In the early 1970s the Charlie Daniels Band hit the pop rock scene with a song called “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”. It was common for songs of that period to tell a story, and this one focused on a violin duel between the devil and a good old boy named Johnny. The stakes were a golden fiddle (violin) and Johnny’s soul. The devil got his comeuppance, as so often happens in folklore.
Scratch, or the devil, is a popular figure in American folklore. He crops up in various places looking for people’s souls, tricking people into signing eternity away for usually small stakes. One story (“The Devil and Daniel Webster” by Stephen Vincent Benet) has a famous lawyer defending a poor soul before a jury of demons. The lawyer makes such an impassioned plea he reduces the jury to tears, and they find in favor of the defense, leaving Scratch scratching his head once again. That may be the only story where lawyers are depicted favorably in American folklore.
Middle-earth folklore is a bit tame compared to the tall tales we dreamed up for ourselves. There is no one like Pecos Bill and Catfish Sue in the tales passed around Tolkien’s imaginary corner of the past, except perhaps for Bandobras Took’s invention of the game of golf. Bandobras, called “Bullroarer”, led the defense of the Shire in the year 2747 when a band of Orcs from Mount Gram, led by Golfimbul, invaded the Shire from the north. Bandobras met the Orcs in battle near the town of Greenfields, and he reportedly knocked the Orc-leader’s head off his shoulders with a club.
That’s not quite on the scale of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Ox raising the Rocky Mountains, but it’s a story which provides a glimpse into Hobbit folklore. We get to see a bit of Gondorian folklore in the making, too, in “The Steward and the King”. As Aragorn’s coronation cermony begins, Ioreth, the woman who had worked in the Houses of Healing, lectures her cousin from the countryside on who is who in the procession.
‘Nay, cousin! they are not boys,’ said Ioreth to her kinswoman from Imloth Melui, who stood beside her. ‘Those are Periain, out of the far country of the Halflings, where they are princes of great fame, it is said. I should know, for I had one to tend in the Houses. They are small, but they are valiant. Why, cousin, one of them went with only his esquire into the Black Country and fought with the Dark Lord all by himself, and set fire to his Tower, if you can believe it. At least that is the tale in the City. That will be the one that walks with our Elfstone. They are dear friends, I hear….’
Ioreth is a curious paradox, a font of lost wisdom preserved in old wives tales, and a rumor-monger helping to build larger-than-life impressions. When Celeborn warns Boromir not to “despise the lore that has come down from distant years; for oft it may chance that old wives keep in memory word of things that once were needful for the wise to know”, his words slumber for many chapters until they find vindication in Ioreth’s ramblings in the Houses of Healing. She babbles on about how the hands of a king are the hands of a healer, inspiring Gandalf to set into motion Aragorn’s long night of healing people throughout Minas Tirith.
Of course, Ioreth didn’t create the legend of the valiant Halflings and the Return of the King all by herself. Faramir, upon awaking from his deathlike sleep, acknowledges Aragorn as the king without ever having laid eyes upon him before. Ioreth and other observers not privy to the Steward’s council could not have known that Frodo had already told Faramir much about Aragorn. Faramir’s miracle of recognition should not be dismissed, but it’s not like he didn’t know that someone special was coming to Minas Tirith. Nonetheless, word spread like wildfire through the city that The King was come.
Equally so, when Frodo and Sam were rescued from the fire, rumors must have spread immediately through the Army of the West and from them back to Minas Tirith, rumors of Frodo’s journey into Mordor to destroy Barad-dur. Even though a minstrel put the story into song rather quickly, the true celebration of the event came in the folk-wisdom which explained all the mysterious and terrifying occurrences. Hence, though Frodo and his kinsmen were not really “princes” in the Gondorian sense, their status as leaders of their society, coupled with Pippin’s reputation as “Ernil-i-Pheriannath” (derived from his donning the uniform of the Tower Guard), led Gondorians to conclude they were princes. The Shire probably didn’t seem very rustic in the imagination of most Gondorians.
Ironically, the War of the Ring marked the Shire’s emergence from the days of folklore into the days of history. Suddenly, Hobbits started looking beyond their old folktales and taking an interest in real history. They began with their own history, memorizing all the details of the Battle of Bywater. There is no hint of their embellishing the actual event with grandiose imaginings. And Merry brought a great deal of lore to the Shire from Rivendell and Rohan, helping the Hobbits acquire a passion for preserving a true knowledge of the past, before all such knowledge was completely lost.
The “old bogey-stories Fatty’s nurses used to tell him,” as Merry described the Buckland folklore concerning the Old Forest, found vindication in the histories that Merry brought back, even though he originally dismissed them. The goblins and wolves Fatty’s nurses remembered, really did attack the Shire on one occasion or another, and some undoubtedly came through the Old Forest. There was a time when the Dunedain of Cardolan took refuge in the Old Forest, and they were attacked there by the forces of Angmar. But that was before the Shire had been settled, or the Buckland colonized. And white wolves came out of the north during the Fell Winter of 1911. The Baranduin and other rivers froze over in that year.
European folklore gave rise to the “fairy-story”, tales of mortals doing impossible things or visiting impossible places. One such story is the tale of a man who sends his three sons off to learn trades: the son who masters his skill better than the others will inherit the family house. (It never seems to occur to anyone that the sons could just build their own houses.) In one variation of the story, one son becomes a barber and he only caters to the rich. The second son becomes a blacksmith. The third son becomes a soldier, studying sword-craft.
When the father decides it’s time to choose who gets the inheritance, the first son shaves passersby without having them stop. He doesn’t nick anyone. The father is impressed. But when a carriage rolls by, the second son reshoes all the horses as they run along the road. Everyone really likes that feat. But finally it starts to rain, and the third son takes out his sword. He begins spinning and whirling, and the blade dances around his head. He is so fast and so accurate that, even though the rainstorm drenches everyone else, not a drop touches him.
The father gives the third son the house, but the brothers are so devoted to each other that they all live together for the rest of their lives anyway. The brothers live long lives, and they all die within a day of one another. In a way it’s a very happy tale, but really doesn’t have larger implications. There is a statement about loyalty to one’s kin, and we can infer that families sometimes tried to diversify the skills taught their sons.
Tolkien doesn’t provide us with any similar stories. The closest he comes to telling a tall tale would be something like “The Faithful Stone”, where a Drug in Beleriand leaves a watch-stone to protect the family of Edain he is devoted to. The Drug goes off to visit his brother. When Orcs attack the family homestead, the watch-stone awakens and tramples the Orcs to death, but is burned in the struggle. The Drug returns and shows that his feet have suffered harm from the watch-stone’s battle.
If there is anything missing from Middle-earth, which otherwise seems so utterly complete and profoundly real, it would have to be folklore, tall tales especially. We see bits and glimpses of the stories which would give rise to folklore, but we seldom see the folklore itself. Tolkien emphasized realism so much that he all but neglected the extravagances of folklore. Folklore was not entirely absent, but it would have been nice to see occasional variations on the story of Isildur, for example.
Unfortunately, there were (not so diabolical) forces at work which prevented or delayed the rise and spread of folklore. That is, there were people who remembered the events which normally would have given rise to folklore. Want to know what Isildur was like? Just travel north and find Elrond. Heck, he had people living with him (or relatives) who remembered the likes of Luthien, Thingol, and Melian. It’s hard to tell tall tales when Elves are politely hemming and hawing in the corner, whispering, “Well, actually, Isildur was only TWO Rangar high, and he had a scar on his palm….”
Folklore cheapens history but it enriches culture. It entertains and preserves a smidgen of good sense. There is often a kernel of good advice in folklore and fairy-tales (such as, don’t sell your soul to the devil unless you have a REALLY good lawyer on your side). Sometimes folklore remembers things that are forgotten elsewhere. Some early Germanic myths seem to recall historical events. The myths most likely developed from older stories which were a bit more realistic, with each generation adding a few “refinements” to the tale.
Middle-earth’s folklore arises where scholarship fails, in the hearths of Hobbits, and in the gossip of old women who aren’t involved in winning the great wars. If bears do go lolloping over mountains in Middle-earth, we are not treated to the whys and wherefores of such events recounted to children in nurseries. It would be interesting to hear some of those old stories told in Bree, for example. What did they remember about the ancient wars and the great kings who stood up to the Witch-king? Was he the equivalent of old Scratch? Did the Bree-folk recall ancient duels where the Witch-king traded jibes with High Kings for the souls of lowly hobbits and farmers?
The myths and fairy-tales of Middle-earth would probably have been mostly dark. The peoples of the Third Age, especially after the fall of Arnor, lived in a mostly dark world where evil things really did dwell just beyond the horizon. The Bree-folk had their quiet, peaceful woods to themselves most of the time, but after the Rangers left, Bree was beset by enemies and strange creatures. The old bogey-stories started coming true.
The closest thing to a larger-than-life story we see in Bree is Pippin’s account of Bilbo’s disappearance at The Party. But that really isn’t folklore. Once again, Pippin was there. He remembers the event (if only through a child’s eyes). People knew the event had really happened. So Pippin’s story would, in his lifetime, be more along the lines of gossip than anything else.
Which is not to say that gossip cannot take on larger-than-life dimensions. Gossip can be particularly grandiose when it is petty and malicious. For example, Proctor and Gamble was singled out for malicious gossip in the 1980s by certain religious groups, who decided (for no credible reason) that the Proctor and Gamble emblem of a crescent moon, an old man, and thirteen stars had some connection to Satanic cults. And McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and other fast-food chains were subjected to various “wormburger” rumors (which, ironically, overlooked the fact that making meat out of earthworms would be tremendously expensive).
Gossip, when founded on fact, can also seem unreal. Take Sam’s walking tree, for example. Or, more appropriately, his cousin Hal’s walking tree. I can’t begin to count the number of people who have written to me, asking if that tree wasn’t an Ent-wife, or an Ent hanging around the northern bounds of the Shire. I have no idea. Was Hal even telling Sam the whole story? Had Hal just had one ale too many? Was Hal pulling Sam’s leg?
The sterile fact is that Tolkien didn’t even know about Ents when he devised the walking tree story. There is really no way to connect that anecdote with Fangorn’s lament over the Ent-wives, despite his belief that the Ent-wives would have liked the Shire. Walking trees are more an indication of Hobbit love for weird and goofy tales than anything else. There might actually be walking trees, but the Shire didn’t appoint any commissions to study them. It was enough simply to tell a cousin about the event and let it go at that.
Hobbits loved to swap tales. Of course, everyone does. But it’s usually more entertaining just to tell the story, rather than go off and find out if it’s actually true. In fact, who cares if the story is true, as long as it’s a whopping good yarn? Something I’d like to know is what the Hobbits told each other about the Elves. Were there stories of “Elf land” where Hobbit children got lost and played with Elf children? Were there tales of ancient Elf kings who never actually lived?
Tolkien did imply there might be such stories. In The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, a book of poems Tolkien compiled for his aunt, Jane Neave, he included a couple of stories which were most likely Hobbit fairy-tales. “Princess Mee” is a nonsense-poem about an ancient Elf princess who dances on water and becomes fascinated with her reflection. “Fastitocalon” tels about a giant turtle which pretends to be an island in the sea, enticing unwary sailors to their deaths.
“The Hoard” is said to be reminiscent of the story of Turin and Mim, although the connections are weak. Most likely written by someone who had heard the story of Turin, it represents a rare glimmer of interest in ancient history among Hobbits. The Hobbit folklore seems to represent a cultural gift for turning real tales into entertainment. Perhaps Hobbits are responsible for most of the made-for-TV movies which endlessly recast historical people and events in unbelievable terms.
The story of Frodo and Sam might have undergone a similar metamorphosis as the Hobbit generations passed. Frodo might have become the rich aristocrat who sold his soul to Sauron, and Sam might be transformed into the Mayor of the Shire who went to Mordor to rescue his friend from great peril. Merry and Pippin might have become two cousins who, lost in the woods, were befriended by the friendly Shepherds of the Trees, who set them on the right path after defeating an evil wizard. And Bilbo…well, Bilbo probably found a place in Hobbit folklore as the eccentric Hobbit who went over the mountain to find great bears, dragons, and Elf land.
Folklore is the living imagery which we paint with our own faults and strengths. In many ways, it serves to remind us that we are no better than the next fool who tries to make a deal with the devil, or of no less worth than the prince who settles down to marry the poor farm girl. Folklorists might say that folk tale and fairy-lore serve as the training ground for great story-tellers. Every culture produces a wealth of these tales, and even if they are dark or bear little resemblance to actual history, they all contain a fundamental truth or bit of wisdom about human nature.
Few and far between though they may be, Middle-earth’s folk tales say something about its inhabitants. Whether it be to show that the sea is a fearful and mysterious place , or to remind them of the folly of seeking treasure, the message is always relevant to the audience. The stories move the next generation to tell their own tales. Ioreth might never be given the recognition of, say, a Daeron or Maglor, but her tall tales may outlive the most tragic of Daeron’s laments.
The stories don’t always have to teach a lesson, but there is a lesson to be learned from all of them. It could easily be argued that Tolkien was drawing upon many nursery tales, myths, and legends to build Middle-earth. But looking at the sources of the valiant tales of Tolkien’s heroes overlooks one of the neatest things about Middle-earth sometimes its people just stop what they are doing and swap tall tales. I only wish we could have heard a few more of them. And maybe we can.
Some day. When we’ve forgotten the history, and we’ve retold the tales a thousand times.
This article was originally published on February 23, 2001.
Actually, as Shippey comments, specifically English folk-tale is rather scanty compared to Scottish, Welsh or Irish or (as your examples show) American folk-tale. There are few, if any, English equivalents of say, Ireland’s Finn McCool. Even King Arthur and Robin Hood are mainly story-book characters; you can have a childhood fantasy about being Robin Hood, but you’d better not have one as a grown-up! Potential anti-establishment heroes, like Ned Ludd or Captain Swing (from the frame-breaking Chartist era of the 1830s and 40s), seem to get squashed out of popular memory.
In his younger days Tolkien aspired (again according to Shippey) to construct a ‘mythology for England’ which would remedy this lack. I think it’s fair to say he had a rather high-flown idea of what such a mythology should be like:
“The realm of fairy-story is wide and deep and high and filled with many things: all manner of beasts and birds are found there; shoreless seas and stars uncounted; beauty that is an enchantment, and an ever-present peril; both joy and sorrow as sharp as swords. In that realm a man may, perhaps, count himself fortunate to have wandered…” – from ‘On Fairy Stories’
I’d suggest there is a debt to Keats here, e.g. “Much have I travelled in the realms of gold” and “perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn”. Thus, it may be that Tolkien after all draws on Romanticism, above all its sense of loss; not to mention the commercialised sub-fairy lore which subsequently accumulated. Dmitra Fimi is perceptive about this (Tolkien, Race and Cultural History: From Fairies to Hobbits, Palgrave Macmillan 2008 – a good read in spite of the off-putting title). Conversely he is dismissive of “these French things: such as Puss-in-Boots, Cinderella, or Little Red Riding Hood” – i.e. the stories of Perrault, which to many (including me) are the most interesting kind of fairy story, freighted as they are with Jungian symbolism.
Tolkien’s running conceit (in the literary sense) is that old stories and rhymes are trivialised, infantilised, or plain misunderstood memories of matters which were originally weighty and serious; an example is Theoden’s half-forgotten “Holbytlan”. His method is to reverse the process, restoring the elves, dwarves and dragons to what they “really were” from such scraps of information as are available. Poor Ioreth, held up as an example of why this is necessary, is on the receiving end of, at best, amused condescension. Aragorn’s ‘Tinuviel’ (FOTR Chapter 11) may be an example of what Tolkien would have preferred to see. It is delivered in verse of correct form (“ann-thennath”), backed up with a lengthy prose commentary doubtless based on first-hand research among available living sources.
Moving away from the central myth, ‘The Adventures of Tom Bombadil’ preserves some generic would-be ‘parables’, like ‘Princess Mee’ and also ‘Perry-the-Winkle’; but they are pretty feeble. ‘The Shadow Bride’ does have a Jungian feel, in its suggestion of the ‘anima’ (the male unconscious personified as a shadowy female figure) and even the related ‘hieros gamos’ or Sacred Marriage (another Jung favourite). I think though one has to accept that, at any rate in the published material (i.e. not ‘Turin’), Tolkien was fastidious to the point of leaving out some aspects of life altogether – which makes the fascination of what he could allow himself to say even more remarkable!