to claim the throne, like Bonnie Prince Charlie’s, is doomed to failure by the fact of the history that lies at the base of Buchan’s tale, but that does not make the tale any the less exciting, nor its conclusion any the less thought provoking. In the “Epilogue,” Buchan informs the reader whence the hero escaped after the failure of his revolt against the King. He disappeared into “a world of which there has never been a chronicle, the heaths and forests of Old England.... The blanket of the dark might lift for England, but no light will ever reveal those ancient recesses” (B, 299–300). Buchan’s “Epilogue” contains a description of the Old England into which Peter disappears that recalls Tolkien’s description of the Old Forest, which is where Tom Bombadil lives. Buchan’s Old England is a “wide forest country, which is now a thing of patches, but which once flowed over half the midlands” (B, 300). In Tolkien’s tale, the Old Forest is “indeed ancient, a survivor of vast forgotten woods” (FR, 181; and see 347). There is a map on the flyleaf of The Blanket of the Dark entitled “The Country of the Book.” It centers on Bredon Hill (a very Tolkienesque place name13) in the vale of Evesham. This undoubtedly would have made an impression on Tolkien, not only because Tolkien saw to it that there were maps of the Shire and Middle-earth to help the reader follow the story, but also because Tolkien’s deepest affection for England was for the West Midlands, especially the area around Evesham, which is where his mother’s family (the Suffields) were from (Biography, 21). This is precisely the area described on Buchan’s map. The further narration on the fate of Peter Bohun in the “Epilogue” elicits a sense of déjà vu in the reader who has met Tolkien first. It brings to mind

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Tolkien’s character Strider, the Ranger who wanders for nearly thirty years in the wilds (RK, 423). Strider is intended to be recognizable from the old verse in Gandalf ’s letter to Frodo which contains the phrase: “not all those who wander are lost” (FR, 321, emphasis added). This sense of familiarity is strengthened by a scene in The Blanket of the Dark, in which Peter is being interviewed by Lord Avelard, one of the leaders of the plan to put Peter on the throne. Until the time is right, Peter must take to the Greenwood like Robin Hood, and the old man comments upon the appropriateness of this step. Peter, he observes, is dedicated “to a great purpose, and it has always been the custom of the dedicated to sojourn first for a while in the wilderness” (B, 46). The same could have easily been said to Aragorn by Elrond, before Elrond sent him on his way. Buchan’s Peter Bohun disappears from the Chronicles, [b]ut somewhere in Bernwood or Savernake or Charnwood or Sherwood he may have found a home, or on the wild Welsh marches, or north among the heather of the dales. Or he may have been a wanderer, taking for his domicile the whole of the dim country whose border is the edge of the highroad and the rim of the tillage and the last stone walls of the garths [B, 300, emphasis added].

The description of the “dim country” of The Blanket of the Dark sounds very much like that of the Old England of Midwinter, which “is the land of the edge of moorlands and the rims of forests and the twilight before dawn,” beyond “the roadside hedges” (M, 36–37). Tolkien says that Strider “passed out of the knowledge of Men of the West, and went alone far into the East and deep into the South, exploring the hearts of Men..., skilled in their crafts and lore, and was yet more than they; for he was elven-wise” (RK, 424). Buchan says that Peter’s descendant, of whom he has some slight knowledge, is “an extraordinary old fellow, a real forester — not a gipsy, but an adept in all gipsy lore.” His people were a queer folk, silent and self-contained, and keeping very much to themselves — odd-tempered at times — decent on the whole, for they never produced a drunkard — wonderful horse-breakers and horse-copers14 and dog-trainers and poachers — relics of an earlier England. They had not the gipsy colouring, being mostly fair, and nothing annoyed them more than to be taken for gipsies.... They were great wanderers, for only one or two of the men in each generation remained at home [B, 300–301, emphasis added].

Another similarity between Peter and Aragorn is that both are the orphans of kings, and both are raised without knowledge of their birthright in order to protect their lives. Peter is kept “well hidden, or some spy of Henry’s would have unearthed him, and he would have tested Henry’s mercies” (B, 204). When he is twenty, Peter is informed unexpectedly that his “father was that high and puissant prince, Edward, Duke and Earl of Buckingham, Earl and

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Baron of Stafford, Prince of Brecknock, Count of Perche in Normandy, Knight of the Garter, hereditary Lord High Steward, and, in virtue of the blood of Bohun, Lord High Constable of England” (B, 40). It seems an unlikely coincidence that Faramir uses these same words, “high and puissant,” to describe Aragorn (RK, 299). Moreover, Aragorn’s “true name and lineage were kept secret at the bidding of Elrond; for the Wise then knew that the Enemy was seeking to discover the Heir of Isildur, if any remained upon earth.” It was not until Strider was twenty (the same age as Peter), that “Elrond called him by his true name, and told him who he was and whose son; and he delivered to him the heirlooms of his house” (RK, 420). In Buchan’s tale, Peter experiences the fate that Aragorn manages to avoid. Elrond had predicted that Aragorn’s fate would be either “to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin” (423). Peter is covered with the blanket of darkness that gave Buchan’s book its title. Aragorn achieves what Peter cannot. He becomes King. In The Blanket of the Dark, Buchan has a character whose description makes him seem a mixture of Tom Bombadil and Ghân-Buri-Ghân, the leader of the wild men. Solomon Darking is, like Tom Bombadil (FR, 347), a man of many names (B, 60). Additionally, Darking “is of the old race of these parts, the squat dark folk we call the Wens, who were here a thousand years before the Romans” (B, 60). This recalls Ghân-Buri-Ghân’s folk, who were “here before Stone-houses; before Tall Men come up out of Water” (RK, 129). This also, to some extent, brings to mind Tom Bombadil, who was “here before the rivers and the trees” (FR, 182). Tolkien describes Ghân-Buri-Ghân as “a strange squat shape of a man, gnarled as an old stone, and the hairs of his scanty beard straggled on his lumpy chin like dry moss. He was short-legged and fat-armed, thick and stumpy, and clad only with grass about his waist” (RK, 129). Upon seeing him, Merry is reminded of the Púkel-men of Dunharrow, the “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” (Ibid., 80). When Peter Bohun first encounters Solomon Darking, he sees a “short,” “burly” figure, dressed like a forester. Darking “carried a cross-bow slung on his back and a long hunting knife in his girdle. His face was sharp and yellow, like one who had suffered from the moor-ill, and a mop of thick black hair fell to his shoulders. His eyes, seen in the firelight, were like a dog’s, large and sombre and steadfast” (B, 63). In Midwinter, there is a character who could well be Darking’s brother, due to all the similarities they share. Amos Midwinter’s physical description also makes him sound like Ghân-Buri-Ghân. Midwinter is

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a short man of an immense breadth of shoulder, whose long arms must have reached well below his knees. He had a large square face, tanned to the colour of bark, and of a most surprising ugliness, for his nose was broken in the middle, and one cheek and the corner of one eye were puckered with an old scar. Chin and lips were shaven, and the wide mouth showed white regular teeth. His garments seemed to be of leather like the others, but he wore a cravat, and his hair, though unpowdered, was neatly tied [M, 30].

When Alastair Maclean sees Midwinter the next morning, he looks “like some giant gnome as he squatted at his task,” cooking before the camp-fire (M, 38). This last detail finds a clear echo in The Blanket of the Dark, where, when Peter Bohun is brought to Darking, Darking “rose from tending a pot” (B, 62). Darking is described to Peter as “a true man and a wise man,” to whom Peter’s benefactor, Sir Ralph Bonamy, would go “if [he] were fleeing for [his] life,” because Darking “could call the beasts of the field and the birds of the air to [his] defence” (B, 60). This last description seems appropriate for Beorn, a character in Tolkien’s The Hobbit, who “keeps cattle and horses which are nearly as marvellous as himself. They work for him and talk to him. He does not eat them; neither does he hunt or eat wild animals. He keeps hives and hives of great fierce bees, and lives most on cream and honey” (H, 118–9). Darking’s physical description, however, is an ill fit for Tom Bombadil, who is “master of wood, water and hill” (FR, 174). Tom’s province appears to be that of the things that grow in the earth, rather than that of the things that walk upon it or fly above it. Midwinter’s and Darking’s physical descriptions are nothing like Tom’s. Tolkien describes Tom as being too large to be a Hobbit, but too small to be a man. His face is the color of a ripe apple, and is set off by a long brown beard. It is, however, a pleasant face, “creased into a hundred wrinkles of laughter” (Ibid., 168). The names of Buchan’s two characters are suggestive of some older, pre– Christian time. Midwinter was a pagan holiday, that in Christian times became Christmas. The name Darking is easily parsed as descendant (-ing) of “the old race of these parts, the squat dark folk we call the Wens” (B, 60, emphasis added). It also suggests the period of the Dark Ages and the title of the novel: The Blanket of the Dark. The one British tribe that the Roman records (Tacitus) describe as darkcomplexioned or swarthy is the Silures, who occupied south Wales at the time of the Romans. Tacitus thought that they immigrated to Britain from the Iberian peninsula, and there is some support for this in the archaeological evidence. The inhabitants of Neolithic England were short and had long skulls (dolichocephalic). Human remains with this skull type are to be found in many parts of England, Wales and Scotland. They were Iberians, whose most

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likely modern-day relations are the Basques. The Celts who displaced them ushered in the Bronze Age. They were tall with round skulls (brachycephalic). The descriptions above sound intriguingly like the ones in the Victoria histories of Shropshire and Northhampton by T. Auden and T.J. George. George describes Neolithic man as averaging 5 feet 5 inches in height, with a long skull. “Their faces were oval and rather short; their features good, with flat cheekbones, fine jaws and prominent chins. They were evidently dark of skin, hair and eyes” (George, 137). Auden gives a complementary picture, citing Dawkins’ book Early Man in Britain. The Iberians “were short of stature — the men not exceeding 5 feet 6 inches — and thick-set in figure, their special characteristic being the length of their skull.... The outline of the face was oval and the jaws did not project, but the forehead was comparatively low and the nose was aquiline.” Their descendants are still to be found in several parts of England, especially in South Wales, continues Auden. Using the appearance of the modern representatives of the Iberians in Wales and Shropshire as a guide, Auden completes the picture: “They had black hair and black eyes, and except for the shortness of their stature were a handsome race, possessed of considerable mental capacity” (quoted in Auden, 196). Buchan names the people, who inhabited England before the Romans, “the Wens.” This is not one of the names of the British tribes to be found in the Roman histories of country. Wen is a word that identifies a lump on the surface of the skin, usually a painless, benign tumor. Understanding Buchan’s reference, however, requires an excursion outside the bounds of the dictionary. In her book entitled Outcasts: Signs of Otherness in Northern European Art of the Late Middle Ages, Ruth Mellinkoff presents the iconographic significance of a wen on a figure in a painting of that time. She notes that skin blemishes — including wens — were usually viewed as powerful stigmas (163). She points to folk beliefs that identified blemishes of the skin, especially facial blemishes, “as the branding of wicked individuals” (164). She identifies a wen as the particular attribute of a fool, who was normally depicted as being grotesque. She traces this iconographic use of the wen back to Roman statuary, where “a wen is visible on the forehead of a Roman terracotta fool” (170). She connects the iconographic significance of a wen on the face with the popular folk belief that “stupidity and feeblemindedness were a result of a stone in the head,” an idea that was particularly popular in Ireland, she says. This belief is captured on canvas, she notes, in satirical paintings by Bosch and Jan Sanders van Hemessen, which depict the “cure of folly” by an unscrupulous surgeon removing a stone from the forehead of a dupe. She views the painting Allegory of Folly by Quentin Massys, which shows a fool with a wen on his head, as another embodiment of that superstition (170). The fool in Massys’ painting looks remarkably like the Roman fool immor-

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talized in terracotta. Buchan’s characterization of the pre–Roman people of England as “the Wens” is, therefore, not just a description of a single facial blemish, but a pejorative epithet with certain associations of a grotesque physique and mental debility. Sir Ralph cautions Peter that if Darking “seems strange” to him, Peter should “remember that wisdom is apt to cohabit with oddity” (B, 60) This is a caution that could, with equal success, be applied to Beorn, Tom Bombadil and Ghân-Buri-Ghân. All three of them are “odd,” but at the same time they are repositories of unique knowledge. Tolkien makes a special point of detailing how wise Ghân-Buri-Ghân is. When Éomer asks how the Wild Man knows that the Orcs outnumber them, the Wild Man’s sullen voice expresses his displeasure at being thought of as unintelligent. He has counted “many things: stars in sky, leaves on trees, men in the dark. You have a score of scores counted ten times and five. They [the Orcs] have more” (RK, 130). Théoden then reinforces the implication of the Wild Man’s response by calling him shrewd. Even though Tolkien was familiar with Buchan’s work, there is no implication that Tolkien got his information about the pre–Roman inhabitants of Britain from Buchan. He could have equally well have gotten it from the scientific literature of the time, like the Victoria Histories or Dawkins. It is clear, however, that both authors (Tolkien and Buchan) shared an interest in the pre–Roman inhabitants of Britain, because they both have characters who are the literary descendants of these inhabitants.

Huntingtower 15 In her article, “Tracking the Elusive Hobbit (In Its Pre-Shire Den),” Marjorie Burns argues convincingly that Dickson McCunn, the main character in John Buchan’s Huntingtower, was one of the literary models for Bilbo as he is depicted in The Hobbit. Huntingtower was serialized in the August and September issues of The Popular Magazine in 1921, and then published in book form by Hodder and Stoughton in 1922, fifteen years before The Hobbit went to press in 1937. Dickson McCunn is a respectable Glasgow grocer, who also appears in Buchan’s Castle Gay (1930), and The House of the Four Winds (1935). There are a number of similarities between Dickson and Bilbo. As Burns notes, they are both approximately the same age. Dickson is fifty-five (Ht, 16) and Bilbo is fifty (H, 17). Burns also observes that Dickson had an “odd tendency to stoutness about the middle” (Ht, 115). Hobbits in general are described as hav ing an inclination “to be fat in the stomach” (H, 16). The similarities, however, do not end there.

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After the Dwarves have assembled for the Unexpected Party, they can be heard discussing Bilbo. Burns points out Gloin’s opinions of Bilbo, his worry that they have come to the wrong house, and his conclusion that “[h]e looks more like a grocer than a burglar!” (H, 30). Taken in isolation from Buchan, calling Bilbo a grocer is a slight. In the context of Buchan, however, where Dickson McCunn the grocer turns into a burglar, Gloin’s slight seems almost like a joke, because Buchan’s grocer-burglar proves, like Bilbo, to be brave and resourceful. Tolkien had a propensity for jokes of this kind, so the possibility that it was intentional should not be dismissed lightly. In Buchan’s tale, it is Dickson himself who first mentions burglary, and he continues to think of himself in terms of burgling houses, the laws against burglary, and burglarious entry as the tale progresses. The house in question is an untenanted mansion on a remote Scottish coast, where a “fairy-tale” (Ht, 202) Russian princess is being held captive. Dickson and his companions must enter the house surreptitiously so that they can rescue this damsel in distress. There are, of course, jewels in the house — just as there are jewels in the hoard under the mountain that Bilbo is meant to burgle — but Buchan’s tale is an anti-quest. The goal is not to acquire the jewels, but rather to keep someone else from acquiring them. This is also one of the key features of The Lord of the Rings. The goal of the Fellowship’s quest is to keep the Dark Lord from regaining the One Ring and laying waste to Middle-earth. The impact of Huntingtower on Tolkien’s work is apparently not limited only to The Hobbit. The jewels in Buchan’s story had once belonged to the Russian Czar (shades of the Arkenstone of Thrain), and now the Bolsheviks want to sell the jewels to buy guns and raise armies (Ht, 103). It is the princess’ duty to keep the Bolsheviks from getting their hands on the jewels, and Dickson — an honest burglar, like Bilbo (H, 257)— endeavors to help her. He smuggles the jewels out of the house, and back to Glasgow, where they are deposited safely in the vault of the Strathclyde Bank. Where in Tolkien’s story it is Gloin who calls Bilbo’s suitability as a burglar into doubt, in Buchan’s tale, Dickson recognizes his own shortcomings. Having safely transported the jewels to the bank for safekeeping, he is quite pleased with himself. He wants to see himself as “cheerful, brave, resourceful, indomitable,” but suddenly, his “pretty veil of self-satisfaction was rent from top to bottom,” as if “a tall stranger with a wand [was] pointing to the embarrassed phantom that was himself, and ruthlessly exposing its frailties!” He realizes that he is in fact “running away at the first threat of danger” (Ht, 128). In the context of Tolkien, the phrase “a tall stranger with a wand” immediately suggests Gandalf, a point Burns also noticed.16 Wands are, after all,

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another attribute of wizards. When Gandalf first enters Tolkien’s story, he is a stranger to Bilbo (H, 17–8), and, from the perspective of a hobbit, is undoubtedly tall. The fact that the wizard appears at the beginning of Tolkien’s story and at the middle of Buchan’s does nothing to diminish their potential connection as the stimulus that sends the hero off on an adventure. Bilbo would not have gone on his adventure without Gandalf, and Dickson would not have gone back to the most dangerous part of his adventure without the “tall stranger with a wand.” The process behind the decision to go off into an adventure is different for each of these two characters. Bilbo is tricked into going; Dickson is a selfstarter. Dickson had loved to contemplate the type of “sudden journey” that befalls Bilbo, “[o]nly he had never taken it” (Ht, 21). Dickson has just sold his business for a considerable sum and is “comfortably off, healthy, free from any particular cares in life.” What worries him, however, is that he is also free “from any particular duties,” a condition which makes him ask himself if he is “going to turn into a useless old man?” (Ht, 16). Bilbo Baggins, on the other hand, comes from old money. The Bagginses were rich and respectable; not as rich as the Tooks, but in fact, more respectable (H, 16). As Tolkien’s story opens, the reader finds Bilbo living in a “most luxurious hobbit-hole,” the one that had been built by his father for his mother “(and partly with her money),” where he has “apparently settled down immovably” (Ibid., 16–7). The question that Dickson asks heightens the contrast between himself and Bilbo. Dickson is afraid of becoming “a useless old man,” and goes off in search of adventure to prevent that from happening. Bilbo, on the other hand, is essentially a superfluous man, quite content with his life as it is. Adventure has to come looking for him. The difference in Buchan’s and Tolkien’s approaches to this topic are class-based. When Bilbo is introduced to Beorn, Gandalf presents him as “Mr. Baggins, a Hobbit of good family and unimpeachable reputation” (H, 121). The announcement of the auction of Bilbo’s estate at the end of the story identifies his as “Bilbo Baggins Esquire, of Bag-End, Underhill, Hobbiton” (Ibid., 284). In the formulation [first name] + [surname] + esquire of [place name], the word esquire is a title given to a member of the English gentry, ranked for matters of protocol immediately below a knight. Compare: Nicholas Nickleby, Esquire, of Devonshire in Dickens. In The Lord of the Rings, Gaffer (Sam’s father) calls Bilbo “a gentlehobbit” (FR, 44), the Hobbit equivalent of the term gentleman, which once upon a time was a distinct designation of class in British society. In Buchan’s story, Dickson is simply Dickson McCunn, Esq., without the indication of a place name, which at the time of Buchan’s story is roughly equivalent to calling someone Mister today. As the story draws to a close, the

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princess whom Dickson helps to rescue tries to locate Dickson in her system of social hierarchy. For her, “[h]e is the petit bourgeois ... the class which the world ridicules” (Ht, 313), and she cannot imagine that she would find his like in Russia. In her worthy consort’s reply, Buchan shows his sense of class consciousness. You will not find him in Russia. He is what they call the middle-class, which we who were foolish used to laugh at. But he is the stuff which above all others makes a great people. He will endure when aristocracies crack and proletariats crumble. In our own land we have never known him, but till we create him our land will not be a nation[Ht, 314].

Buchan’s class-consciousness also shows in the political joke that runs through Huntingtower,17 which was serialized in August–September 1921 in The Popular Magazine, and published in 1922, in the wake of the Russian Revolution of 1917, when Europe was awash in Russian émigrés — like the princess — escaping the Red Terror of the ensuing Russian Civil War (1917–1923). The Bolsheviks seeking to gain possession of the jewels in the princess’s keeping are a serious threat, but Buchan pokes fun at the nascent Socialist movement in the U.K. at the time through his portrayal of the street-smart Glasgow youths in his tale, who are valiant in their defense of the princess from the Bolsheviks, and whose Socialist awareness consists of some mangled Socialist vocabulary picked up in Socialist Sunday School. Glasgow, notes an article in The Times, is held “to be the present [1902] headquarters of the Socialist Sunday-School movement. Not only are eight of these schools carried on in that city, but there is even at Glasgow a Socialist Sunday School Union, which brings out a halfpenny monthly magazine, called The Young Socialist” (“Socialist Sunday Schools,” 5). The goal of the Socialist Sunday School movement was “to produce the next generation of Socialists.” The curriculum of these Sunday-afternoon schools “consisted of children singing some Socialist hymn, group discussion, further singing, and a rendition of the “Socialist Ten Commandments” (Laybourn and Reynolds, 19). The failure of Buchan’s street-smart Glasgow youths to comprehend the message of the “Socialist hymns” is evident in Buchan’s phonetic transcription of the lyrics that they sing. Wee Jaikie provides one mangled example: Proley Tarians [proletarians],18 arise! Wave the Red Flag to the skies, Heed no more the Fat Man’s lees [lies], Stap [stuff ] them doun [down] his throat! Nocht [naught] to lose except our chains —[Ht, 296].

Dougal provides another: “Class-conscious we are, and class-conscious wull [we’ll] be, Till our fit’s [foot’s] on the neck o’ the Boorjoyzee [Bourgeoisie]” [Ht, 199].

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When Dickson asks about the strange lyrics, Dougal explains that “Wee Jaikie went to a Socialist Sunday School last winter because he heard they were for fechtin’ [fighting] battles. Ay, and they telled him he was to join a thing called an International,[19] and Jaikie thought it was a fitba’ [football] club. But when he fund [found] out there was no magic lantern [movie show] or swaree [soiree] at Christmas he gie’d it the chuck [chucked it in = quit]. They learned him a heap o’ queer songs. That’s one” (Ht, 200). Dickson inquires about the meaning of the last word in the line that Dougal had just sung (Boorjoyzee), but Dougal has no idea himself. “ Jaikie thought it was some kind of a draigon [dragon],” he says (Ht, 200). Tolkien’s opinions of Communism are hardly any secret, and they seem to coincide with Buchan’s. In their first annotation for the chapter “The Scouring of the Shire,” Karrik and Kamenkovich, the translators of the academically annotated Russian edition of The Lord of the Rings, note that the specialists unanimously agree that this chapter is a parody of socialism in the mold of such anti-utopias as George Orwell’s 1984 and Animal Farm, and the description of the ant-like civilization in The Once and Future King by T. H. White. They also point out Tolkien’s well-known, extremely negative opinion of this political system, citing a letter to Christopher Tolkien from November 1943 in which Tolkien writes that his “political opinions lean more and more to Anarchy (philosophically understood, meaning abolition of control not whiskered men with bombs)” (Letters, 63–4). The stereotypical image of (Russian) anarchists as “whiskered men with bombs” takes on a special importance in the context of Buchan and Huntingtower, where the arch-villain, who is the one trying to recover the jewels from the princess for the Bolsheviks, pulls out a bomb, and lights the fuse. The Red Flag in Wee Jaikie’s song is of particular importance in Great Britain. The Red Flag is the well-known anthem of the British Labour Party, and its refrain comprises theses lines: “Then raise the scarlet standard high / Beneath its fold we’ll live and die / Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer / We’ll keep the red flag flying here” (emphasis added). Tolkien has a scarcely disguised allusion to the Red Flag in The Lord of the Rings, in the chapter “The Siege of Gondor,” where “the lines of fire became flowing torrents, file upon file of Orcs bearing flames, and wild Southron men with red banners, shouting with harsh tongues, surging up, overtaking the retreat” (RK, 113).20 Tolkien does not use the word class to define the social relationships between his characters, but it is there all the same in the way his characters act and talk. Tolkien, being a philologist, defines his characters by the way they speak. This is exactly what Professor Henry Higgins of the musical My Fair Lady means when he says the moment one Englishman talks “he makes some other Englishman despise him.” Buchan’s novel is full of Scottish dialect,

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which was not an uncommon literary tactic at the time. This may well present a challenge to some modern readers, but it would not have been a challenge to Tolkien. Tolkien even uses one of Buchan’s dialectical words himself in The Lord of the Rings as a kind of class marker. Buchan’s plot revolves around “certain jewels of great price which were about to be turned into guns and armies for” the Bolsheviks, but were recovered and placed in the Princess’ safekeeping (Ht, 103). When Dickson and his band of street-smart Glasgow kids speak of the jewels, they are referred to as jools. “Your jools [jewels] are in safekeeping, and not all the blagyirds [blackguards] in creation could get at them,” says Dickson to the princess (Ht, 178). In the dialogue in The Ivy Bush, in which Tolkien sets the stage for his great adventure, a stranger in town on business from Michel Delving says that the top of The Hill (Bilbo’s home) “is full of tunnels packed with chests of gold and silver, and jools, by what I’ve heard.” Tolkien uses the word again in Gaffer’s reply: “‘Then you’ve heard more than I can speak to,’ answered the Gaffer. ‘I know nothing about jools’” (FR, 46, emphasis original). This is certainly not to say that the use of jools [jewels] is a clear indication that Tolkien borrowed from Buchan. The word jools can be found in the works of a wide range of authors, from P.G. Wodehouse21 to R.M. Ballantyne22 to George Meredith.23 The primary utility of noting that both Tolkien and Buchan use the word jools lies in the fact that an acquaintance with other speakers who use the word jools helps the reader form a better image of the Gaffer and his interlocutor in The Ivy Bush, and they are not of the same social class as Bilbo, who would never have said jools, or mistook, for that matter (H, 49; Ht, 201). When push comes to shove, however, both Dickson and Bilbo, regardless of their social origins and motivations, acquit themselves admirably on their respective adventures. While at first blush, it may seem as if Buchan’s story has more political content than Tolkien’s, that is a misconception. The difference is in the subtlety of its presentation. Buchan is as direct in his politics as C.S. Lewis is in his religion, while Tolkien’s delivery on both topics is subtle. Buchan has the princess make a statement on the political situation in Russia, that — from the perspective of the eighty plus years that have elapsed since the story was published — seem rather prophetic, and amazingly applicable to the current situation in Russia as well. “You do not understand,” she said. “I cannot make any one understand — except a Russian. My country has been broken to pieces, and there is no law in it; therefore it is a nursery of crime. So would England be, or France, if you had suffered the same misfortunes” [Ht, 214].

Buchan’s description of the problems of Russia could be easily adapted to fit into The Lord of the Rings with some very minor changes. If My country were

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replaced with The Shire and Russian with Hobbit, and England and France replaced with Rohan and Gondor, then Buchan’s speech could just as easily have been given by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, had she escaped the Lockholes and fled into exile from The Shire during Saruman’s reign. Buchan’s arch-villain, who is the one trying to recover the jewels from the princess for the Bolsheviks, pulls out a bomb, and lights the fuse. His minions have fled and he is left all alone to face the princess and her defenders. He sees that his goal is unattainable, and “[a] sudden devil flamed into his eyes, the devil of some ancestral savagery, which would destroy what is desired but unattainable” (Ht, 287). The princess and her companions are saved in the nick of time by the quick action of one of the princess’s defenders who had been given up for lost in the fire that consumed the tower stronghold referred to in the title of the book. The motivation for Saruman’s actions in The Shire are just as prosaic. He is seeking revenge on the Hobbits for wrecking his home by wrecking theirs. He gloats at Frodo and tells him, “[o]ne ill turn deserves another.... I have already done much that you will find it hard to mend or undo in your lives. And it will be pleasant to think of that and set it against my injuries” (RK, 368). If he could not have the Shire under his dominion, then the Hobbits would be deprived of their enjoyment of it. The fairy-tale Russian princess heroine of Buchan’s tale is simply named Saskia. She has a number of qualities about her that suggest her as a possible prototype of Éowyn, who went off to war under the nom de guerre of Dernhelm, and gained a place in history for herself by defeating the chief Nazgûl in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Though Buchan intends the name Saskia to be Slavic, it is actually Germanic. As a specialist in the study of names, Tolkien should have immediately recognized it as such. It is the name of the tutelary goddess of the Saxon people; compare Germania and Bavaria, who hold the same function for the Germans and Bavarians. Since in his letters Tolkien said that “‘Anglo-Saxon’ is not only a ‘fertile field,’ but the sole field in which to look for the origin and meaning of words or names belonging to the speech of the Mark” (Letters, 381), it seems logical that a heroine with the name of the tutelary goddess of the Saxons might have served — if only subconsciously — as the prototype of Éowyn. Éowyn, like Saskia, is of “great family” (Ht, 64). She is from the House of Eorl, the daughter of Éomund and Théodwyn, sister of Éomer, and niece of King Théoden (RK, 437; TT, 163). This makes Éowyn every bit the princess that Saskia is. Saskia’s actions in Buchan’s story also seem to find a number of reflections in Tolkien’s tale of Éowyn. Dickson and those who come to her aid urge the princess to let them take her to safety, but she refuses. “[I]f there’s going to

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be a battle she’d like to be in it,” explains Dickson (Ht, 216). This echoes Éowyn’s more elegantly expressed sentiment in Tolkien’s tale. “I am weary of skulking in the hills, and wish to face peril and battle,” says Éowyn. “I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death” (RK, 67–8). When Aragorn asks her what she does fear, Éowyn’s answer echoes Dickson’s fear, that of becoming a “useless old man.” She fears “A cage.... To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire” (RK, 68). This is the key dilemma that faces Dickson. Is he too old at fifty-five to be answering the call of romance and adventure? “If you played at being young, you had to take up the obligations of youth,” thinks Dickson. The trail that Romance has put upon him is a hard one (Ht, 83), and he wavers. He reflects “that he would give a large sum of money to be out of this preposterous adventure” (Ht, 93). And another time he thinks “[r]ather would he spend the rest of his days in hydropathics [the health spas that his wife loved, and he hated] than come within the pale of such horrible adventures. Romance, forsooth! This was not the mild goddess he had sought, but an awful harpy who battened on the souls of men” (Ht, 121). The key similarity between Éowyn and Saskia is found in Buchan’s tale in the scene in which one of the princess’s protectors has locked himself in the tower, and has by subterfuge made the villains think that she is with him. The villains are storming the tower, and it looks as if the heroic poet who had imagined himself “Horatius in the Gate” (Ht, 250) is doomed. “I cannot bear it,” says Saskia. “I will not see him murdered in sight of his friends. I am going to show myself, and when they see me they will leave him.... No, you must stay here. Presently they will be round this house. Don’t be afraid for me — I am very quick of foot” (Ht, 273). She has taken action when none of the men around her dare to do so, just like Éowyn at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. From his vantage point high atop the tower the would-be Horatius can see the princess running across the lawn of the house. She stops and calls out to the villains, and they, as she expected, give chase. The princess turns, and runs back to the house. She is indeed fleet of foot, but only reaches the safety of its walls thanks to the help of her friend Sir Archie, the crippled lord of a nearby manor who had come to her aid. He fires at the onrushing mob of villains, wounding one of their number, slowing down the pursuit just long enough for the princess to reach the house in the nick of time. In Tolkien’s tale, it is Théoden who is alone before the Nazgûl. The knights of his house are either slain or have been borne away by their steeds, driven mad by the black shadow of the Nazgûl. “Yet one stood there still: Dernhelm the young, faithful beyond fear; and he wept, for he had loved his

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lord as a father” (RK, 141). This is Éowyn in disguise. She stands firm, cursing the Nazgûl, and she defeats him with a little help from her friend Merry. While some may interpret having Dernhelm weep as foreshadowing of that fact that he is a she, in the context of Buchan, crying recalls the tears of “Wee Jaikie” the smallest of the street-smart Glasgow youths in Buchan’s tale. When he cried, he “was getting dangerous” (Ht, 201, 227). The actions that Dernhelm takes after weeping could hardly be more dangerous. She beheads the pterodactyl-like steed of the Nazgûl, and then proceeds to prove that its rider is not deathless. While Éowyn’s victory is given the quality of the epic by the skill of Tolkien’s pen, the quality of her courage is no greater than that of Buchan’s princess. They both risk their lives, doing what “no living man” could have done, hindering the villain, and keeping him from his prey. Dickson’s last assessment seems to encompass Bilbo’s statement at the beginning of Tolkien’s tale that he has “no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can’t think what anybody sees in them” (H, 18). As Bilbo’s adventure progresses, he sounds like Dickson when he says “Bother burgling and everything to do with it! I wish I was at home in my nice hole by the fire, with the kettle just beginning to sing!,” to which the narrator adds: “It was not the last time that he wished that!” (H, 43). As Dickson’s adventure progresses, however, he feels far more in his heart than this sober resolution. He was intoxicated with the resurgence of youth and felt a rapture of audacity which he never remembered in his decorous boyhood. “I haven’t been doing badly for an old man,” he reflected with glee.... In the past three days he had levanted with jewels which had once been an Emperor’s and certainly were not his; he had burglariously entered and made free of a strange house; he had played hide-and-seek at the risk of his neck and had wrestled in the dark with a foreign miscreant; he had shot at an eminent solicitor with intent to kill; and he was now engaged in tramping the world with a fairy-tale Princess. I blush to confess that of each of his doings he was unashamedly proud, and thirsted for many more in the same line. “Gosh, but I’m seeing life,” was his unregenerate conclusion [Ht, 202].

In Tolkien’s tale, having killed the great spider who had been trying to tie him up, Bilbo “felt a different person, and much fiercer and bolder in spite of an empty stomach, as he wiped his sword on the grass and put it back into its sheath” (H, 154). And when the Dwarves began to praise Bilbo for his part in rescuing them from the spiders, he “began to feel there really was something of a bold adventurer about himself after all, though he would have felt a lot bolder still, if there had been anything to eat” (163). As the story begins to draw to a close, Bilbo expresses a little of the same pride that Dickson had in “his doings.” At Thorin’s death bed he says, “This is a bitter adventure, if

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it must end so; and not a mountain of gold can amend it. Yet I am glad that I have shared in your perils — that has been more than any Baggins deserves” (273). The size and pluck of the street-smart Glasgow youths of Buchan’s tale make them somewhat suggestive of Hobbits, but those are not the only similarities between the two. In chapter VII of Huntingtower, there is a scene in which the minions of the bad guys set upon the encampment of Buchan’s youthful toughs “about seven o’clock, just at the darkenin’” (Ht, 150). The four men think that they will have an easy job of it against six boys, but the boys/Hobbits are made of sterner stuff. As the men approach to try and pull down the boys’ tents, the boys loose a volley of stones by hand and by slingshot. Before the men can recover from this assault, three of the boys grab firebrands from the campfire and rush their attackers, setting fire to their clothes. The boys then fall to with long, pointed poles to keep their attackers at a distance, and finally run them off. There is a reflection of this scene in The Lord of the Rings, on Weathertop, in the chapter “A Knife in the Dark” (FR, 262–3), the title of which echoes the title of the chapter in Huntingtower where the attack described above took place: “Sundry Doings in the Mirk” (Ht, 136–155). In The Lord of the Rings, the four Hobbits and Strider are attacked by five Ringwraiths just as the moon was rising, making the times of the two attacks similar. Strider commands the Hobbits to “get some of the longer sticks” (FR, 262), which suggest the poles that the boys use. As the other Hobbits cower, Frodo draws his sword, which “flickered red, as if it was a firebrand,” and faces his attackers with a cry of “O Elbereth!” The last thing Frodo recalls seeing before he passes out is “Strider leaping out of the darkness with a flaming brand of wood in either hand” (Ibid., 263). This use of firebrands recalls the boys’ assault on the minions of evil with “burnin’ sticks frae the fire.” The volley of stones launched at the men seems to have been relocated to The Hobbit in the scene with the spiders, in which Bilbo prevents a spider from killing Bombur by striking him in the head with a stone. “Bilbo was a pretty fair shot with a stone” (H, 156), and he pummels the spiders with stones, drawing them away from the dwarves so that he could come back and rescue them. The slingshots can be found in Tolkien’s drafts, where he adds: “All Hobbits were ‘good shots’ with stone, sling or bow, but the Fallohides were the surest on the mark” (The Treason of Isengard, 56). The final version in the “Prologue,” however, only preserves how “sure at the mark” Hobbits were with stones, for “[i]f any Hobbit stooped for a stone, it was well to get quickly under cover’ (Peoples, 25). The episode of Bilbo’s consternation of the spiders appears to reflect yet another element of Buchan’s tale. In the final great encounter with the villains

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just before they are routed, Buchan’s boys flit about invisibly in the darkness confusing the enemy into thinking that the police had arrived and causing them to take flight. They blow on police whistles, the hallmark sound of the British constabulary, “in a man’s ear one second and the next yards away,” all the while yelling “Hands up!” They shout orders to a phantom corps of policemen that make it seem as if the place is surrounded. Peter Paterson, in a convincing imitation of a “Gallowgate policeman,” reports: “We’ve gotten three o’ the deevils, sir. What’ll we dae wi’ them?” He is answered by Old Bill “in a slightly more genteel voice,” suggesting him to be an officer. “Fall them to the rear. Tamson has charge of the prisoners” (Ht, 299). In his encounter with the spiders Bilbo’s invisibility is due, of course, to the Ring and not the darkness, but he applies a similar tactic to the one the boys used to draw the spiders away from the Dwarves. Instead of pretending to be a corps of policemen, he sings songs that infuriate the spiders, calling them “Attercop,” which spiders don’t like, and “Tomnoddy,” which, “of course is insulting to anybody” (H, 158). With the spiders running after an invisible stone-thrower and name-caller through the woods, Bilbo is able to sneak back and free the Dwarves, just as the princess is saved by the boys causing the villains to run away. Gandalf employs a somewhat similar tactic in their encounter with the trolls. He imitates the trolls’ voices, causing them to argue among themselves until the sun comes up and turns them to stone (Ibid., 50–2). As Dickson prepares to join the battle with his meager force against the superior forces of the villains, he says something that recalls Elrond’s comment on the chances of the Fellowship’s success. Elrond says “This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere” (FR, 353). Dickson says: “Five laddies [boys], a middle-aged man [himself ], and an auld wife [old woman],’ he cried. ‘Dod [God], it’s pretty hopeless. It’s like the thing in the Bible about the weak things of the world trying to confound the strong.” Dickson is, of course, referring to 1 Corinthians 1:27, where it is said that “God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise, and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty” (KJV). The fit of this Bible quotation to The Lord of the Rings is made even tighter by the fact that the first phrase of 1 Corinthians 1:27 — the one that Dickson did not quote — dovetails so well with the discussion between Gandalf and Erestor that immediately precedes Elrond’s pronouncement about small hands moving the wheels of the world. Erestor calls their decision to destroy the Ring “the path of despair. Of folly I would say, if the long wisdom of Elrond did not forbid me.” Gandalf rejects his argument, replying: “[L]et

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folly be our cloak, a veil before the eyes of the Enemy! For he is very wise...” (FR, 352).24 This is not to say that Buchan ignored the first phrase of 1 Corinthians 1:27 about confounding the wise with foolish things. He has simply relocated it. In explaining how Saskia came to be the bearer of the jewels that were the cornerstone of his adventure, Buchan says that she was chosen because nobody would suspect “a foolish girl” of being the bearer of such a great treasure (Ht, 103). Though Tolkien’s Bible allusion is cleverly veiled, and Dickson’s is patently obvious, there can be no doubt that both authors were motivated by the same sentiment. As Tolkien’s story draws to a close, Gandalf comments to Bilbo that he has changed. “Something is the matter with you! You are not the hobbit that you were” (H, 284). The same notion can be found at the close of Buchan’s story as well, but this time more elegantly expressed than in Tolkien. Dickson looks forward into the future, but sees that it will “be different from what he had fancied, for he is another man than the complacent little fellow who set out a week ago on his travels. He has now assurance of himself, assurance of his faith. Romance ... Romance, the goddess whom he has worshipped so long, marries that furious week with the idyllic. He is supremely content, for he knows that in his humble way he has not been found wanting” (Ht, 316– 7). I would like to close the discussion of Huntingtower by noting one additional passage, a passage that Tolkien rejected. As Burns notes in her essay, “Bilbo must be carried through the goblin tunnels and helped up a tree. Dickson, ‘who stuck fast on the second stone,’ has to be rescued in the middle of a stream (89)” (203). What she does not say is that Tolkien actually wrote a scene that is much closer to Buchan’s, in the revision of The Hobbit he began in 1960 and abandoned at Rivendell. The new second chapter described a broken bridge in the rough country beyond the Shire. Gandalf and the Dwarves have some trouble crossing, and Bilbo is nearly left behind and has to be helped across the stream (Rateliff, 793–4).

Conclusion There are so many parallels detailed above between Midwinter, The Blanket of the Dark and Huntingtower on the one hand and The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit on the other that the probability of their all occurring by pure chance is vanishingly small.25 It is far more likely that these three novels were among the stories of John Buchan that Tolkien liked and read. Having been read by Tolkien, these three novels became a part of what Tolkien called

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“the leaf-mould of the mind,” which is made up “of all that has been seen or thought or read, that has long ago been forgotten, descending into the deeps.” This is the key to Tolkien’s creative process. As he later explained, The Lord of the Rings was not written “out of the leaves of trees still to be observed, nor by means of botany and soil-science”; it grew instead “like a seed in the dark out of the leaf-mould of the mind” (Biography, 140–1). Identifying the things that went into the “leaf-mould” out of which The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit grew helps the modern reader to better understand not only Tolkien, but also the authors who nourished Tolkien’s imagination. By comparing the two, the story elements of both come into sharper focus. What may be missing in one is found in the other, so that when they are read together, the reader gains a more complete picture of the concept that the authors sought to impart in their writings. It helps the reader to understand both storytellers so much better.

NOTES 1. Though not without value, most previous references to the possible influence of John Buchan’s works on Tolkien have usually been short, narrow in scope, often lacking elaboration. For a sample, readers are referred to Anderson, Giddings and Holland, Hopkins, Lobdell, and Nelson. For more thorough discussions, see Shippey and Burns. 2. The Hannay novels are: The Thirty-Nine Steps (1915), Greenmantle (1916), Mr. Standfast (1919), The Three Hostages (1924) and Island of Sheep (1936). 3. Distinguished Service Order, a British military decoration given to officers, primarily in the rank of major and above, for meritorious service on the field of battle. 4. For ease of frequent citation, M = Midwinter; B = The Blanket of the Dark; Ht = Huntingtower. 5. For a more complete discussion of the feigned-manuscript topos and its many adherents, see Hooker, “The Feigned-Manuscript Topos,” in A Tolkienian Mathomium, 153–77. 6. The fictive discovery of the Midwinter manuscript, a “mass of derelict papers,” also calls to mind the fictive discovery of the manuscript for The Notion Club Papers, which Tolkien calls “a disordered bundle, loosely tied with red string” found in the “waste paper in the basement of the Examination Schools at Oxford” (Sauron, 155). 7. Thanks to Tom Shippey for prompting me to explore this chapter in more depth. 8. Attested as Gaping Ghyll in some sources. Ghyll is a rather uncommon word, but one that Tolkien used twice in The Lord of the Rings (RK, 198, 246). 9. A phrase likewise used by Tolkien in his more mythological writings (e.g., S, 35). 10. The Catholic Apostles’ Creed says that Christ “descended into hell. On the third day he rose again. He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father.” 11. Journeyman John: the personification of the pothole. 12. The spindle side: the female line of descent. 13. For a more complete discussion of Bredon Hill in the context of Tolkien, see Hooker, “The Linguistic Landscape of Bree,” in A Tolkienian Mathomium, 8, 11–3. 14. Horse-dealers. Compare the Dutch word paardekoper, literally “horse buyer.” 15. The section of this essay dealing with Huntingtower originally appeared, in a slightly different form, in Beyond Bree, September, October, and November 2008, and has been adapted here with permission. Beyond Bree is the newsletter of the J.R.R. Tolkien Special Interest Group of American Mensa.

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16. Gandalf is at least taller than Bilbo and the Dwarves, fitting the “tall stranger” image well enough for The Hobbit. Tolkien’s original image of Gandalf, lingering even into the first stages of The Lord of the Rings, was “a little old man” (Rateliff, 30; Shadow, 20); however, Tolkien dropped “little” after the first edition of The Hobbit. By the end of his life, Tolkien had settled on a figure somewhat taller, but still “a short man even in modern England,” but “who even bent must have been at least 5 ft. 6” (Rateliff, 49). 17. Thanks to Tom Shippey for prompting me to explore this topic in more detail. 18. Tarian is a Welsh girl’s name. 19. Third Communist International, perhaps better known as the Comintern, was established in March 1919, as an umbrella organization for coordinating communist activity abroad. It’s mission was to use “all available means, including armed force, for the overthrow of the international bourgeoisie and for the creation of an international Soviet republic as a transition stage to the complete abolition of the State.” Source: “History: The Communist Threat,” Security Service MI-5, https://www.mi5.gov.uk/output/the-communist-threat.html, accessed April 30, 2010. 20. For a more detailed discussion of the Red Flag in the context of Tolkien, see Hooker, Tolkien Through Russian Eyes, 27–29. 21. E.g., “Member dose jools we got in de hotel de year before I was copped?” (“The Gem Collector,” 1909). 22. E.g., “[H]ere be de grandest jools, de finest dimunds of all, what buys all de rest!” (The Battery and the Boiler, 1883). 23. E.g., “I’d ... made the hearts o’ your sisters jump with bonnuts and gowns and jools” (Sandra Belloni, 1887). 24. See also Rutledge, 111–2, for discussion of I Corinthians 1:27 and the Council of Elrond. 25. And there are many other parallels between their stories than it has been possible to cover in a single essay — not to mention parallels with others of Buchan’s novels; the inquisitive reader is invited to read Buchan for him/herself.

WORKS CONSULTED Anderson, Douglas A., ed. Tales Before Tolkien: The Roots of Modern Fantasy. New York: Del Rey, 2003. Auden, T. “Early Man.” The Victoria History of Shropshire, Volume 1. Ed. William Page. London: Archibald Constable, 1908. Bevan, George Phillips. Tourist’s Guide to the West Riding of Yorkshire. London: Edward Stanford, 1877. Buchan, John. The Blanket of the Dark. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1931. _____. Huntingtower. Hodder and Stoughton, 1922. _____. Midwinter. New York: Grosset and Dunlap, 1923. Burns, Marjorie. “Tracking the Elusive Hobbit (In Its Pre-Shire Den).” Tolkien Studies 4 (2007): 200–11. Carpenter, Humphrey. Tolkien: A Biography. New York: Ballantine, 1978. Dawkins, William Boyd. Early Man in Britain and His Place in the Tertiary Period. London: Macmillan and Co., 1880. Drout, Michael D.C., ed. J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical Assessment. New York: Routledge, 2006. Dumas, Alexandre Georges. The Planter of the Isle of France. Trans. Tina A. Kover. New York: Modern Library, 2008. Edwards, Amelia B. “All-Saints’ Eve: A Tale of Circumstantial Evidence.” The Ladies’ Companion and Monthly Magazine, Volume VII, Second Series. London, 1855. Reprinted in Edwards, A. B. All Saints’ Eve. Mystery and the Supernatural Series. London: Wordsworth Editions, 2008.

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Fletcher, Josef Smith. A Picturesque History of Yorkshire: Being an Account of the History, Topography, and Antiquities of the Cities, Towns and Villages of the County of York, Founded on Personal Observations Made During Many Journeys Through the Three Ridings, Volume 3. London: J. M. Dent, 1901. George, T.J. “Early Man.” The Victoria History of Northhampton, Volume 1. Ed. W. Ryland D. Adkins and R.M. Serjeantson. London: Archibald Constable, 1902. Giddings, Robert, and Elizabeth Holland. J.R.R. Tolkien: The Shores of Middle-earth. London: Junction, 1981. Hooker, Mark T. A Tolkienian Mathomium: A Collection of Articles on J.R.R. Tolkien and His Legendarium. N.p.: Llyfrawr, 2006. _____. Tolkien Through Russian Eyes. Zurich: Walking Tree, 2003. Hopkins, Lisa. “Gollum and Caliban: Evolution and Design.” Tolkien and Shakespeare: Essays on Shared Themes and Language. Ed. Janet Brennan Croft. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2007. 281–93. Laybourn, Keith, and Jack Reynolds. Liberalism and the Rise of Labour, 1890 –1918. Beckenham, Kent: Croom Helm, 1984. Lobdell, Jared. England and Always: Tolkien’s World of the Rings. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1981. _____. The Rise of Tolkienian Fantasy. Chicago: Open Court, 2005. Lownie, Andrew. John Buchan: The Presbyterian Cavalier: A Biography. London: Constable, 1995. Mann, Joel F. An International Glossary of Place Name Elements. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow, 2005. Mellinkoff, Ruth. Outcasts: Signs of Otherness in Northern European Art of the Late Middle Ages. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993. Nelson, Dale. “Literary Influences, Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries.” In Drout. 366–78. Peach, Howard. Curious Tales of Old North Yorkshire. Wilmslow, Cheshire, UK: Sigma Leisure, 2004. Rateliff, John D. The History of The Hobbit, Part One: Mr. Baggins; Part Two: Return to BagEnd. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2007. Rutledge, Fleming. The Battle for Middle-earth: Tolkien’s Divine Design in The Lord of the Rings. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004. Shippey, Tom. “Buchan, John (1875–1940).” In Drout. 77–8. Smith, Walter Parry Haskett. Climbing the British Isles, Volume 1. London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1894. “Socialist Sunday Schools.” Municipal Socialism: A Series of Articles Reprinted from ‘The Times.’ London: The Times Office, 1902. Speight, Harry. The Craven and North-west Yorkshire Highlands: Being a Complete Account of the History, Scenery, and Antiquities of that Romantic District. London: Elliot Stock, 1892. Tolkien, J.R.R. The Hobbit. New York: Ballantine, 1966. _____. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien. Ed. Humphrey Carpenter. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981. _____. The Lord of the Rings. New York: Ballantine, 1965. _____. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1984. _____. The Return of the Shadow: The History of The Lord of the Rings, Part One. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1988. _____. Sauron Defeated: The End of the Third Age. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1992. _____. The Silmarillion. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1977. Urbe. “Concerning Birds and Their Nests.” The Month: A Catholic Magazine and Review, Vol. 82 (September-December). London, 1894. Wheater, William. Handbook for Tourists in Yorkshire and Complete History of the Country, Vol. 2. Leeds: Richard Jackson, 1891. Wood, Walter. “In Subterranean Caves.” New York: The Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, Vol. 66 ( July–December), 1897.

Biography as Source: Niggles and Notions Diana Pavlac Glyer and Josh B. Long Introduction J.R.R. Tolkien is sitting at his writing desk, working hard on a brand new novel. He begins by inventing character names and writing them across the top of a clean sheet of paper: “Ramer,” he writes. “Franks. Loudham. Dolbear.” He looks at the list thoughtfully, and then he jots a quick note underneath each name. Under “Franks,” he writes “CSL.” C.S. Lewis. Under “Loudham,” he writes “HVD.” Hugo Victor Dyson. Under “Dolbear” he writes “Havard.” Dr. R. E. Havard. And under “Ramer,” the character he describes as a Professor of Philology and a writer of romances, Tolkien writes “Self ” (Sauron, 150, 159). Some Inklings scholars scorn the notion that Tolkien’s work has autobiographical elements. They quote Tolkien, saying “One of my strongest opinions is that investigation of an author’s biography ... is an entirely vain and false approach to his works” (Letters, 414). They add reference to “Beowulf: The Monster and the Critics,” arguing that the poem should be appreciated as a work of art. And, if they are particularly well read, they invoke C.S. Lewis’s grumpy denouncement of “The Personal Heresy,” underscoring his conviction that readers are on very shaky ground when they read a literary text with the assumption that “all poetry is about the poet’s state of mind” (Tillyard and Lewis, 2). It is a valid concern. However, there has been a tendency to take these protests to the extreme, applying them far beyond the intent of the men who uttered them. It is true: an author’s work should be approached as more than mere autobiography; tales should be appreciated for their power to inspire and excite; and poetry is certainly about more than merely the poet’s state of mind. 193

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But that does not mean that there is no relationship whatsoever between the poet and the poem. In a very general sense, as this collection of essays attests, any creative work will reflect the interests, tastes, language, culture, and convictions of its creator. This is Verlyn Flieger’s point when she writes, “[I]t must be acknowledged that there is a general psychological and intellectual sense in which all fiction can be said to be autobiographical” (Question, 73). Tolkien’s love of language, his interest in Anglo-Saxon poetry, his perspective on the nature of fairy stories, and his convictions as a Roman Catholic will exert their influence on his work to a greater or lesser degree. That is not the kind of source study we attempt in this essay; our interests here are more specific. In addition to broad forms of influence rooted in the personality and interests and contexts of an author, there are more specific ways that authors appropriate personal experiences, using them as raw material that is reimagined, reshaped, and incorporated into their creative work. We are all too aware that this approach can be overemphasized, or misapplied; however, we believe that meaningful links can be established between an author’s life and work, shedding light on both. Without wandering too close to the edge of a very slippery slope, we find that there are a number of places where, clearly, Tolkien appropriates his life experiences and uses them as a starting point to build something fresh and new in the stories he invented. We are encouraged in our exploration by the example of scholars who have already forged key links between Tolkien’s life and his stories. John Garth, for example, has made considerable headway in describing how Tolkien repurposed his war experiences in his fiction. Others have explored his use of the landscape, countryside, and specific landmarks of the West Midlands. There are references to family: Tom Bombadil and Roverandom come to mind. And there are whole retellings; one thinks of Beren and his profound love for Lúthien. We are also encouraged by Tolkien’s own tendency to conflate the experiences in his life and those in his fiction. He frequently spoke of the primary world in terms of his secondary one. Writing to his son Christopher during World War II, he observes, “we are attempting to conquer Sauron with the Ring. And we shall (it seems) succeed. But the penalty is, as you will know, to breed new Saurons, and slowly turn Men and Elves into Orcs” (Letters, 78). In another letter to his son, he mentions the “lesser servants of Mordor,” noting that “in real life they are on both sides” (82). He expresses utter contempt for World War II aircraft: “My sentiments are more or less those that Frodo would have had if he discovered some Hobbits learning to ride Nazgûlbirds, ‘for the liberation of the Shire’” (115). And although the British atomic bomb was post–World War II, he criticizes it similarly: “I regret to note that

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the billowing cloud recently pictured did not mark the fall of Barad-dûr, but was produced by its allies” (165). Tolkien used the imagery of Middle-earth again as he criticized what he saw as unnecessary and unfortunate change in Oxford. He recalls, “It does not now seem so long ago [that I was studying at Exeter]— until one surveys the havoc the Orcs have made of Oxford since. I have been driven from my little, v. ancient and charming, house in Holywell, by them” (unpublished letter).1 About a year later, he expressed similar sentiments: “[T]he spirit of ‘Isengard,’ if not of Mordor, is of course always cropping up. The present design of destroying Oxford in order to accommodate motor-cars is a case” (Letters, 235).2 Not all his comments were so heavy-handed; some were quite lighthearted. He closes a letter to Christopher Tolkien by saying, “I will forgive the Mordor-gadgets some of their sins, if they will bring [this letter] quickly to you” (Letters, 88). In another letter, he blames “the ill will of Mordor” for his poor health (166). After returning from a trip to Italy, he jests, “I went for a brief holiday in Gondor (or in modern terms Venice)” (unpublished letter).3 He responds appreciatively to Miss Turnbull for the gift of wine she sent him, “[W]hen I drink I shall remember with a gratitude at least as warm and deep as Old Rory felt for the bottles of Old Winyards” (unpublished letter).4 Elsewhere, he expresses his affection for Rayner Unwin in terms of an alliance: “[O]ur relations are like that of Rohan and Gondor, and (as you know) for my part the oath of Eorl will never be broken, and I shall continue to rely on and be grateful for the wisdom and courtesy of Minas Tirith” (Letters, 379). Of all Tolkien’s personal connections to Middle-earth, his association with and attachment to hobbits is strongest, as evidenced in his oft-quoted remark, “I am in fact a Hobbit (in all but size)” (Letters, 288). Tolkien elaborated this in an interview with William Foster: “As for hobbits, they’re just what I should like to have been but never was — an entirely unmilitary people who always come up to scratch in an emergency.” In his letters, he compares himself to “a small hobbitlike creature” and an elderly hobbit (Letters, 227, 315). He chides himself for being “much below hobbit standards” in hospitality (170). At a contentious college meeting, he recalls that he “felt rather like an observer at the meeting of Hobbit-notables” (201). He closes another letter with a “hobbit-like note” (314). Recalling his walking tour in the Swiss Alps, he notes, “Then the pangs of hunger smote us, and one of the hobbits of the party ... shouted ‘lunch’” (392). Even in the final months of his life, shortly after receiving an honorary degree from Edinburgh University, he uses a scene from his fiction to express his sentiments at the laureation: “I felt like a hobbit would: as is exhibited in ‘The Lord of the Rings,’ especially by Merry and Pippin: great pride and delight in the reception of high honour and title,

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combined with (and in a way enhanced by) a difficulty in believing that it was really happening to me, or was really deserved except by the generosity of my superiors” (unpublished letter).5 Such examples, including those established by Tolkien himself, suggest that exploring correlations between Tolkien’s life and Tolkien’s fiction may be a fruitful line of inquiry.

The Lost Road The Lost Road has its roots in one of the most famous wagers in literary history. Lewis, lamenting the scarcity of the kind of books he liked to read, approached Tolkien in 1936 with a proposal: “Tollers, there is too little of what we really like in stories. I am afraid we shall have to try and write some ourselves” (Letters, 378). Tolkien says that he and Lewis “tossed up,” and it was determined that Lewis was to write about space travel and Tolkien was to write about time travel (347). Tolkien elaborates: “We originally meant each to write an excursionary ‘Thriller’: a Space-journey and a Time-journey (mine) each discovering Myth” (29). Lewis produced Out of the Silent Planet, which was published in 1938. It has garnered praise and affection ever since. Lewis completed the series with two more excursionary thrillers: Perelandra and That Hideous Strength. Tolkien’s attempt at time-travel, which he called The Lost Road, was less successful. He writes, “I began an abortive book of time-travel of which the end was to be the presence of my hero in the drowning of Atlantis” (Letters, 347). He worked on it from 1936 to 1937; it was never completed: “My effort, after a few promising chapters, ran dry: it was too long a way round to what I really wanted to make, a new version of the Atlantis legend” (378). The fragment and Christopher Tolkien’s illuminating commentary upon it have been published in The Lost Road and Other Writings. The Lost Road is one of Tolkien’s most clearly autobiographical stories. Many authors have observed this, most notably Humphrey Carpenter, Christopher Tolkien, and Verlyn Flieger (Biography, 171; Lost Road, 53; Question, 73). The main characters, Alboin, Oswin, and Audoin, are analogous to J.R.R. Tolkien, Father Francis Morgan, and Christopher Tolkien, respectively. The parallels between Alboin and Tolkien are ubiquitous and well-documented. Christopher Tolkien points out that they were born roughly at the same time and share similar educational experiences, noting in particular the Oxford examinations referenced in the story (Lost Road, 53). Flieger points to their similar interests in language and myth, and she suggests that the most

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“autobiographical element of all” is found in the haunting dreams they both have (Question, 73, 75–6). Christina Scull and Wayne Hammond make several connections between the two: both take an interest in Northern languages at a young age, both win a scholarship after the second try, both switch from Classics to another school, and both achieve a First in their final examinations (Reader’s Guide, 560). In addition, Tolkien, like Alboin, “spent most of [his] time learning Latin and Greek,” was introduced to “linguistic history” through his interest in Northern languages, recorded his private languages in notebooks, and was driven to earn a scholarship as a result of financial need (Letters, 213; Lost Road, 39, 41). Alboin’s name —“Elf-friend”— is also indicative of Tolkien; Flieger posits that “the Elf-friend figure acts as a semitransparent mask for the real Elf-friend, who is actually Tolkien himself ” (“Footsteps of Ælfwine,” 189). Although most commentators agree that Alboin is representative of Tolkien, few have investigated real-life parallels for Alboin’s father, Oswin. In light of the fact that Tolkien’s father died when he was only four, this is not surprising. The most common reading of Oswin is “an idealized father, which might point to Tolkien’s loss of father and mother in his childhood” (Duriez, 104).6 There is certainly support for this interpretation, but it downplays the significant paternal role of Tolkien’s legal guardian, Father Francis, whom Tolkien referred to as “a father to me” and a “second father” (Letters, 53, 416). Tolkien was “virtually a junior inmate of the [Birmingham] Oratory house” (395). Although he never took up permanent residence there, it remained, in his own words, a “good Catholic home” (395). Even Oswin’s name is suggestive: Father Francis was certainly a “Godfriend.” Moreover, both men were teachers: Oswin served as a schoolmaster, and Father Francis was “a natural teacher” whose “main work was in parish life and with the local mission schools (Coren, 435). In the opening scene of The Lost Road, both the age of Alboin and the setting are significant. Alboin is twelve years old, and Tolkien was twelve when Father Francis became his legal guardian. In addition, the setting strongly recalls Tolkien’s summer vacations with Father Francis at Lyme Regis. Carpenter writes, “Ronald loved the scenery of Lyme and enjoyed sketching it on wet days, though when it was fine he was happiest rambling along the shore.... On these holidays Father Francis talked a good deal to the boys” (38). Similarly, Alboin is found along the shore “gazing out to sea”; Oswin joins him, and they talk “until bed-time” (Lost Road, 36, 37). Both father-figures took a keen interest in their sons’ educations. Father Francis gained permission for Tolkien to continue his schooling at King Edward’s (Letters, 395). Had he not, it is likely that Tolkien would have

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returned to St. Philip’s, to the detriment of his studies; St. Philip’s lower academic standards “could not provide the education that he needed” (Biography, 27). Later, when Father Francis found out about Tolkien’s growing relationship with Edith Bratt, he forced him to cut off all contact with her until he was twenty-one so that Tolkien would devote greater attention to his school work. In reflecting on this time in his life, Tolkien admits that his indolence as a scholar had a different cause altogether. Tolkien observes that “a large part of my failure was due simply to not working (at least not at classics) not because I was in love, but because I was studying something else: Gothic and what not” (Letters, 52). Elsewhere, he reflects more generally: “As a child, I was always inventing languages. But that was naughty. Poor boys must concentrate on getting scholarships. When I was supposed to be studying Latin and Greek, I studied Welsh and English. When I was supposed to be concentrating on English, I took up Finnish. I have always been incapable of doing the job in hand” (Plimmer, 32). By the end of autumn term 1909, Father Francis was quite aware that his charge was “not giving his full attention to work towards a university scholarship” (Scull and Hammond, Chronolog y, 17).7 Tolkien was nearly eighteen at this time, the same age as Alboin when his father speaks with him in the “autumn” about remaining focused upon his academic pursuits (Lost Road, 39). In this scene, Oswin wonders “whether Northern languages and legends were not taking up more time and energy than their practical value in a hard world justified” (39). He encourages his son towards “honest study, long and patient work” and asserts that his “Latin needs improving (or so I am told)” (40, 41). When their discussion shifts to Alboin’s private language of Eressëan, Oswin reminds him, “Only don’t waste too much time on it. I am afraid I am anxious about that schol[arship], not only from the highest motives. Cash is not too abundant” (Lost Road, 41, brackets in original).8 Oswin closes their conversation by encouraging him to “get [into] a Latin and Greek mood” (41). It is tempting to speculate which of these comments were actually made by Father Francis, but such guesswork would add little to our discussion. Father Francis, like Oswin, was obviously involved in his ward’s academic affairs. While Alboin is analogous to Tolkien and Oswin to Father Francis, Audoin reflects Christopher Tolkien. This third connection has been hinted at by many writers. Carpenter writes that “Tolkien’s feelings towards his third son were perhaps one of the factors that made him begin” The Lost Road (170). Christopher Tolkien remains relatively silent on the issue, though he does emphasize that the father-son relationship is “cardinal” to the essence of this story (Lost Road, 75). Flieger suggests that Tolkien “drew at least in part on

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his own feelings for his portrayal of the father and the son” (Question, 73). Most forthright is Colin Duriez’s assertion that “Christopher shared a special affinity with his father, which may be reflected in the father-son relationships in the unfinished story, ‘The Lost Road ’” (120). The tendency has been to imply without stating or to state without analyzing, but it seems clear that Christopher Tolkien was an important source for the character of Audoin. Tolkien’s affection for his son stemmed from their strong similitude. He wrote in his diary that “there is something intensely lovable about him, to me at any rate, from the very similarity between us” (Biography, 169). In a 1944 letter to Christopher, he reaffirmed this, recognizing “that we have some special bond to last beyond this life” (Letters, 76). In the story, this “special bond” is the basis of Audoin and Alboin’s relationship. The narrator points out that “Audoin had turned out remarkably like Alboin,” and Alboin recognizes that they are “closely akin, in many ways besides blood” (Lost Road, 46, 51). In particular, Audoin “seemed interested in the same things, and asked the same questions” (46). While Christopher was quite young, he took a keen interest in his father’s stories, and Tolkien found in him an attentive and interested audience. When Tolkien read to him from the then unpublished Hobbit, “Christopher was always much concerned with the consistency of the story” ( John and Priscilla Tolkien, 58). Tolkien also shared his larger mythology with him. Christopher recalls that “among my earliest literary recollections are my father telling me stories from The Silmarillion” (Cater, 91). In describing Audoin’s upbringing, Tolkien clearly drew from these experiences with Christopher; the narrator recounts, “Alboin had scattered tales and legends all down Audoin’s childhood and boyhood, like one laying a trail, though he was not clear what trail or where it led. Audoin was a voracious listener, as well (latterly) as a reader” (Lost Road, 46). In a description that strongly recalls Tolkien’s story-telling method in general and his creation of The Hobbit in particular, the narrator observes that Audoin was “used to odd words and names slipping out in a murmur from his father. Sometimes his father would spin a long tale around them” (52–3). The father-son relationship between Tolkien and Christopher was profound — he found in his son someone who was at once sympathetic and perceptive. It is no wonder that he described Christopher as the “primary audience” for The Lord of the Rings (Letters, 112). The Lost Road was begun in the context of friendly competition, and while composing it, Tolkien drew heavily from the raw material of his own experiences, particularly his relationships with his guardian and with his son. Tolkien submitted the manuscript to Allen & Unwin in November 1937. It was declared unsuitable, and the publisher (and the readers) clamored for more about Hobbits. So Tolkien turned his attention to “The New Hobbit,”

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and made progress on it in fits and starts over the next several years. But the idea of doing something with a time-travel story lingered at the back of his mind.

The Notion Club Papers Toward the end of 1944, Tolkien felt a tug to return to the theme of time-travel. “I have been getting a lot of new ideas about Prehistory lately,” he told Christopher, and so he decided to “work them into a long shelved time-travel story” (Sauron, 105). Seven years had passed since he had drafted The Lost Road, but now Tolkien had conceived something new, “an entirely different frame and setting” for this old, abandoned material (118). So Tolkien began his work on The Notion Club Papers, the story of a writing group that met each week in college rooms in Oxford and devoted themselves to “conversation, debate, and the discussion of ‘papers,’ in verse or prose, written and read by its members” (Sauron, 155). When Tolkien first began it, he imagined a strong one-to-one correspondence between members of the Notion Club, and members of his own writing group, the Inklings. In the scribbled chart that is among the earliest pages of this manuscript, he identifies himself with Michael George Ramer, “Professor of Finno-Ugric Philology; but better known as a writer of romances.” We are told that Professor Ramer was born in Hungary in 1929. “His parents returned to England when he was four,” and “among his interests are Celtic languages and antiquities” (Sauron, 159). He “spends a frightful lot of late hours” laboring over various writing projects. He reworks and rewrites and revises his work — endlessly (173). Ramer also experiences a distinctive creative process. He tells his fellow writers that he doesn’t really make up events. Instead, “a scene comes up before one’s eye” and is incorporated into the story (Sauron, 176). As a writer, Ramer finds that it is “impossible to alter these pictures” to suit himself or his own creative ideas. They have the “the quality of memory,” a sense that they really happened (177). The details of this personal description are eerily familiar, right down to the fact that Ramer is rarely seen without a pipe, and he goes through box after box of matches, trying to keep the thing alight (Sauron, 174). As Tolkien observes, “I’ve always, always smoked. I sometimes smoke beyond the point when you enjoy it, which is silly, but I do smoke and enjoy it, and as a matter of fact, it’s now so tied to writing that I can’t write without it.”9 Tolkien’s choice of “Michael George Ramer” as the name for this alter ego is interesting, too. “Michael George” is the name of Tolkien’s grandson,

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born in January 1943, a year before the work was begun. As for the name “Ramer,” Christopher Tolkien suggests that it may be related to the dialectical verb rame, meaning “to keep up the same cry, continue repeating the same thing” or “to talk nonsense, rave” (Sauron, 150). If that is the source, it may be simply self-deprecating humor, a slighting reference to his own tendency to rework the same material. A recent search for information about the Ramer surname identifies it as a German occupational name, from Middle High German ram(e), referring to one who makes frames or looms.10 A weaver, perhaps, or a weaver of tales.11 The members of the Notion Club are first outlined in the hastily scribbled chart that appears in the rough draft; a revised section of The Notion Club Papers includes a list of 14 members, and in it each full name is followed with information about birth date, school affiliation, scholarly interests, and publishing history. It is clear from these descriptions, and from other details offered in the story, that the members of the Notion Club are, indeed, modeled on the members of the Inklings: the red-bearded Rupert Dolbear, a research chemist, is Robert E. Havard; Abel Pitt, the former chaplain of Trinity and occasional poet, is Adam Fox; Ranulf Stainer, an expert in banking and economics, devoted to music and the composer of a mythic opera, is both a representation of Owen Barfield and a reference to Barfield’s devotion to the philosophies of Rudolf Steiner. One of the story’s main characters, Alwin Arundel Lowdham (sometimes spelled “Loudham”) is one of the most easily identified. Christopher Tolkien observes that he “would obviously be Dyson even without ‘HVD’ written beneath” (Sauron, 150). Christopher Tolkien adds, “The fact that Lowdham is ‘loud’ and makes jokes often at inappropriate moments derives from Dyson (but he was wittier than Lowdham)” (151). The fact that Dyson’s alter-ego is named Alwin, or Elf-friend, is ironic, given that Dyson was no fan of elves. Scholars who are interested in Tolkien’s perceptions of his friends, his sense of humor, and his quite extraordinary gift for elaborate pun and wordplay, will find much food for thought in these lists of characters and their names and descriptions. But as the story unfolds in The Notion Club Papers, it does not maintain these exact one-to-one correspondences for very long. Christopher Tolkien writes that his father “started out with the idea of a series of definite ‘equivalences,’ distorted no doubt but recognizable. But I think that this plan very quickly dissolved, because he found that it would not suit his purpose” (Sauron, 150). In a recent interview, Havard’s son John observes that despite a few concrete details (a degree in chemistry, red hair, a scientific interest in space travel), he does not recognize Rupert Dolbear as being very much like his father. John Havard comments, “I did not find much of father’s character that I recognised in Dolbear when I was reading the [Notion Club]

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Papers. I had the impression that Tolkien was more interested in providing light relief while he followed up the topics discussed than in any serious exploration of character.”12 In The Notion Club Papers, definite character equivalences give way to more complex and nuanced ones, but Tolkien’s portrayal of himself as a participant in this story remains a persistent, and entertaining, motif. On the second page of the club’s minute book, we find a description full of autobiographical detail, as Ramer, i.e., Tolkien, settles in to read a new story to his assembled friends: [When Ramer had finished] reading his story, we sat in silence for a while.... On this occasion the Club was better attended than usual, and no more easy to please. That hardly accounted for Ramer’s nervousness. He is one of our oldest members, and was at one time one of our most frequent performers; but to-night he read hastily, boggling and stumbling. So much so that Frankley [i.e., Lewis] made him read several sentences over again [Sauron, 161].

Stumbling and anxious, Ramer finds that his fears are well-founded: the club has much to criticize in this new story. This portrayal of the Inklings as overly critical, so critical, in fact, that his own participation languishes, reflecting Tolkien’s actual experience within the group.13 The text continues with reports of readings and critiques, but even this structural scaffolding is eventually abandoned as two members of the club, Alwin Lowdham and Wilfred Jeremy begin to describe their experiences with actual time travel. Using a system of shared dreams, they access their ancestral memories and sail to Ireland and the West, where they catch a glimpse of Tol Eressëa. As Christopher Tolkien observes, Tolkien finds that the plot has become too intricate to manage. He abandons this story. Tolkien’s story becomes increasingly removed from accounts of the Notion Club, and Tolkien’s self-identification with Michael Ramer becomes more and more tenuous. But Tolkien himself crops up again and again, participating as a character, though in several different guises: John Arthurson: At one point, several members of the Notion Club are engaged in a long argument about Elves. With some irritation, Lowdham emphasizes that he doesn’t mean Elves “in any of the more debased post– Shakespearean sort of ways” (Sauron, 303). Suddenly Jeremy remembers that he once came across a long treatise on the subject in a used book store. It was entitled Quenta Eldalien, being the History of the Elves and the author is John Arthurson, that is, John, the son of Arthur (303). Christopher Tolkien identifies the author and title of that “long treatise” as follows: “My father’s father was Arthur Tolkien; he was referring of course to his manuscript of The Silmarillion, which had never been pub-

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lished but had washed up, forgotten and disregarded, in the secondhand room of a bookshop” (308). Professor Rashbold of Pembroke: In a late section of The Notion Club Papers, Ramer is trying to decipher a manuscript page written in a script and language he does not recognize. On a hunch, he takes it over to Professor Rashbold, an expert in Anglo-Saxon at Pembroke, a professor described by his students as a “grumpy old bear” (Sauron, 256). Rashbold identifies the text as “Old English of a strongly Mercian (west–Midland) colour, ninth century” (257). He provides Ramer with a transcription and a translation of the mysterious text. The name “Rashbold” is a “translation of Tolkien (Toll-kühn)” (151).14 John Jethro Rashbold: This Rashbold is included in the complete list of members. He is the youngest member of the Notion Club, some 30 years younger than most of the others. He is described as an undergraduate, a classical scholar, and a poet, and he is “much attached” to Frankley, the one responsible for first bringing him to the club. The name itself suggests an alter-ego of J.R.R. Tolkien; the description, however, suggests either Christopher Tolkien or possibly John Wain. Rashbold never says anything at all at the club, even though his initials (“JJR”) are included in the minutes of four different club meetings. Mr. J. R. Titmass: Titmass is an historian, mentioned briefly as one of the scholars responsible for helping to analyze the loose sheets of The Notion Club Papers after they are discovered in the trash. He serves as the arbiter of opinion regarding the historicity of the materials and the identities of the individuals described therein. Like John Jethro Rashbold, the link between J. R. Titmass and J.R.R. Tolkien is quite tenuous, suggested merely by the correspondence of their initials and a handful of descriptive details. One of the most interesting things about The Notion Club Papers is the way Tolkien uses the “futuristic” time setting of the story to mention C.S. Lewis, Charles Williams, and the other Inklings by name. The fictional Notion Club met in Oxford in the 1980s, and they are great fans of the actual Inklings who met in the 1930s and 40s. They discuss their various writings, including a lengthy debate about the shabby way that Lewis treats his protagonist in Perelandra. As one of the club members observes, “poor Ransom got halftoasted for no sound reason that I could see. The power that could hurl the coffin to Venus could (one would have thought) devised a material that let in light without excessive heat” (Sauron, 168). Early in the text, there is an extended lament over the way in which the Inklings have fallen entirely out of favor. One of the members of the Notion

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Club tried to revive interest in the group by offering a lecture series on C.S. Lewis and Charles Williams; he was laughed at by other scholars and criticized by the English Board. We are told that “few even of the twentieth century experts could have named any work of Williams, except perhaps The Octopus.” And “The Allegory of Love was all of Lewis that the academicians ever mentioned (as a rule unread and slightingly).”15 In short, “Lewis and all that circle had dropped badly out of fashion” (Sauron, 219).16 Williams is remembered for one play, Lewis for one academic book, and Tolkien, well, poor J.R.R. Tolkien is scarcely remembered at all. Even among the members of the Notion Club, there are only three men, Ramer, Dolbear, and Jeremy, who bother at all “with Tolkien père and all the elvish stuff ” (Sauron, 219). Tolkien père is ignored; Tolkien fils, however, has made his mark. The one Inkling whose work has endured through the decades is C. R. Tolkien. He has written a pair of memoirs. Their titles? In the Roaring Forties, and The Inns and Outs of Oxford. Neither of Tolkien’s time-travel stories —The Lost Road and The Notion Club Papers— was ever finished. And yet, as Flieger observes, “both showed promise in a style unusual for Tolkien, that of the modern novel with contemporary characters and dialogue” (“Time Travel,” 650). Both show creative promise, and both draw heavily upon Tolkien’s life experiences and significant personal relationships, showing Tolkien’s skill in appropriating his immediate experiences with humor, warmth, inventiveness, and compassion.

“Leaf by Niggle” Of all Tolkien’s works, “Leaf by Niggle” is most deserving of the label “allegory.” In describing the theme of the work, Tolkien explains that it “deals (in allegorical form) with ... the relation of the artist or ‘subcreator’ to his work, and the relation of his work of ‘sub-creation’ to Creation” (unpublished letter).17 “Leaf by Niggle” has its roots in Tolkien’s “own preoccupation with The Lord of the Rings, the knowledge that it would be finished in great detail or not at all” (Letters, 257). Elsewhere, he elaborates, “I was anxious about my own internal Tree, The Lord of the Rings. It was growing out of hand, and revealing endless new vistas — and I wanted to finish it, but the world was threatening” (321). Here, Tolkien makes an explicit connection between Niggle’s tree and his own Lord of the Rings; one might even apply the tree image to Tolkien’s sprawling legendarium. Tolkien is obviously analogous to Niggle, not only in nature, but in name. On more than one occasion, he referred to himself as a “natural niggler” (Letters, 313; Castell, 11). He adds, “[E]ven in ‘The Lord of the Rings’ I don’t suppose there are many sentences that have not been niggled at” (Castell, 11).

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Shippey has developed further parallels: Niggle’s journey = death; Niggle’s leaf = The Hobbit; the country in the picture = Middle-earth; the pictorial addenda = poems and other works added to The Lord of the Rings; Niggle’s garden = Tolkien’s professional duties; potatoes = scholarship; Parish = Tolkien’s scholarly and earthbound side; the Workhouse = Purgatory; and the Two Voices = Mercy and Justice, two of the four Daughters of God (Road, 43–4; Author, 266–77). In short, Shippey writes, the story comments “more or less openly on [Tolkien’s] own intentions, feeling and career” (Author, 266). Shippey’s detailed reading rests primarily on the tension between the demands of Tolkien’s professional duties (scholarship, examinations, lecture, university meetings) and his passion for his legendarium. However, there is another inherent conflict in the story, that between art and charity.18 On the one hand, Niggle wants to devote himself to his work (TL, 95), and on the other, he knows that he is obliged to care for others. Niggle’s responsibility to be charitable is chiefly directed toward Parish, whom he views more as a nuisance than a neighbor. Poor Parish is “often in trouble and in need of help” (97); Niggle’s “kind heart” compels him to take on any number of odd jobs for his neighbor (93). And in response, Parish “seldom showed any gratitude at all” (106). 19 Poor Niggle: this tension does not result in a satisfying balance of work and service, but merely increases his frustration. The second paragraph of the story explains, “[H]e was kind-hearted, in a way. You know the sort of kind heart: it made him uncomfortable more often than it made him do anything; and even when he did anything, it did not prevent him from grumbling, losing his temper, and swearing (mostly to himself )” (TL, 93). This idea is repeated, “He could not get rid of his kind heart. ‘I wish I was more strongminded!’ he sometimes said to himself, meaning that he wished other people’s troubles did not make him feel uncomfortable” (95). In the struggle to answer competing demands, Niggle’s effectiveness is drained and his activity paralyzed. Needed work is delayed. And one small and simple decision — his failure to repair his neighbor’s roof— triggers a series of events that leads to his own downfall. Sitting in Purgatory after his death, Niggle thinks back with regret: “I wish I had called on Parish the first morning after the high winds began. I meant to. The first loose tiles would have been easy to fix. Then Mrs Parish might never have caught cold. Then I should not have caught cold either. Then I should have had a week longer” (TL, 103–4, emphasis added). “I meant to”— if Tolkien never spoke these three words, he certainly thought them. In a 1966 interview, Tolkien acknowledged, “Most of the time I’m fighting against the natural inertia of the lazy human being” (Norman, 34). If there is one vice that Tolkien and Niggle shared — it was procrastination.20 Niggle “was sometimes just idle, and did nothing at

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all” (TL, 93). At the end of the story, Tompkins calls Niggle a “footler”21; Atkins replies, “Yes, poor little man, he never finished anything” (117). Thus, it is evident why Niggle must learn in Purgatory to become “master of his time” (104) and why Tolkien referred to “Leaf by Niggle” as “part confession” (Letters, 113). The problem for Niggle was the same as for Tolkien — wasted time results in a loss thereof. Brian Rosebury maintains that “the insufficiency of time for the creative artist is a principal theme” of ‘Leaf by Niggle’” (128). This is certainly supported by the text: “Niggle’s time became really precious” and “Niggle had a picture and barely time to finish it” (TL, 96, 99). Tolkien also felt this pressure. Writing to his publisher in December 1939, he acknowledges, “But there is no time, or very little even when one steals from other more dutiful claims” (Letters, 44). He also realized that if he had been more judicious with his time, he would have had enough of it to complete the things he most wanted and needed to do. Rayner Unwin described Tolkien as “an author of undoubted talent but of distracted and disorganized achievement” (90). Ultimately, Niggle dies before he can adequately fulfill his duties as either an artist or philanthropist. Although Tolkien completed The Lord of the Rings, he left his life’s work unfinished.

Smith of Wootton Major Smith of Wootton Major did not begin as a story. Tolkien was asked to write a preface to a new edition of George MacDonald’s The Golden Key. He agreed. While trying to explain the word Fairy, he offered up an illustration of a cook and a cake: “There was once a cook, and he thought of making a cake for a children’s party. His chief notion was that it must be very sweet, and he meant to cover it all over with sugar-icing” (Smith, 75). What began as an allegorical explanation of the meaning of Fairy soon took on a life of its own, and the introduction was abandoned. Despite the brevity and apparent simplicity of Smith, it remains one of Tolkien’s richest texts. It has much to say about the word Faery, the world of Faery, and the author himself.22 Smith has often been read “as Tolkien’s personal farewell to his art” because he was coming to terms with the loss of his imagination (Kocher, 203). However, Smith is more than Tolkien’s swan song; it is a short biography of Tolkien’s journey to Faery and back again. Most commentators, including Randel Helms, Clyde S. Kilby, Humphrey Carpenter, and Tom Shippey, consider Smith an autobiographical allegory.23 This is not surprising, given the fact that Tolkien himself acknowledges, “[Smith] is capable of course of allegorical interpretations” (Smith, 84). How-

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ever, he qualifies this by noting that “there is no allegory in the Faery” (70); that is, Smith’s journeys into the realm of Faery are not allegorical. In fact, Smith should be read in the same way that Tolkien understood the medieval poem Pearl: “There are minor allegories within Pearl [but] there are a number of precise details in Pearl that cannot be subordinated to any general allegorical interpretation” (Gawain, 18). If we trust what Tolkien said, the Faerian visions that Smith encounters are not meant to be allegorized; they are simply meant to provide examples. They represent both Smith’s and Tolkien’s journeys into that perilous realm. However, this is where the allegory stops — the elven mariners are elves, the King’s tree is a tree, the wild Wind, a wind, and the Faery King and Queen are rulers. One can, of course, find allegory in these scenes; however, just because an episode can be read allegorically doesn’t mean it is an allegory. As Lewis reminds us: [T]he mere fact that you can allegorize the work before you is of itself no proof that it is an allegory. Of course you can allegorize it. You can allegorize anything, whether in art or real life. I think we should here take a hint from the lawyers. A man is not tried at the assizes until there has been shown to be a prima-facie case against him. We ought not to proceed to allegorize any work until we have plainly set out the reasons for regarding it as an allegory at all [“On Criticism,” 57–8].

The most surprising aspect about the opening of Smith is that the title character doesn’t appear until over ten pages into the story; the character dominating the beginning is the proud and sly Nokes. He represents everything that Tolkien grew to despise about Victorian children’s literature — like Nokes’s cake, their fairy tales are overly sweet, excessively pretty, and juvenilely silly. It was this wrongheaded view of fairy that inspires Smith, the Tolkien-figure, to discover true Faery. In his draft introduction to The Golden Key, Tolkien recognizes that “Fairy is very powerful. Even the bad guide [writer] cannot escape it” (Smith, 74). The beginning of Smith is a brief account of Tolkien’s own history. Like Smith, Tolkien discovered Faery at a young age, and it became for him a lifelong passion; the fay-star “remained with him” and “became a part of his face” (that is, a part of who he was) (19, 20). Although most have concluded that Smith is a Tolkien-figure, the relevance of Smith’s name has gone largely unnoticed. Smith bends and molds metals into both the practical and artistic (Smith, 20–1). Tolkien does the same with language. That is, Tolkien was a wordsmith in the truest sense. Shippey observes, “Tolkien was for some time perhaps the one person in the world who knew most about names, especially English names, and was most deeply interested in them. He wrote about them, commented on them, brought them up in conversation” (Road, 272). Even though Tolkien often struggled to complete the task at hand, the work he did complete was of high

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quality, owing certainly to his perfectionism. Like Smith, “he became well known in his country ... for his good workmanship” (Smith, 20). One is reminded of his edition of Sir Gawain or his Beowulf essay. Smith produces some things “for delight” in his spare time, “for he could work iron into wonderful forms” (21). Tolkien worked at his private languages and did likewise. In fact, after C.S. Lewis first stumbled upon Tolkien’s private languages, he was so impressed that he exclaimed, “He must be the cleverest man in Oxford” (Sayer, 15). Even so, words were only one part of who he was; like Smith, Tolkien “became acquainted with Faery, and some regions of it he knew as well as any mortal can” (Smith, 22). Tolkien’s own history, as recounted in “On FairyStories,” is remarkably similar to Smith’s: “[F]or though I have been a lover of fairy-stories since I learned to read, and have at times thought about them, I have not studied them professionally. I have been hardly more than a wandering explorer (or trespasser) in the land, full of wonder but not of information” (27). Tolkien’s lifelong commitment to Faery is clear. Tolkien received no formal training in fairy tales or folklore, yet he was one of the leading proponents of this genre in the twentieth-century. He writes, “I am not ‘learned’ in the matters of myth and fairy-story,” but adds in a footnote, “Though I have thought about them a good deal” (Letters, 144, emphasis in original). Indeed, he had. Flieger posits, “Tolkien was the first literary scholar since Aristotle to bend his attention to the development of a critical theory for the evaluation of fairy tales” (Splintered Light, 13). Tolkien not only thought a lot about fairy tales, but also thought about them in a new way. He spent the great majority of his adult life meticulously constructing Middle-earth, not knowing if The Lord of the Rings would ever be published. Yet it eventually found a publisher, and not long after, an enthusiastic audience. He popularized and modernized the fairy tale. He elevated and rescued a genre that had largely been relegated to children’s literature. “The Lord of the Rings was a deliberate attempt to write a large-scale adult fairy-story,” he writes (Manlove, 158).24 In fact, the great majority of Tolkien’s works are fairy tales. Moreover, much of his literary criticism was geared towards fairystories, or tales that contained an element of Faery, such as Beowulf.25 Simply put, he read them fervently, wrote them devotedly, and wrote about them academically. In addition to Smith’s being a Tolkien-figure, Smith’s son Ned resembles Tolkien’s own son, Christopher.26 Christopher, like Ned, is practical not poetic, works in the same field as his father, and is still unmarried at the age of twenty-four. Most telling of all is Tolkien’s assertion that “Ned was dependent on his father: he could receive ‘Faery’ only through the lore and compan-

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ionship of the older Smith” (Smith, 99). Christopher never wrote any of his own fiction, although he served as a critic, collaborator, mapmaker, and typist for his father (Letters, 70, 118).27 John and Priscilla Tolkien note that “in his later years Ronald shared much of his literary and philological imagination with Christopher” (73). This is evident at the end of the story when Smith tells Ned “of his last journey in Faery, and of other things that came to his mind” (Smith, 52). Like Tolkien, Smith “must set his son up as fully as possible in his craft before he retired” (99).28 Coming full circle, the story ends where it begins — Smith must return to a life without the star (as he lived prior to Nokes’s Feast). Many commentators have observed the elegiac nature of the story’s ending and compare it to Tolkien’s own bereavement during this period. For example, Carpenter suggests that Tolkien’s “anxiety over the future and his growing grief at the approach of old age led him to write Smith of Wootton Major” (242). It is worth looking at the circumstances leading up to the composition of Smith. After forty years of teaching, Tolkien reluctantly stepped down from his professorship at Merton College in the summer of 1959. Shortly after his retirement, he wrote, “I was extruded on the age limit at the end of last term. In many ways a melancholy proceeding, especially financially” (Letters, 300). For Tolkien, retirement proved unfavorable in a number of ways — he not only lost the amenities and monetary support of his college, but also was cut off from university life. His retirement sparked feelings of regret and unrest; he was not ready to give up his professorship, much less to endure the financial, relational, and practical losses that came with it. It was not simply that his retirement proved inconvenient; it wholly isolated him.29 Unwin writes, “Retirement from collegiate life brought a feeling of isolation amidst domestic cares to Tolkien in the sixties” (128). Although Tolkien faced a number of troublesome ailments throughout the late 1950s and early 1960s, including arthritis, fibrositis, and appendicitis, he was more concerned with his wife’s health. Writing to Stanley Unwin on 7 January 1961, he explains that though he would like to visit him, he could not: “With my wife’s ill health, slowly deteriorating, I am very much tied, and indeed seldom go away, or even out for long” (Scull and Hammond, Chronolog y, 567).30 Edith’s health affected Tolkien not only emotionally but also practically. He had less time to devote to his own work and was further isolated because he “felt it his duty to be with her as much of the time as was possible” (Biography, 239). Other events also took their toll. C.S. Lewis died on 22 November 1963; Tolkien’s grief was intense. Four days after Lewis passed away, he wrote to his daughter, “So far I have felt the normal feelings of a man of my age — like an old tree that is losing all its leaves one by one: this feels like an axe-blow near

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the roots” (Letters, 341). Tolkien was so devastated by Lewis’s passing that he refrained from writing an obituary, noting, “I feel his loss so deeply that I have since his death refused to write or speak about him” (Scull and Hammond, Chronolog y, 615). Undoubtedly, Smith was motivated by Tolkien’s attempt to come to terms with not only the world of Faery but also his own bereavement: compulsory retirement, bitter isolation, waning health, Lewis’s death, all of these took place within a few years and all contributed to his profound feelings of loss. Interestingly, Smith’s bereavement is not necessarily a product of retirement or failing health as Tolkien’s was, but plainly a result of the loss of the star.31 In discussing this part of Smith in “Suggestions for the ending of the story,” Tolkien observes, “A time comes for writers and artists, when invention and ‘vision’ cease and they can only reflect on what they have seen and learned” (Smith, 81). Here, the bereavement that Tolkien speaks of is not physical but imaginative death — many poets and artists succumb to this. It is the moment at which inspiration falters and the muse is lost. Around the time Tolkien wrote Smith, he was undoubtedly struggling to complete “The Silmarillion.” Intermittently, he spent the great majority of his life constructing and reconstructing his mythology, and now it seemed at a time when he most wanted to complete it, he could not. It is clear from his letters that he struggled daily to finish his work at hand, though how much he actually accomplished is uncertain. On 5 May 1960, Tolkien wrote to Rayner Unwin, admitting, “I do give all the time I possibly can to the books which I have promised to you, though I begin to feel depressed by the amount of work still to do and the difficulty of getting any time for concentration” (Scull and Hammond, Chronolog y, 558). Almost a year later, his apprehensions had only grown, “I am now in a nervous condition in which I cannot concentrate or get a sentence right, or sleep properly” (Scull and Hammond, Chronolog y, 572). Part of the reason he was struggling to write or get any work done was simply because his mental faculties were beginning to wane. In a letter to Miss Perry on 29 December 1961, he begins, “You have not heard from me for a very long while, I fear.” He goes on to clarify, “The explanation is sad but simple: loss of memory. No, not a medical amnesia, but a growing failure to remember addresses, telephone numbers, initials, and all those sort of things: added to a failure to remember where notes (if any) of them have been put” (unpublished letter, emphasis in original).32 One can only imagine the difficulties Tolkien faced as he tried to bring his life’s work to completion. He was no longer the same man — his mind was giving way; his pen was drying up. He no longer possessed the same vitality he had had while working on The Lord of the Rings, nor did he have the atten-

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tive audience and support of the Inklings to encourage him. Christopher Tolkien explains it best: “It was perhaps a task for a younger man. The flame began to die down. And he hadn’t the energy left that would be needed for such a huge transformation.” He adds, “He was old, and he was tired. The task was simply too large” (A Film Portrait). Surely Tolkien’s star was beginning to dim; he would soon have to pass it on.

Conclusion There is a vague and pervasive way in which all writing reflects the interests, opinions, and limits of the author who produced it. There is also a more particular way in which an author’s life experiences may become part of the raw material that is used to build characters, describe settings, and develop plots. To borrow Tolkien’s phrase, these things become part of the “leaf-mould of the mind,” that which nourishes the tree of imagination and become an essential part of the fruit it bears. It is a continuum, of course, some authors writing little more than thinly veiled autobiographies, others using personal experiences as a starting point to much different ends. Tolkien, it has been thought, completely eschewed the most blatant forms of appropriating personal experience as a source for fictional expression. A broader examination of his body of work, particularly of the characters of Alboin, Ramer, Niggle, and Smith, suggests a bigger picture.33

NOTES 1. Unpublished letter from J.R.R. Tolkien to Mr. Staniforth, dated 13 October 1954 (private collection). © The J.R.R. Tolkien Copyright Trust, 2011. 2. For more on Tolkien’s views on the changes in Oxford, see Letters, 344–5. 3. Unpublished letter from J.R.R. Tolkien to Mrs. Souch, dated 8 September 1955 (private collection). Tolkien makes similar statements in Letters, 223, and Rayner Unwin’s George Allen and Unwin: A Remembrancer, 103. © The J.R.R. Tolkien Copyright Trust, 2011. 4. Unpublished letter from J.R.R. Tolkien to Miss Turnbull, dated 19 May 1955 (private collection). © The J.R.R. Tolkien Copyright Trust, 2011. 5. Unpublished letter from J.R.R. Tolkien to Professor Campbell, dated 28 July 1973 (private collection). © The J.R.R. Tolkien Copyright Trust, 2011. 6. See also Flieger, Question, 73. 7. See also Carpenter, 49. 8. Carpenter explains Tolkien’s financial situation after failing to secure a scholarship the first time: “[I]f he failed once more to win an award there would be no chance of his going to Oxford, for a commoner’s fees would be beyond his guardian’s pocket” (42). 9. This quotation is taken from a BBC film interview with Tolkien that was recently made available to the public: http://www.bbc.co.uk/archive/writers/12237.shtml. 10. http://www.ancestry.com/facts/Ramer-family-history.ashX. 11. Jason Fisher suggests other possibilities. For example, Ramer may be related to rumor.

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Or there is the Middle Low German romer “braggart,” which would resonate well with the tollkühn = “foolhardy” etymology Tolkien has put forward for his own name (see further, below). 12. http://notionclubpapers.blogspot.com/2010/11/how-similar-are-dolbear-humphreyhavard.html. 13. See Glyer’s The Company They Keep for a detailed consideration of reading protocols at Inklings meetings. 14. Tolkien or “Toll-kühn” can be translated “foolishly brave” or “stupidly clever.” These definitions apparently are the source of one of the pseudonyms Tolkien used: Oxymore. See, for example, “Knocking at the Door,” signed Oxymore. Tolkien published under at least two other pseudonyms: “Adventures in Unnatural History and Medieval Metres, being the Freaks of Fisiologus: (i) Fastitocalon, (ii) Iumbo, or ye Kinde of ye Oliphaunt,” is signed Fisiologus. “Progress in Bimble Town (Devoted to the Mayor and Corporation),” is signed K. Bagpuize. 15. The Notion Club Papers contains many, many references to Lewis by name; indeed, in the early versions, the working title is “Beyond Probability, or Out of the Talkative Planet” (Sauron 149). In its initial conception, the work is directed more or less toward Lewis, and it was intended to be a “vehicle of criticism and discussion of aspects of Lewis’s ‘planetary’ novels” (149). Christopher Tolkien believes that Tolkien’s use of fictional scholars in The Notion Club Papers was influenced by Lewis’s pseudo-scholarly commentary of The Lay of Leithian (149). 16. Warren Lewis mentions the reading in his diary entry 22 August 1946; he says that Tolkien read “a magnificent myth which is to knit up ... his Papers of the Notions Club” (194). One can easily imagine the merry response that these comments elicited as Tolkien read this text aloud. 17. Unpublished letter from J.R.R. Tolkien to Miss Clark, dated 4 December 1963 (private collection). © The J.R.R. Tolkien Copyright Trust, 2011. 18. We are using the word “charity” in the traditional sense. Lewis writes in Mere Christianity, “‘Charity’ now means simply what used to be called ‘alms’— that is, giving to the poor. Originally it had a much wider meaning.... Charity means ‘Love, in the Christian sense.’ But love, in the Christian sense, does not mean an emotion. It is a state not of the feelings but of the will” (129). 19. According to Tolkien, the name Parish “was not given with any intention of special significance” (Letters, 321); however, etymologically, Parish’s name derives from the Greek word for neighbor (para- “near “ + oikos “house”), which Tolkien undoubtedly knew. The text certainly supports this meaning. “It was his neighbour, Parish: his only real neighbour, all other folk lived a long way off ” (TL, 97). And again, “Parish was his neighbour, and everyone else a long way off ” (99). The word neighbour appears eight times in the story, and every time Parish is the one being referred to. 20. See Lewis’s Collected Letters, Volume III, 6. 21. footle: “To talk or act foolishly, to trifle or ‘potter’” (OED). 22. The different spellings are intentional. Tolkien used Fairy in his introduction to The Golden Key. He preferred the more archaic spellings Faërie and Faery. In Smith, the good characters use Faery and the bad one uses Fairy. 23. The term is from Shippey (Author, 296). Helms writes, “Tolkien’s narrative of Smith’s adventures in Faëry is a brief allegorical history of his own experiences in that realm during the creation of The Hobbit and the Rings” (121). Kilby asserts that “the autobiography is unmistakable” (37–8). Carpenter observes, “Smith of Wootton Major was generally well received by the critics, though none of them perceived its personal content nor remarked that it was uncharacteristic of its author in containing an element of allegory” (243). 24. This quotation is taken from a letter dated 8 February 1967. 25. As he suggested in a letter to his American publisher Houghton Mifflin, his Beowulf essay “deals with the contact of the ‘heroic’ with fairy-story” (Letters, 350). 26. This similarity has also been noticed by Heidi Stimmel (201). 27. In a recent interview in The Guardian (5 May 2009), Christopher Tolkien acknowledges, “Though a long time addict of the novel myself, I have never attempted, or ever been tempted, to write a work of fiction.”

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28. An alternative biographical reading of Smith’s relinquishment of the star has been put forth by Paul H. Kocher. In particular, he notes that Smith gives up his star when he is 57 — the same age at which Tolkien completed The Lord of the Rings. He writes, “At that age, and after so arduous an effort, he would have been only human in concluding, either then or at some time in the years soon after, that his career as a writer of fiction was substantially over” (203). Building off of Kocher’s reading, Merlin DeTardo suggests that the Living Flower that Smith brings home represents The Hobbit, and that the lily “with three delicate flowers” represents The Lord of the Rings. 29. See also Scull and Hammond, Chronolog y, 544. 30. See also Scull and Hammond, Chronolog y, 571–2. 31. This is evident from Smith’s own words. He tells his son, “The name of grandfather hasn’t weakened my arms yet a while. Let the work come! There’ll be two pairs of hands to tackle it now, all working days” (Smith, 51). 32. Unpublished letter from J.R.R. Tolkien to Miss Perry, dated 29 December 1961 (private collection). © The J.R.R. Tolkien Copyright Trust, 2011. 33. We would like to thank Linda Sherman Spitser, Mike Glyer, and David Bratman for their invaluable feedback as we drafted this chapter.

WORKS CONSULTED Carpenter, Humphrey. Tolkien: A Biography. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1977. Cater, William. “The Filial Duty of Christopher Tolkien.” The Tolkien Scrapbook. Ed. Alida Becker. Philadelphia: Running, 1978. 90–95. Castell, Daphne. “Tolkien on Tolkien: Making of a Myth.” Christian Science Monitor, 11 August 1966: 11. Coren, Michael. “Morgan, Father Francis.” In Drout. 434–35. Curtis, Anthony. “Remembering Tolkien and Lewis.” British Book News June 1977: 429–30. Drout, Michael D.C., ed. J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical Assessment. New York: Routledge, 2006. Duriez, Colin. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis: The Gift of Friendship. Mahwah, NJ: HiddenSpring, 2003. A Film Portrait of J.R.R. Tolkien. Dir. Derek Bailey. Narr. Judi Dench. Visual, 1992. Flieger, Verlyn. “The Footsteps of Ælfwine.” Tolkien’s Legendarium: Essays on The History of Middle-earth. Ed. Verlyn Flieger and Carl F. Hostetter. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2000. 183–98. _____. A Question of Time: J.R.R. Tolkien’s Road to Faërie. Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 1997. _____. Splintered Light: Logos and Language in Tolkien’s World. Rev. Ed. Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 1983. _____. “Time Travel.” In Drout. 650–51. Foster, William. “An Early History of the Hobbits.” Scotsman, Edinburgh, 5 February 1972. Garth, John. Tolkien and the Great War: The Threshold of Middle-earth. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2003. Gilliver, Peter, Jeremy Marshall, and Edmund Weiner. The Ring of Words: Tolkien and the Oxford English Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Glyer, Diana Pavlac. The Company They Keep: C.S. Lewis and J .R. R. Tolkien As Writers in Community. Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 2007. Hammond, Wayne G., and Douglas A. Anderson. J.R.R. Tolkien: A Descriptive Bibliography. Winchester Bibliographies of 20th Century Writers. New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll, 1993. Helms, Randel. Tolkien’s World. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1974. Kilby, Clyde S. Tolkien and The Silmarillion. Wheaton, IL: Harold Shaw, 1976. Kocher, Paul H. Master of Middle-earth: The Fiction of J.R.R. Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1972. Lewis, C.S. Collected Letters. Ed. Walter Hooper. 3 vols. London: HarperCollins, 2000–2007.

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_____. Mere Christianity: A Revised and Enlarged Edition, with a New Introduction, of the Three Books The Case for Christianity, Christian Behaviour, and Beyond Personality. New York: HarperCollins, 2001. _____. “On Criticism.” Of Other Worlds: Essays and Stories. Ed. Walter Hooper. New York: Harcourt Brace, 1975. 43–58. Lewis, Warren Hamilton. Brothers and Friends: The Diaries of Major Waren Hamilton Lewis. Ed. and intr. Clyde S. Kilby and Marjorie Lamp Mead. San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1982. Manlove, C.N. Modern Fantasy: Five Studies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978. Norman, Philip. “The Hobbit Man.” Sunday Times Magazine, London, 15 January 1967: 34– 6. Also published as “The Prevalence of Hobbits.” New York Times, 15 January 1967: 30– 31, 97, 100, 102. Plimmer, Charlotte, and Denis Plimmer. “The Man Who Understands Hobbits.” London Daily Telegraph Magazine, March 1968: 31+. Rosebury, Brian. Tolkien: A Cultural Phenomenon. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003. Sayer, George. “Recollections of J.R.R. Tolkien.” Tolkien: A Celebration. Collected Writings on a Literary Legacy. Ed. Joseph Pearce. San Francisco: Ignatius, 1999. 1–16. Scull, Christina, and Wayne G. Hammond. The J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide: Chronolog y. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2006. _____. The J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide: Reader’s Guide. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2006. Shippey, Tom. J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2002. _____. The Road to Middle-earth: How J.R.R. Tolkien Created a New Mytholog y. Rev. and exp. ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2003. Steimel, Heidi. “The Autobiographical Tolkien.” Tolkien’s Shorter Works: Proceedings of the 4th Seminar of the Deutsche Tolkien Gesellschaft and Walking Tree Publishers Decennial Conference. Ed. Margaret Hiley and Frank Weinreich. Zurich and Jena: Walking Tree, 2008. 191–207. Tillyard, E.M.W., and C.S. Lewis. The Personal Heresy: A Controversy. London: Oxford University Press, 1965. Tolkien, John, and Priscilla Tolkien. The Tolkien Family Album. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1992. Tolkien, J.R.R. [Fisiologus]. “Adventures in Unnatural History and Medieval Metres, being the Freaks of Fisiologus: (i) Fastitocalon, (ii) Iumbo, or ye Kinde of ye Oliphaunt.” The Stapledon Magazine, Vol. 7 No. 40, June 1927. _____. [K. Bagpuize]. “Progress in Bimble Town (Devoted to the Mayor and Corporation).” The Oxford Magazine, Oxford, Vol. 50, No. 1, 15 October 1931: 22. _____. “Leaf by Niggle.” Tree and Leaf, including Mythopoeia. London: HarperCollins, 1988. 93–118. _____. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien. Ed. Humphrey Carpenter. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2000. _____. The Lost Road and Other Writings: Language and Legend Before ‘The Lord of the Rings.’ Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1987. _____. [Oxymore]. “Knocking at the Door.” The Oxford Magazine, Vol. 55 No. 13, 18 February 1937. _____. Sauron Defeated: The End of the Third Age. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: HarperCollins, 1992. _____. Smith of Wootton Major. Ext. ed. Ed. Verlyn Flieger. London: HarperCollins, 2005. _____. Tolkien On Fairy-stories. Exp. ed. Ed. Verlyn Flieger and Douglas A. Anderson. London: HarperCollins, 2008. _____, trans. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Pearl, and Sir Orfeo. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1975. Tolkien: Life and Legend. An Exhibition to Commemorate the Centenary of the Birth of J.R.R. Tolkien (1892 –1973). Oxford: Bodleian Library, n.d. Unwin, Rayner. George Allen and Unwin: A Remembrancer. Ludlow: Merlin Unwin, 1999.

About the Contributors Nicholas Birns has published four books, more than two dozen scholarly articles, a wealth of book reviews, and Tolkien-related essays and book reviews in Mythlore and Tolkien Studies. He has also presented papers on Tolkien at numerous academic conferences over the past several years. He teaches at the New School in New York City. Jason Fisher is an independent scholar specializing in J.R.R. Tolkien, the Inklings, and Germanic philology. He is also the editor of Mythprint, the monthly publication of the Mythopoeic Society. Some of his recent publications include entries in the J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical Assessment (2006), as well as chapters in Tolkien and Modernity (2006), The Silmarillion: Thirty Years On (2007), Truths Breathed Through Silver: The Inklings’ Moral and Mythopoeic Legacy (2007), Middle-earth Minstrel: Essays on Music in Tolkien (2010), and Middle-earth and Beyond: Essays on the World of J.R.R. Tolkien (2011). Judy Ann Ford is a professor of history at Texas A&M University–Commerce. Her academic specialization is in medieval popular religion, especially in England. In addition to a number of journal articles and book chapters on medieval religion and J.R.R. Tolkien, she is the author of John Mirk’s Festial: Orthodoxy, Lollardy and the Common People in Fourteenth-Century England (2006). Diana Pavlac Glyer is a professor of English at Azusa Pacific University. She has published extensively on Lewis, Tolkien, and the Inklings, including contributions to The C.S. Lewis Readers’ Encyclopedia and C.S. Lewis: Life, Works, and Legacy (ed. Bruce L. Edwards). She is the recipient of the Wade Center’s Clyde S. Kilby Research Grant (1997) and APU’s Chase A. Sawtell Inspirational Teaching Award (2002). Her book, The Company They Keep: C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien as Writers in Community, won the Mythopoeic Society’s 2008 Award for Scholarship in Inklings Studies. Thomas Honegger has published articles on Tolkien in journals such as Tolkien Studies and Hither Shore, has co-written a study on the moral dimensions in Tolkien’s narrative work (Eine Grammatik der Ethik, 2005), and has edited numerous volumes on Tolkien and medieval language and literature. A professor of 215

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mediaeval studies at the Friedrich-Schiller-University Jena (Germany), he is a founding editor of Walking Tree Publishers. Mark T. Hooker is a specialist in comparative translation with Indiana University’s Russian and East European Institute. He is the author of three books on Tolkien —The Hobbitonian Antholog y, A Tolkienian Mathomium, and Tolkien Through Russian Eyes— among numerous books on other subjects. His essays on Tolkien have been published in English, Russian, and Dutch in many journals, including Tolkien Studies, Beyond Bree, Lembas (the journal of the Dutch Tolkien Society), and ÑaÎaÌÚËp (the journal of the St. Petersburg Tolkien Society). Kristine Larsen is a professor of physics and astronomy at Central Connecticut State University. She is the author of Stephen Hawking: A Biography and Cosmolog y 101, and co-editor of The Mythological Dimensions of Doctor Who. Her scholarly work on the intersections between science and popular culture has resulted in publications on such varied literary, film, and televisual sources as Lost, Doctor Who, Land of the Lost, the Harry Potter series, and the works of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. Miryam Librán-Moreno is an assistant professor at the Universidad de Extremadura in Spain. She holds a doctorate in ancient Greek language and literature as well as degrees in Arabic and English. She is a member of the research group Nicolaus Heinsius, specializing in textual criticism of Greek and Latin authors, and one of the editors of Exemplaria Classica: Journal of Classical Philolog y. She has published essays on Tolkien in Tolkien Studies as well as in the collection, Myth and Magic: Art According to the Inklings. Josh B. Long completed his M.A. thesis on Smith of Wootton Major at Cal Poly Pomona in 2006 and worked as a research assistant on Diana Pavlac Glyer’s book The Company They Keep (Kent State, 2007). He has been published in Mythlore and Tolkien Studies and teaches a class on Tolkien at Azusa Pacific University. He teaches at a small private high school in Southern California. John D. Rateliff spent years working with the manuscripts of J.R.R. Tolkien at Marquette University, including assisting in the collation of Marquette’s holdings with those that Christopher Tolkien edited for volumes 6 through 9 of The History of Middle-earth. He edited the two-volume History of The Hobbit, winner of the 2009 Mythopoeic Award for Inklings Scholarship. E.L. Risden, professor of English at St. Norbert College, has published thirteen books ranging from fiction and poetry to scholarly monographs, edited collections, a translation, and a textbook. He has published three articles on Tolkien and is working on a book on Tolkien’s ideas in the 20th century intellectual landscape.

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Tom Shippey is the author of three books on Tolkien —The Road to Middleearth, J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century, and Roots and Branches. He was a contributor to the J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical Assessment, as well as to the annual journal Tolkien Studies. He has published extensively on Tolkien and other topics and has won the Mythopoeic Society’s prestigious Scholarship Award three times. Now retired, earlier in his career, he followed Tolkien as the chair of English language at the University of Leeds and taught Tolkien’s syllabus as a fellow of St. John’s College, Oxford.

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Index Published works are generally indexed under their authors’ names and not under their titles, except when their authorship is uncertain or little known. Characters are generally indexed under their given names (e.g., “Frodo Baggins”), except when they are more commonly addressed by surname (e.g., “Midwinter, Amos”). Comparisons between Tolkien’s characters and those of other authors are indexed under Tolkien’s characters only. Parenthetical descriptions have been added for disambiguation when necessary — e.g., “Mars (planet),” “Mars (Roman deity).” Scholars and critics are indexed where discussed, but are omitted when the reference is purely bibliographic.

AB language 11; see also Middle English Abel see Cain and Abel Abraham 51–2, 63 Ace Books 34 Adam and Eve 48, 50, 52–3 Adûnaic language 56, 62, 90 Ælfwine 108–10, 197 Aeolus 74, 81 Africa 95, 104–5, 150, 162; South Africa (Orange Free State) 162 Afrikaans language 163 Ainulindalë 47–9, 51, 61; see also Biblical mythopoeia Ainur 47, 53 Akallabêth 48, 51–2, 78, 151 Akkadians 46, 52, 54, 64– 5 Alaric 93, 113 Alaric (hobbit) 86 Alastair Maclean 164–76 passim Alboin 51, 86, 108, 113–4, 196–9, 211 Alcuin 14

Alcyone see Ceyx and Alcyone Alexios II Comnenus 98 Alfred the Great 124 Alkarinque 77 Allan Quatermain 149, 154–6, 159 allegory 8, 20, 30, 46, 85, 118, 204–7, 212; see also Tolkien on allegory Altsek 96 Amalasuentha 96 Amals 94, 96 Ambrose 141 Anárion 87–8, 98; see also Elendil; Isildur Anastasia 102 Anastasius Dicorus 90 Ancalagon the Black 72; see also dragons Ancrene Wisse 18 Anderson, Douglas A. 37, 190 Andronicus I Comnenus 98 Anduin 89, 91, 99, 101, 104–5, 123 angels 47–8, 137–8, 142, 152, 158; fallen angel 82; see also demons

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Anger, Don 66 Angles 13–4, 85, 108, 122, 127; see also Anglo-Saxons; Jutes; Saxons Anglo-Saxon(s) 4, 13, 32, 36, 54–7 passim, 70, 85, 108–14 passim, 116, 119– 30 passim, 141, 184, 194, 203 Anna 103 Annúminas 87 anthropology 22–3, 59, 63, 67 Antioch 98, 105 anti–Semitism 134 Apollodorus 74 Apostles’ Creed 190 Arabs 86–112 passim Ar-Adûnakhôr 90 Aragorn 38, 55, 69, 117, 119, 125, 127, 138, 154, 165, 185; compared to figures in Late Antiquity 85, 89, 92–7, 102, 106– 8, 111–3; compared to Peter Bohun 173–5 Aral Sea 49 Ararat mountains 50, 66 Arathorn 96, 127, 165 Aratus 81

220 Arcadius 87 archaeology 14, 22, 52–8 passim, 63, 65, 69, 176 Argonath 88 Aristotle 74, 80, 208 Arkenstone 179 Arnor 87, 93–97 passim, 106, 152; see also Gondor Ar-Pharazôn 50, 61–2, 159 Arthedain 97, 103; see also Cardolan; Rhudaur Arthuriana 18, 61, 110, 157 Arvedui 89, 94, 98 Arwen 96, 112, 149 Asia 91, 99–104 passim, 113, 140 Asimov, Isaac 56 Aspar the Alan 92 Assyrians 54, 62–5 passim astronomy 4, 69, 72, 77, 78, 80–2, 158 Atalantë 51; see also Atlantis; Númenor Atanatar Alcarin 88, 90, 104 Atani see Men Ataulf 93 Athanaric (Gothic king) 88, 113 Athanaric (hobbit) 86 athelas 140–1 Athens 89 Atlantis 48, 51, 61, 151, 196; see also Númenor atomic bomb 8 Attila 100–1, 106 Auden, Thomas 177 Auden, W.H. 31, 51, 66 Audoin 51, 86, 94, 113–4, 196–9 passim Augusteion 88 Augustine of Canterbury 125 Avars 86, 88, 94, 97, 99– 104 passim, 106, 107, 112 Avon 150 Ayesha (character) 5, 148– 9, 152–4, 158–9 Babel, Tower of 52, 62–3 Babylon(ia), Babylonian(s) 45–6, 53–4, 62–9 Baggins(es) 180 Bakhtin, Mikhail 17 Balchoth 99, 101, 107, 112

Index Ballantyne, R.M. 183 Baranduin 95 barbarian histories 4, 84 Barfield, Owen 41, 201 Basil II Bulgaroktonos 103–4, 107 Basilissa (hobbit) 86 Basque 177 Bate, Walter Jackson 21–2 Bathsheba 58 Battle of Catalaunian Fields 100, 107, 123 Battle of Hastings 123 Battle of Maldon 123, 126 Battle of Maldon (Old English text) 18, 126 Battle of Pelennor Fields 93, 100–2, 107, 141, 184– 5 Battle of the Somme 162 Battle of the Yarmuk 104 Beare, Rhona 155, 160 Beaumont, Francis and John Fletcher 26 Bede 122 Beleriand 56 Belisarius 86, 95, 106, 107, 113 Belleforest, Francois de 25 Beorhtwold 126–7 Beowulf 1, 8, 13, 18, 29, 32, 36, 39–41, 54, 60–3, 67, 114, 125–6, 130, 141, 146, 208 Beowulf (character) 60–2, 125 Beren 61, 63, 70, 96, 130, 152, 154, 194 Berimund (Ostrogoth) 94 Berismund 96 Berkshire 172 Beyond Bree ix, 190 Bible 3–4, 14–5, 18, 22–3, 29, 45–66 passim, 124, 134–5, 152, 188–9; see also New Testament; Old Testament Biblical mythopoeia: Creation 14, 23, 47–8; Deluge 14, 23, 50–1, 53, 60; Fall 14, 48–9, 66 Bilbo Baggins 39, 146, 159, 168–9, 191; compared to Dickson McCunn 178–89 passim

Birmingham 14, 162, 197 Black Númenóreans 51 Black Sea 91, 99, 123 Blackwood, Algernon 43, 160 Blake, William 55 Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster 76 Blessed Lands 66, 70–1, 74 Blickling Homilies 70 Bloom, Harold 21 Blyton, Carey 35 Boccaccio, Giovanni 42; Il Filostrato 42 Bolsheviks 13, 179–84 passim bones of the ox (metaphor) 1, 7, 15, 84 Boorman, John 159 Boromir 49, 96, 110, 117 bowdlerization 107, 114 Brandywine see Baranduin Bratman, David 6, 213 Bredon Hill 173, 190 Bree 11, 160, 165, 170, 190 Bright, Timothy 26 Buchan, Alexander 80 Buchan, John 5, 12, 13, 15, 37, 41, 160–91 passim; The Blanket of the Dark 5, 163, 172–90 passim; Castle Gay 178; The Free Fishers 13; Greenmantle 162; The House of the Four Winds 178; Huntingtower 5, 13, 163, 178– 90 passim; Midwinter 5, 163–90 passim; Mr. Standfast 162; The Path of the King 15; The Thirty-Nine Steps 162 Bulgaria 95, 102, 104, 113 Bulgars 86, 89, 95–6, 99– 104 passim, 107, 113 Bullough, Geoffrey 25 Burns, Marjorie 178–9 Bush, George H.W. 78 Butterbur, Barliman 11, 170 Byrhtnoth 123, 126, 130 Byzantium 4, 84–112 passim Cain and Abel 48–9 Calenardhon 92, 94, 123; see also Rohan

Index Cambridge University 12– 3, 67 Caradhras 136, 139 Cardolan 97; see also Arthedain; Rhudaur Carolingian dynasty 97–8, 111 Carpenter, Humphrey 80, 110, 162, 190, 196–8, 206, 209, 211–2 Castamir 87, 93, 103, 106 Catholicism 18, 46, 53, 60, 63, 134, 190, 194, 197 Cauldron of Story (metaphor) 10, 12, 14, 108 Cavallo 122; see also Marcho and Blanco Caxton, William 4–5, 14, 133–43 passim; The Golden Legend 4, 5, 14, 133–43 passim Celeborn 50, 149 Celebrant 89, 92 Celtic 100, 122–3, 200 centaur 117–8, 129 Ceyx and Alcyone 4, 14, 69–82 passim Chapman, George 26 Charlemagne 14, 97, 106– 7, 111–3 Chaucer, Geoffrey 1, 29, 40–2, 76; The Book of the Duchess 76, 82; The Canterbury Tales 21; Troilus and Criseyde 42 Child, F.J. 18 Childebert I 97 Chlodomer 97 Chomsky, Noam 59 Chosroes II 101 Christ 24, 45, 66, 70, 82, 139–42, 190 Christ (Old English text) 70, 82, 125 Christianity 5, 10, 13, 41, 45–67 passim, 82, 87, 124–5, 128, 130, 133–43 passim, 159, 176, 212; Christianization of England 41, 125 Chrysophylax Dives 142; see also dragons Cicero 75 Círdan 70 Cirion 92, 94, 124

class distinctions 13, 180–3 Clotaire I 97 Clovis 97 Common Speech see Westron Conan Doyle, Arthur 147, 159, 160 Constans II Pogonatos 96 Constantine 87–9, 102 Constantinople 84–113 passim Corsairs of Umbar 100–2, 105, 112, 138 Cracks of Doom 38, 166– 7 Crete 105, 113 Crimea 91, 102 criticism: biographical criticism 8–9, 15, 18, 20, 41, 152–3, 193–213 passim; historical criticism 18; New Historicism 20; textual criticism 19; see also source criticism Croft, Janet Brennan 8, 38–9 Crossan, John 24 C.S. Lewis and Inklings Society ix Cuiviénen 48, 49 cuneiform 58 Daedalion 74 Dale 56, 120 Dalí, Salvador 29 Damrosch, David 52 Danube 91, 95, 99 Darking, Solomon 173–8 passim Dasent, Sir George 1, 7; Popular Tales from the Norse 1 David, King 58 Dawkins, William Boyd 177–8 Day, David 134 de Machaut, Guillaume 75–6, 81 demons 48; see also angels Denethor 95, 100, 102, 105–6, 110–2 de Pizan, Christine 76 DeTardo, Merlin ix, 213 Deucalion see Pyrrha and Deucalion

221 Deutsche Tolkien Gesellschaft ix de Voragine, Jacobus 134– 5, 143 dialect 11, 20, 59, 163, 182–3, 201 Dickens, Charles 180 Dickson McCunn 13, 178– 89 Dol Guldur 101 Dolbear, Rupert 201 The Door of Night 72–3 Doors of Durin 139 dragons ix, 31, 39–40, 72, 136, 141–3, 182; see also under individual dragons Drout, Michael D.C. 8, 39, 129, 130 Dryden, John 42 Dúnedain 87, 94, 96, 100, 103; see also Men Dunharrow 175 Dunledings 104 Duriez, Colin 197, 199 Dwarves 11, 31–2, 56, 64, 89, 120–1, 179, 186–9, 191 Dwarvish see Khuzdul Dyson, Hugo 193, 201 Ea (Mesopotamian deity) 61 Eagle and Child 82 Earendel (Anglo-Saxon character) 70 Eärendil 4, 69–82 passim Earnil 89–90, 94, 105 Eärnur 62, 87, 103–4 Easterlings 91, 99–107 passim, 111, 113 ecliptic 73 Ecthelion 94–5, 98 Edain see Men Eddas, Norse 18, 32, 40, 66, 120 Eddison, E.R. 63, 157 Eden 48–9, 66; see also Adam and Eve Edwardian Period 5, 32, 41, 129, 160 Egypt, Egyptians 52, 58, 63, 94, 104, 151–2 Eldacar 86–7, 93, 102–3, 107 Eldar see Elves

222 Elendil 48, 50–3, 61, 87, 175 Elessar 92, 94, 106, 108, 154, 165; see also Aragorn Elrond 50, 94, 96, 112, 117, 172–5, 188, 191 Elves 11, 48–9, 70–1, 90, 96, 159 Elvish language(s) 10, 55– 6, 90, 139; see also Quenya; Sindarin Elwing 4, 69–82 passim Emyn Muil 88, 99 England 10, 14, 19, 34, 40, 54, 110, 116, 122, 135, 162, 171–6 passim, 183– 4; see also mythology for England Enkidu 62 Ents 39, 64; see also Treebeard Enuma elish 46–7, 53, 61, 65 Envinyatar 97; see also Aragorn Éomer 92–3, 100, 103, 107, 108, 127–30, 178, 184 Eorl 92, 118, 124, 184, 195 Eorlingas 91; see also Rohirrim Éowyn 100, 107, 143, 184– 6; compared to Saskia 184–5 Erasmus 26 Erebor 56, 89, 97 Erech 46, 55–6, 138, 159 Erestor 188 Eru see Ilúvatar Esgaroth 56 Estel 96; see also Aragorn Eugenius 93 Euphemius 105 Europe 4, 14, 19, 31, 40, 48–9, 52, 97, 99, 105, 110, 122–4, 127, 135, 181 Eusebius 141 Eutharic 96 Evans, Jonathan 49 Eve see Adam and Eve Evening Star see Morning Star Evesham 173 Exeter Book 70 Exeter College 75, 195; see also Oxford University

Index Exodus (Old English text) 18, 42, 125 Faery 150–1, 206–12 Fáfnismál 18, 40 Falastur 90, 106 Fallohide 86, 187 Faramir 89–91, 107, 119, 175 fay-star 207–211 passim, 213 Fëanor 49, 70 Finnish 40, 42, 47, 198 Finrod 49, 61–2, 66 Fíriel 94, 98 Fisher, Jason 7, 9, 11, 14, 42, 46, 48, 66, 129, 211– 2 Flavius Stilicho 92 Flieger, Verlyn ix, 42, 194, 196–8, 204, 208, 211 foederati 91–2, 123 Folcwine 93 Forster, E.M. 13 Forthwini 86 Fox, Adam 201 Franks 4, 85–6, 94, 97, 102, 109–2, 193 Fravitas 91 French language 25, 43, 66, 75, 123 Freud, Sigmund 9, 66 Frigidus 93, 107 Frisians 109, 122 Frodo Baggins 38, 50, 133, 141, 146, 155–6, 158–9, 184, 187, 194; compared to Alastair Maclean 164– 74 passim Frye, Northrop 17 Gaelic language 165 Gaffer Gamgee 180, 183 Gainas 91 Galadriel 5, 50, 134, 148– 9, 158–9; compared to Ayesha 148–50; Mirror of Galadriel 148–9 Galadwen 103 Galathilion 61 Galla Placidia 93 Gandalf 32, 102, 105, 111, 125, 133, 139, 159, 169, 174, 179, 180, 188–91 Garth, John 147, 159

Genesis 23, 27, 33, 45–55 passim Genesis (Old English text) 124 Gepids 94, 101 German language 122 Germanus Justinus 96 Germanus Postumus 96 Ghân-Buri-Ghân 173, 175, 178 Gibbon, Edward 18, 102, 113 Giddings, Robert 46, 55, 155, 157 Gilgamesh 46–7, 53, 60–6 passim Gilgamesh (character) 60 Gimli 47, 89, 117, 125 Girion 56 Glasgow 178–87 passim Glyer, Diana Pavlac ix Godden, Malcolm 6 Goldberry 136, 143, 172 Gollancz, Israel 25, 27 Gollum 32, 154–5, 167, 168–70, 172 Gondolin 50, 70, 150–1 Gondor 4, 62, 69, 85–112 passim, 119, 123, 129, 138, 152, 165, 184, 195 Gordon, E.V. 13, 42 Gospels 23–4; see also Bible Gothic 14, 18, 57, 84–6, 88, 91–2, 96, 106, 109, 112–4, 123–4, 130, 198 Goths 4, 14, 84–114 passim, 119, 121, 123–4, 126, 129–30 Gower, John 76; Confessio Amantis 76 Gratian 92 Great Plague 87, 94–5 Great Tradition see Leavis, F.R. Greek(s) 4–5, 40, 47–8, 51, 74–5, 81, 98, 103–5, 146 Greek language 4, 10, 14, 57, 61–2, 85–6, 90, 103–4, 124, 197–8, 212 Green, Roger Lancelyn 147, 155–6 Greene, Robert 25 Greyflood 89

Index Grimm, Jakob 10–1; and brother Wilhelm 18 Grimoald I 96 Grundtvig, Svend 10, 18 Gueroult, Denys 159 Gutenberg, Johannes 34, 38 Habel, Norman 23 Habib, M.A.R. 19 Hadrianople 91 Haggard, H. Rider 5, 12– 3, 37, 41, 145–60 passim; Allan Quatermain 155– 6; Ayesha 147, 149, 152–5 passim, 158–9; Eric Brighteyes 147; Heart of the World 155; Heu-Heu 155; King Solomon’s Mines 13, 147, 155–6, 160; “Long Odds” 156; Montezuma’s Daughter 155; Red Eve 155; She 146–56 passim; She and Allan 147–9, 154–5, 159; The Treasure of the Lake 155; The Wanderer’s Necklace 147, 156; Wisdom’s Daughter 147, 151 hagiography 4 Haigh, W.E. 11 Half-elven 71, 79, 96 Hammond, Wayne G. 43 Hannay, Richard (character) 162–3, 190 Harad 89, 104–5 Haradrim 92–3, 104, 112 Harnen 89, 104–5 Harold Godwinson 123 Harry Potter series 118 Hatti 59 Havard, R.E. 193, 201 Hebrew(s) 3, 23, 45–6, 51, 53–4, 61, 64–6 Hebrew language 47, 52, 61 Hell 31, 142, 152, 160, 165, 167, 190 Helm Hammerhand 127 Helms, Randel 45, 206 Hengest and Horsa 85, 122, 130 Henry VIII 172 Hera 74, 75 Heraclius 90, 101, 104

Herefordshire 11 Hesiod 47, 51, 61, 74–5 Hildórien 48–9, 51 Hitchcock, Alfred 146 Hittite language 45, 54, 58–9, 64 Hobbits 11, 15, 64, 86, 116, 120, 123, 129, 139, 154, 164, 178, 187, 195, 199; extinct hominid species 67; immigration to the Shire 85, 122; origins of 7, 9, 39, 85, 122 Holy Roman Empire 85, 97, 106, 111–2 Homer 19, 60, 74–5 Homo floriensis 67 Honorius 87 Horace 20, 42 The Hornburg 113, 127 Horsa see Hengest and Horsa Hostetter, Carl F. 4, 82 Housman, A.E. 20 Hroznï, Bed†ich 58 Hulme, Mariko 46 Huns 4, 14, 88, 91, 94, 99–104 passim, 106, 113, 117–8, 123, 128–9 Hyarmendacil 89, 104 Idril 70, 96 Illyricum 92, 95 Ilúvatar 47, 71, 151 immortality 148, 152–4 Imrahil, Prince 103 inferior planets 77, 79 Ing(wë) 108, 114 The Inklings 5, 18, 41, 193, 200–3, 211–2; see also The Notion Club Isengard 39, 56, 195; see also Orthanc Ishtar 69 Isildur 51, 87, 88, 94, 97– 8, 106, 169, 170, 175; see also Anárion; Elendil Isis 158 Italian language 10, 25, 43, 123 Italy 88, 95–101, 109–3, 195 Ithilien 104 Jeremy, Wilfrid (character) 202, 204

223 Jesus Christ see Christ John the Baptist 70 Johnson, Judith 6 Johnson, Samuel 21 Jordanes 84–113 passim, 130 Joshua 63 Joyce, James 1, 29 Jubal 48 Judgment Day 125 Judith 125 Jung, Carl 46 Juno 74; see also Hera Jupiter (planet) 77–8 Jupiter (Roman deity) 165 Justin I 90 Justin II 90 Justinian 88–1, 94–6, 102, 106–7, 113 Jutes 13, 85, 108, 122, 127 Kalevala 18, 40, 42, 47 Kane, Douglas Charles ix Karnil 77 Keats, John 21 Khazars 99, 102 Khuzdul 56 Kilby, Clyde S. 157, 206, 212 King Arthur see Arthuriana King Edward’s School 14, 147, 197 King Sheaf, King Sheave 108–9, 112–4 Kingsley, Charles 37 Kinslaying at Alqualondë 49 Kin-strife 87, 98, 102, 107 Kipling, Rudyard 18, 147 Knatchbull-Hugessen, E.H. 37 Kôr 5, 72, 108, 150–1, 159–60 Kortirion 150–1, 159 Kyd, Thomas 25, 26 Laȝamon 42; Brut 42 Lagash 56, 66 Lancashire Fusiliers 162 Langdon, Stephen 54 Langobards 4, 84–113 passim languages see under individual languages

224 laryngeals 58; see also Hittite language Last Alliance 101 Latin 4, 14, 18, 25, 43, 54, 57, 61, 90, 96, 98, 122, 124, 134–5, 143, 197, 198 Lavater, Lewes 26 leaf-mould (metaphor) 190, 211 Leavis, F.R. 12 Legenda Aurea 133–5, 141, 143 Legolas 97, 117, 119, 125 Le Guin, Ursula K. 67 Leo 92–3, 97, 105, 146, 152–3 The Levant 89 Lewis, C.S. 8, 12–3, 15, 37, 41–2, 147, 157–9, 183, 193, 202–4, 207– 10, 212; on allegory 207; The Allegory of Love 204; bargain with Tolkien 15, 27, 157, 196; on books 145; on Christianity 45, 63, 66, 212; The Chronicles of Narnia 118; death of 209–10; on Freudianism 9; on Haggard 13, 147, 153, 159; on medieval literature 33–4; Mere Christianity 212; “The Mythopoeic Gift of Rider Haggard” 159; Out of the Silent Planet 158, 196; Perelandra 196, 203; “Psycho-Analysis and Literary Criticism” 9; on source criticism 30, 42; “On Stories” 13; That Hideous Strength 196 literary criticism see criticism Liutprand of Cremona 88, 98, 110, 113 Lobdell, Jared 6, 32, 43, 46, 49, 52, 130, 157, 160, 190 Lobelia Sackville-Baggins 184 Long Lake 56 Lönnrot, Elias 10 Lothíriel 103, 107 Lothlórien 118, 139, 155

Index Lowdham, Arundel 51, 53, 201–2 Lucifer 47, 74, 82, 142; see also Satan Luthany 108, 110 Lúthien 96, 110, 152–4, 194 Mabinogion 18 MacDonald, Alexander 147 MacDonald, George 18, 41, 146, 148, 157, 206 Magoun, John ix, 66 Mandeville, John 18; Mandeville’s Travels 18 Mandos: Ban of Mandos 71; Second Prophecy of Mandos 80 Manuel I Comnenus 98, 107 manuscript culture 23–4, 57–8 Manwë 47, 71, 90 Marcho and Blanco 39, 85, 122 Marduk 61 Marhar 86, 124 Marhwini 14, 86 Marlowe, Christopher 26 Marquette University 77, 159 Mars (planet) 77–8 Mars (Roman deity) 142 Marston, John 26 Martinez, Michael 46, 129–30 Marvell, Andrew 53 Massys, Quentin 177 Mathasuentha 96 Maya 69, 79 McGann, Jerome 19 Melkor 47–9, 79; see also Morgoth Mellinkoff, Ruth 177 meme 24 Men 48–50, 56, 71, 78, 89, 90, 96, 154; see also Dúnedain Meneldil 87, 98 Meneltarma 51–2, 66 Mercia, Kingdom of 116 Mercian(s) 14, 116, 121, 124, 129–30, 203 Mercury (Christian knight) 138

Mercury (planet) 77–9, 82 Meredith, George 183 Meriadoc Brandybuck 57, 117, 130, 175, 186, 195 Merovingian dynasty 97, 106 Merton College 209; see also Oxford University Mesopotamia(ns) 3, 45– 66 passim metamorphosis 71–9 meteorology see weather Micelgeard 110–1 Michael II 105 Michael III 102 Middle English 11, 33, 76, 82; see also under individual works Middleton, Thomas 26 Midlands (West) 18–9, 173, 194, 203 Midwinter, Amos 163–5, 170–6 Mikligardr 110 Milan 87 Milton, John 53, 61; Paradise Lost 21, 53, 61 Minas Anor 87; see also Minas Tirith Minas Tirith 61, 63, 66, 86–9, 93, 100–2, 107, 109, 113, 195 Minhiriath 46, 62 Mirkwood 89, 91, 174 Mr. Rang 7, 9, 15, 42, 53, 63, 159 Mr. Wrigley 7, 42 Moesia 91–2 Moldavia 91 Moon 69, 71, 73, 153, 159 Morannon 100 Mordor 46, 62, 87, 95, 98, 101–2, 104, 194, 195 Morgan, Father Francis 112, 196–8 Morgoth 48, 57, 66, 70, 72, 77, 159; see also Melkor Moria 139, 141, 155, 166 Morning Star 69, 71, 73– 4, 79 Morpheus 74, 76 Morris, William 10, 14, 18, 37, 135; The Roots of the Mountains 14

Index Moses 23, 56 Mouth of Sauron 155 Muir, Kenneth 25 music 47–8 My Fair Lady (Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe) 182 Mythlore ix, 157 mythology for England 10, 34, 40, 42, 110 Mythopoeic Society ix Naked Men 165, 172; see also Spoonbills Namarcil I 91 Narses 94–5 Nashe, Thomas 25, 26 Nasmith, Ted ix Nazgûl 141, 143, 154, 184– 7; see also Witch-king of Angmar Ned 208–9 Nesili 59 New Testament 23–4, 45– 6, 64, 124, 188–9; see also Bible; Christianity Nibelung 14 Nicaea 87 Nicander 74 Nicephorus II Phocas 98, 105 Nicomedia 87 Niggle 204–6, 211 Nimloth 51, 61 Noah 23, 50–2 Nobottle 11 Nokes 207, 209 Normans 106, 123, 129 Northmen 86, 90–3, 99, 103, 106, 108, 112–3 Norway 38 The Notion Club 200–4; see also The Inklings Númenor 48, 50, 56, 61– 2, 69–70, 78, 86–7, 90, 93, 102–3, 106, 119, 151– 2, 155, 159 Oath of Eorl 92 Offa of Mercia 116 Old English 11, 13–4, 18, 32, 40, 42, 70, 110, 118, 120–2, 124–6, 129–30, 203; see also under individual works

Old Man Willow 164 Old Norse 14, 32, 36, 40, 110, 120–1; see also under individual works Old Testament 3, 24, 45– 7, 54–5, 64, 66 Olympos, Mount 47 Ondoher 90, 94, 98 One Ring see The Ring O’Neill, Timothy R. 46, 55 oral culture 23, 57–8, 60, 125 Orange Free State see Africa Orcs 46, 55–7, 62, 66, 96, 99–102, 104, 117, 120, 128–9, 167, 178, 182, 194–5; compared to Huns 99–102, 128–9; origins as Elves or Men 57, 194 Orléans, Kingdom of 97 Ornendil 93, 103 Orthanc 56; see also Isengard Orwell, George 8, 182 Osgiliath 87, 97, 113 Ostrogoths 91–6, 100, 109, 113 Oswin (character) 196–8 Otto I 88, 97–8 Otto II 98 Ovid 51, 74–6, 82; Metamorphoses 74–5, 82 Ovide Moralisé 75 Oxford English Dictionary 9, 11, 19, 36, 42, 135 Oxford English School 9, 12, 75; see also Oxford University Oxford University 13, 54, 58, 82, 124, 195, 196, 211; fictionalized 200, 203 Oxfordshire 172 pagan(ism) 5, 19, 41, 58, 61, 67, 75, 93, 125, 134, 140–1, 176 palantír(i) 101, 149 Palermo 105 Pannonia 94 Paris, Kingdom of 97 Parish (character) 205

225 Paul the Deacon 84, 111–2 Pawnee Indians 69 Pearl 207 Pembroke College 6, 203; see also Oxford University Persians 86, 91, 101, 106, 107, 112, 138 Peter Bohun 173–6, 178 Philippikos Bardanes 102 philology 10, 12, 14, 19– 20, 57–9, 85, 124, 182, 193, 200 The Physiologus 117 Picts 122 Pippin (character) 57, 88, 100, 117, 139, 164, 166, 170, 195 Pippin III (Carolingian figure) 97 Pippinids 97 Pitt, Abel 201 plagiarism 30, 34, 42, 85 Plato 22, 61, 75 Pleiades 81 Plimmer, Charlotte and Denis 145 Pluto (planet) 77 Pontius Pilate 139 Poros 104 Porphyrogenitus (Byzantine emperor) 88, 102, 113 Porphyrogenitus (hobbit) 86 Poseidon 47 postmodernism 20, 32 prehistoric period 40, 59, 65, 69 Pritchard, James R. 55 Púkel-men 175 Purgatory 205–6 Pyrrha and Deucalion 51 Quenya 52, 165; see also Elvish language(s); Sindarin Quetzalcoatl 69, 79; see also Maya Ramer, Michael George 193, 200–4, 211–2 Rangers 165, 169–70, 174; see also Dúnedain Ravenna 87, 96, 113

226 reincarnation 152–3, 159– 60 Renaissance 34, 97 Resnik, Henry 145–6, 158 Restoration period 41, 42 Rheims, Kingdom of 97 Rhovanion 86, 91, 99, 102–3, 106, 108, 112 Rhudaur 97; see also Arthedain; Cardolan Rhûn 48, 89, 91; Sea of Rhûn 89, 91 Rich, Adrienne 20 Riddermark see Rohan riddles 11, 32 The Ring 8, 51, 133–4, 146, 156, 164, 169–2, 188, 194 Rings of Power 5, 133, 158; see also The Ring Rivendell 56, 70, 141, 158, 189 Robin Hood 174 Roderic (hobbit) 86 Rohan 4, 38, 92–3, 96, 103, 109, 116–24, 127–9, 184, 195; see also Calenardhon Rohirrim 4, 8, 85, 90, 92–4, 100–31 passim Romania 91 Romantic period 124; see also Keats, John Rome 14, 84, 87, 95, 97– 8, 110–3, 139, 141 Rómendacil 88, 90–1, 103–4 Romuald 96 Rosebury, Brian 12, 206 Rothinzil 78; see also Vingilot Roverandom (character) 194 The Ruin 18 runes 32, 58, 203 Russia 91, 113, 181, 183; Russians 86, 102, 106, 112, 113, 182 Russian Civil War 181 Rutledge, Fleming 46 Ryan, J.S. 46, 55 Saint Amande 137 Saint Barlaam 141–2 Saint Basil 138–9

Index Saint Benedict 136, 142 Saint Bernard 137 Saint Dominic 142 Saint Donatus 136–7 Saint George 141–2 Saint James the Greater 142 Saint John the Evangelist 140 Saint Margaret 141, 143 Saint Mark 137 Saint Martha (Emorissa) 141 Saint Martin 136 Saint Matthew 142 Saint Michael (Archangel) 47, 137, 142 Saint Nicholas 138 Saint Peter Martyr 140 Saint Philip 141–2 St. Philip’s School 198 Saint Silvester 141 Saint Stephen 133–5 Sam Gamgee 63, 166 Samaria 62 Sammath Naur see Cracks of Doom Sanskrit literature 60 Sargon 46 Saruman 46, 55, 57, 117, 154, 184 Sarus 93 Saskia 184–5, 189 Satan 47, 143, 167; see also Lucifer Sauron 10, 15, 46, 50, 57, 62–3, 100–1, 106, 133– 4, 136, 155, 169, 194 Saussure, Ferdinand de 58 Sawles Warde 42 Saxo Grammaticus 18, 25 Saxons 13, 85, 97, 108, 110, 121–3, 127–8, 130, 184; see also Angles; Jutes Sayce, Archibald 54, 58 Scary (place) 11 Scot, Reginald 26 Scottish dialect 166, 182–3 screen adaptations of Tolkien 13, 149, 159 Scull, Christina 43, 197 The Seafarer 125 Seneca 25 Septuagint 124; see also Bible

Sesuald 96 Shadowfax 66 Shakespeare, William 1, 8, 19, 21, 25–6, 29, 38–3; Cymbeline 38; Hamlet 25–7; Love’s Labour’s Lost 25; Macbeth 38–9, 43; A Midsummer Night’s Dream 25; The Tempest 25; Troilus and Cressida 42 Shepherd, G.T. 11 Sherd of Amenartas (object) 5, 146 Shippey, Tom ix, 3, 8, 12, 18–9, 32, 42–3, 48, 64, 85, 114, 116, 121, 129–30, 190, 191, 205–7 The Shire 11, 85, 116, 118, 120, 122, 123, 167, 173, 178, 182, 184, 189, 194 Siberia 49 Sicily 95, 105–6 Silmarils 70–3 Sinai, Mount 66 Sindarin language 55, 56, 62, 103, 165; see also Elvish language(s); Quenya Sir Gawain and the Green Knight 18, 35, 40, 42, 43, 146, 208 Sir Orfeo 18 Sisam, Kenneth 76 Skirnismál 18 Slavs 89, 95, 101, 107 Smaug ix, 39–40, 141–2; see also dragons Smith (character) 207–11 Smith, George 53 socialism 181–2 Soissons, Kingdom of 97 Sophocles 75 source criticism: background 17–27 passim; biographical 15, 193–211 passim; conclusions of 40–1 passim; dangers of 26–7, 39, 85; methodology of 36–40 passim Southrons 99–103 Spanish language 123 Spenser, Edmund 38 spiders 186–8 Spillane, Mickey 21

Index Spoonbills 165, 171–3; see also Naked Men Stainer, Ranulf 201 stars 48, 69–71, 73–4, 77– 9, 81, 178; see also under individual stars Steiner, Rudolf 201 Straubhaar, Sandra Ballif 112–4, 125, 129 Sturluson, Snorri 18 suicide 73–5, 100 Sumerians 45, 46, 52–8 passim, 62, 64–7, 159 Sun 69, 70, 71, 77, 78, 79, 81, 82 Suruman 46 Swain, L.J. 46 Syria 101, 104 Tacitus 75, 125, 176 Taniquetil 47 Tappet 170 Tarannon 90, 104 Tarondor 87 Tarostar 104 Teia 96 Telumehtar 105 Texas A&M University 66 Thangorodrim 72 Thengel 93, 103, 107 Théoden 93, 100, 102–3, 127, 130, 138, 178, 184–5 Theodora 102–3 Theodoric 88, 92, 94, 96, 100, 113, 123 Theodoric (hobbit) 86 Theodoric I 94 Theodosius 87, 92–3, 101, 105, 136 Theuderic 97 Thompson, D’Arcy 81 Thompson, Reginald Campbell 54 Thorin Oakenshield 186 Thorismund 100 Thorondor 72 Thrace 91–2, 95 Tiberios 102 Tol Eressëa 108, 202 Tolkien, Arthur 202 Tolkien, Christopher 13– 4, 72–3, 77, 80, 108–9, 112–4, 116, 120–1, 129, 150, 159, 182, 194–6, 198–203, 208–212 pas-

sim; compared to Audoin 198–9; compared to Ned 208–9 Tolkien, Edith (née Bratt) 198 Tolkien, John and Priscilla 199, 209 Tolkien, J.R.R. on allegory 8, 30, 206–7; artwork by 150–1; on biographical criticism 8–9, 193; on books 145; on fanfiction 34; on film adaptation 13; as medieval writer 32–5; pseudonyms of: Arthurson, John 202, Bagpuize, K. 212, Oxymore 212, Rashbold, John Jethro 203, Rashbold, Professor of Pembroke 203, Titmass, J. R. 203; on source criticism 1, 7–10, 17, 29–30, 84; works of: Akallabêth 51–2, 78, 151, Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth 49, 66, “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics” 8, 60, 193, 208, 212, The Book of Lost Tales 5, 39, 67, 72, 108, 151, “The Drowning of Anadûnê” 151, “English and Welsh” 163, Farmer Giles of Ham 142, Finn and Hengest 8, 42, 130, The History of Middleearth 4, 43, 48, 85, 157, The Hobbit 18, 32, 35, 37, 120, 178–9, 189–91, 199, 205, 212–3, The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm’s Son 126, “Kortirion Among the Trees” 151, “The Last Voyage of Eärendil” 73, “Laws and Customs Among the Eldar” 159, “Leaf by Niggle” 8, 204, 206, The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrún 14, 39, The Lord of the Rings 5– 6, 8, 11, 15, 18, 41, 64, 84–6, 106–12 passim, 119–23, 133–41 passim,

227 146–9, 151, 153–5, 157, 160, 170, 179–83, 199, 204–8, 213, The Lost Road 15, 51, 56, 113, 151, 196–200, 204, The Notion Club Papers 51, 53, 109, 151, 190, 200–4, 212, “On Fairy-stories” 1, 37, 208, Qenta Noldorinwa 73, The Silmarillion 3–4, 14, 24, 45–64 passim, 67–77 passim, 150, 152, 157, 199, 202, 210, Smith of Wootton Major 206, 209, 212, Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middleearth 85, 119 Tolkien, Michael George 200 Tolkien Society ix Tolkien Studies (journal) 6 Tom Bombadil 136, 137, 143, 164, 171–8, 194 Tooks 86, 180 Tourneur, Cyril 26 Trebizond 98 Tree of Language (metaphor) 10 Tree of Tales (metaphor) 38 Treebeard 46; see also Ents Tréowine 108 Tribigild 91 trolls 188 Troyes, Chrétien de xii Tuisto 125, 130 Tunisia 105 Tuor 70, 96 Turgon (Steward of Gondor) 93, 101 Turin II 93 twilight 78, 79, 171, 174 Two Trees of Valinor 49, 66 Tyler, J.E.A. 46 UFOs 78 Ukraine 91, 113 Ulfilas 124 Ulmo 47, 71–2 Umbar 89, 95, 101–6 passim, 112 Underworld (Mayan) 69, 79

228

Index

Ungnad, Arthur 66 Unwin, Rayner 195, 206, 209–10 Unwin, Stanley 158, 209 Updike, John 27 Uriah the Hittite 58 Uruk 46, 55, 56, 57, 66 Uruk-hai see Orcs Utnapishtim 61 Valacar 86, 90, 93, 102–3, 107 Valandil 87 Valar 46–7, 61, 66–7, 70–3, 79, 90, 108–9, 111; see also under individual names Valens 91, 113, 139 Valhalla 130 Vandals 4, 90–5 passim Varangians 101, 103, 106–7, 112–4 Varda 77 Variags of Khand 102, 107, 113 Venus (planet) 69–0, 72–3, 77–9, 82, 203 Victorian period 5, 41, 53, 116, 124, 207 Vidugavia 86, 90, 102–3, 124 Vidumavi 86, 92–3, 102–3, 107 Vikings 101, 113, 124, 126, 147 Vingilot 70–2, 77–8; see also Rothinzil Vinitharya 86 Virgil 75, 80–1; Georgics 80 Visigoths 93–5, 100, 113, 123 Vistula 91 Vitericus 94 Viviano, Pauline 22 Vladimir I 103 Völsungasaga 18 Völuspá 18, 36, 120 Wagner, Richard 9 Wainriders 99, 101, 105, 107, 111, 113 Waldman, Milton 47, 50, 86 Walton, Christina Ganong 45

The Wanderer 18 War of the Ring 104, 107, 171–2 War of Wrath 72 Warwick 150 weather 80–2, 136–8, 143 Weathertop 156, 187 Wee Jaikie 13, 181–2, 186 Wellhausen, Julius 22 Welsh language 174, 191, 198 Wens 175–8 West, Richard C. 6 Westron 15, 56, 120 White, T.H. 182 William, Earl of Arundel 135 Williams, Charles 110, 157, 203–4 Wilson, Edmund 15 Wilson, R.M. 57, 66 Winckler, Hugo 58 Wiseman, Christopher 147 Witch-king of Angmar 39, 62, 96, 100, 106, 143, 186; see also Nazgûl Wodehouse, P.G. 183 Wood, Ralph 46 Woolley, Sir Leonard 14 World War I 25, 135, 162, 194 World War II 8, 78, 194 Woses 90, 173, 175, 178 Wulfila see Ulfilas Wyke-Smith, Edward 37 Wynne, Hilary 39 The Year’s Work in English Studies 36, 59 Yorkshire 14, 165, 167 Zeno 90, 93 Zeus 74, 75 ziggurat 62 Zigûr 62; see also Sauron zodiac 73