The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien

by Humphrey Carpenter

  Receiving of gifts: this was an ancient ritual connected with kinship. It was in origin a recognition of the byrding’s membership of a family or clan, and a commemoration of his formal ‘incorporation’.fn82 No present was given by father or mother to their children on their (the children’s) birthdays (except in the rare cases of adoption); but the reputed head of the family was supposed to give something, if only in ‘token’.

  Giving gifts: was a personal matter, not limited to kinship. It was a form of ‘thanksgiving’, and taken as a recognition of services, benefits, and friendship shown, especially in the past year.

  It may be noted that Hobbits, as soon as they became ‘faunts’ (that is talkers and walkers: formally taken to be on their third birthday-anniversary) gave presents to their parents. These were supposed to be things ‘produced’ by the giver (that is found, grown, or made by the ‘byrding’), beginning in small children with bunches of wild flowers. This may have been the origin of the ‘thanksgiving’ presents of wider distribution, and the reason why it remained ‘correct’ even in the Shire for such presents to be things belonging to or produced by the giver. Samples of the produce of their gardens fields or workshops remained the usual ‘gifts given’, especially among the poorer Hobbits.

  In the Shire etiquette, at the date of the Party, ‘expectation of receiving’ was limited to second cousins or nearer kin, and to residence within 12 miles.fn83 The giver could thus accommodate his gift to his purse and his affections without incurring public comment or offending (if anyone) any other than the recipient. But custom did not demand costly presents, and a Hobbit was more readily flattered and delighted by an unexpectedly ‘good’ or desirable present than offended by a customary token of family good-will.

  A trace of this can be seen in the account of Sméagol and Déagol – modified by the individual characters of these rather miserable specimens. Déagol, evidently a relative (as no doubt all the members of the small community were), had already given his customary present to Sméagol, although they probably set out on their expedition v. early in the morning. Being a mean little soul he grudged it. Sméagol, being meaner and greedier, tried to use the ‘birthday’ as an excuse for an act of tyranny. ‘Because I wants it’ was his frank statement of his chief claim. But he also implied that D’s gift was a poor and insufficient token: hence D’s retort that on the contrary it was more than he could afford.

  The giving of presents by the ‘byrding’ – leaving out of account the gifts to parents,fn84 mentioned above – being personal and a form of thanks, varied much more in form in different times and places, and according to the age and status of the ‘byrding’. The master and mistress of a house or hole, in the Shire, would give gifts to all under their roof, or in their service, and usually also to near neighbours. And they might extend the list as they pleased, remembering any special favours in the past year. It was understood that the giving of presents was not fixed by rule; though the withholding of a usual gift (as e.g. to a child, a servant, or a next door neighbour) was taken as a rebuke and mark of severe displeasure. Juniors & Inmates (those having no house of their own) were under no such obligations as rested on householders; but they usually gave presents according to their means or affections. ‘Not very expensive as a rule’ – applied to all the gifts. Bilbo was in this as in other ways an exceptional person, and his Party was a riot of generosity even for a wealthy Hobbit. But one of the commonest birthday ceremonies was the giving of a ‘party’ – in the evening of the Day. All those invited were given presents by the host, and expected them, as part of the entertainment (if secondary to the fare provided). But they did not bring presents with them. Shire-folk would have thought that very improper. If the guests had not already given a gift (being one of those required to do so by kinship), it was too late. For other guests it was a thing ‘not done’ – it looked like paying for the party or matching the party-gift, and was most embarrassing. Sometimes, in the case of a very dear friend unable to come to a party (because of distance or other causes) a token invitation would be sent, with a present. In that case the present was always something to eat or drink, purporting to be a sample of the party-fare.

  I think it will be seen that all the details recorded as ‘facts’ do actually fit into a definite picture of sentiment and custom, though this picture is not sketched even in the incomplete fashion of this note. It could, of course, have appeared in the Prologue: e.g. in the middle of p. 12. But though I cut out a great deal, that Prologue is still too long and overloaded according even to those critics who allow that it has some use, and do not (as some) advise readers to forget it or skip it.

  Incomplete as it is, this note may seem to you much too long; and though you asked for it, more than you asked for. But I do not see how I could have answered your queries more shortly in a way suitable to the compliment you pay me by taking an interest in Hobbits sufficient to mark the lacuna in the information provided.

  However, the giving of information always opens still further vistas; and you will no doubt see that the brief account of ‘presents’ opens yet more anthropological matters implicit to such terms as kinship, family, clan, and so on. I venture to add a further note on this point, lest, in considering the text in the light of my reply, you should feel inclined to enquire further about Sméagol’s ‘grandmother’, whom Gandalf represents as a ruler (of a family of high repute, large and wealthier than most, p. 62) and even calls a ‘matriarch’ (p. 66).

  As far as I know Hobbits were universally monogamous (indeed they very seldom married a second time, even if wife or husband died very young); and I should say that their family arrangements were ‘patrilinear’ rather than patriarchal. That is, their family names descended in the male-line (and women were adopted into their husband’s name); also the titular head of the family was usually the eldest male. In the case of large powerful families (such as the Tooks), still cohesive even when they had become very numerous, and more what we might call clans, the head was properly the eldest male of what was considered the most direct line of descent. But the government of a ‘family’, as of the real unit: the ‘household’, was not a monarchy (except by accident). It was a ‘dyarchy’, in which master and mistress had equal status, if different functions. Either was held to be the proper representative of the other in the case of absence (including death). There were no ‘dowagers’. If the master died first, his place was taken by his wife, and this included (if he had held that position) the titular headship of a large family or clan. This title thus did not descend to the son, or other heir, while she lived, unless she voluntarily resigned.fn85 It could, therefore, happen in various circumstances that a long-lived woman of forceful character remained ‘head of the family’, until she had full-grown grandchildren.

  Laura Baggins (née Grubb) remained ‘head’ of the family of ‘Baggins of Hobbiton’, until she was 102. As she was 7 years younger than her husband (who died at the age of 93 in SY 1300), she held this position for 16 years, until SY 1316; and her son Bungo did not become ‘head’, until he was 70, ten years before he died at the early age of 80. Bilbo did not succeed, until the death of his Took mother, Belladonna, in 1334, when he was 44.

  The Baggins headship then, owing to the strange events, fell into doubt. Otho Sackville-Baggins was heir to this title – quite apart from questions of property that would have arisen if his cousin Bilbo had died intestate; but after the legal fiasco of 1342 (when Bilbo returned alive after being ‘presumed dead’) no one dared to presume his death again. Otho died in 1412, his son Lotho was murdered in 1419, and his wife Lobelia died in 1420. When Master Samwise reported the ‘departure over Sea’ of Bilbo (and Frodo) in 1421, it was still held impossible to presume death; and when Master Samwise became Mayor in 1427, a rule was made that: ‘if any inhabitant of the Shire shall pass over Sea in the presence of a reliable witness, with the expressed intention not to return, or in circumstances plainly implying such an intention, he or she shall be deemed to have relinquished a
ll titles rights or properties previously held or occupied, and the heir or heirs thereof shall forthwith enter into possession of these titles, rights, or properties, as is directed by established custom, or by the will and disposition of the departed, as the case may require.’ Presumably the title of ‘head’ then passed to the descendants of Ponto Baggins – probably Ponto (II).4

  A well-known case, also, was that of Lalia the Great5 (or less courteously the Fat). Fortinbras II, one time head of the Tooks and Thain, married Lalia of the Clayhangers in 1314, when he was 36 and she was 31. He died in 1380 at the age of 102, but she long outlived him, coming to an unfortunate end in 1402 at the age of 119. So she ruled the Tooks and the Great Smials for 22 years, a great and memorable, if not universally beloved, ‘matriarch’. She was not at the famous Party (SY 1401), but was prevented from attending rather by her great size and immobility than by her age. Her son, Ferumbras, had no wife, being unable (it was alleged) to find anyone willing to occupy apartments in the Great Smials, under the rule of Lalia. Lalia, in her last and fattest years, had the custom of being wheeled to the Great Door, to take the air on a fine morning. In the spring of SY 1402 her clumsy attendant let the heavy chair run over the threshold and tipped Lalia down the flight of steps into the garden. So ended a reign and life that might well have rivalled that of the Great Took.

  It was widely rumoured that the attendant was Pearl (Pippin’s sister), though the Tooks tried to keep the matter within the family. At the celebration of Ferumbras’ accession the displeasure and regret of the family was formally expressed by the exclusion of Pearl from the ceremony and feast; but it did not escape notice that later (after a decent interval) she appeared in a splendid necklace of her name-jewels that had long lain in the hoard of the Thains.

  Customs differed in cases where the ‘head’ died leaving no son. In the Took-family, since the headship was also connected with the title and (originally military) office of Thain,fn86 descent was strictly through the male line. In other great families the headship might pass through a daughter of the deceased to his eldest grandson (irrespective of the daughter’s age). This latter custom was usual in families of more recent origin, without ancient records or ancestral mansions. In such cases the heir (if he accepted the courtesy title) took the name of his mother’s family – though he often retained that of his father’s family also (placed second). This was the case with Otho Sackville-Baggins. For the nominal headship of the Sackvilles had come to him through his mother Camellia. It was his rather absurd ambition to achieve the rare distinction of being ‘head’ of two families (he would probably then have called himself Baggins-Sackville-Baggins): a situation which will explain his exasperation with the adventures and disappearances of Bilbo, quite apart from any loss of property involved in the adoption of Frodo.

  I believe it was a moot-point in Hobbit lore (which the ruling of Mayor Samwise prevented from being argued in this particular case) whether ‘adoption’ by a childless ‘head’ could affect the descent of the headship. It was agreed that the adoption of 2 member of a different family could not affect the headship, that being a matter of blood and kinship; but there was an opinion that adoption of a close relative of the same namefn87 before he was of age entitled him to all privileges of a son. This opinion (held by Bilbo) was naturally contested by Otho.

  There is no reason to suppose that the Stoors of Wilderland had developed a strictly ‘matriarchal’ system, properly so called. No trace of any such thing was to be found among the Stoor-element in the East-farthing and Buckland, though they maintained various differences of custom and law. Gandalf’s use (or rather his reporter and translator’s use) of the word ‘matriarch’ was not ‘anthropological’, but meant simply a woman who in fact ruled the clan. No doubt because she had outlived her husband, and was a woman of dominant character.

  It is likely enough that, in the recessive and decadent Stoor-country of Wilderland, the women-folk (as is often to be observed in such conditions) tended to preserve better the physical and mental character of the past, and so became of special importance. But it is not (I think) to be supposed that any fundamental change in their marriage-customs had taken place, or any sort of matriarchal or polyandrous society developed (even though this might explain the absence of any reference whatever to Sméagol-Gollum’s father). ‘Monogamy’ was at this period in the West universally practised, and other systems were regarded with repugnance, as things only done ‘under the Shadow’.

  I actually started this letter nearly four months ago; but it never got finished. Shortly after I received your enquiries my wife, who had been ill most of 1958, celebrated the return of health by a fall in the garden, smashing up her left arm so badly that she is still crippled and in plaster. So 1958 was an almost completely frustrated year, and with other troubles, and the imminence of my retirement involving many rearrangements, I have had no time at all to deal with the Silmarillion. Much though I wish to do so (and, happily, Allen and Unwin also seem to wish me to do).

  [The draft ends here.]

  215 To Walter Allen, New Statesman (drafts)

  [Tolkien was asked to contribute to a symposium to be published in a Children’s Book Supplement of the New Statesman. He was told: ‘The kind of questions we should hope you would consider are: how far do you write with a specific audience in mind, i.e. how do you feel writing for children differs from writing for adult readers? To what extent do you feel that writing for children satisfies a need in yourself, for example, by expressing a side of you repressed in ordinary life or by the exigencies of writing for adults? How do you see the relation between The Hobbit and The Fellowship of the Ring [sic]? Are you conscious of a didactic purpose, and if so, how do you construe it?’]

  [Not dated; April 1959.]

  Dear Mr Allen,

  I am very sorry, but I shall not be able to take part in the symposium. I have only recently returned from convalescence after an operation, and am faced with much neglected work. Term begins on April 24.

  I have said all that I have to say about writing for children in my contribution: ‘On Fairy-Stories’: to Essays Presented to Charles Williams (O.U.P. 1947). It has no special interest to me.

  When I published The Hobbit – hurriedly and without due consideration – I was still influenced by the convention that ‘fairy-stories’ are naturally directed to children (with or without the silly added waggery ‘from seven to seventy’). And I had children of my own. But the desire to address children, as such, had nothing to do with the story as such in itself or the urge to write it. But it had some unfortunate effects on the mode of expression and narrative method, which if I had not been rushed, I should have corrected. Intelligent children of good taste (of which there seem quite a number) have always, I am glad to say, singled out the points in manner where the address is to children as blemishes.

  I had given a great deal more thought to the matter before beginning the composition of The Lord of the Rings; and that work was not specially addressed to children or to any other class of people. But to any one who enjoyed a long exciting story, of the sort that I myself naturally enjoy. . . . .

  I am not specially interested in children, and certainly not in writing for them: i.e. in addressing directly and expressly those who cannot understand adult language.

  I write things that might be classified as fairy-stories not because I wish to address children (who qua children I do not believe to be specially interested in this kind of fiction) but because I wish to write this kind of story and no other.

  I do this because if I do not apply too grandiloquent a title to it I find that my comment on the world is most easily and naturally expressed in this way. I am not conscious of any repression exerted upon me by ‘ordinary life’. Since large numbers of adults seem to enjoy what I write – quite enough to keep me happy – I have no need to seek escape to another and (possibly) less exigent audience.

  I hope ‘comment on the world’ does not sound too solemn. I have no didactic pur
pose, and no allegorical intent. (I do not like allegory (properly so called: most readers appear to confuse it with significance or applicability) but that is a matter too long to deal with here.) But long narratives cannot be made out of nothing; and one cannot rearrange the primary matter in secondary patterns without indicating feelings and opinions about one’s material. . . . .

  The relation between The Hobbit and its sequel is I think this. The Hobbit is a first essay or introduction (consideration will admit I think that it is a very just point at which to begin the narration of the subsequent events) to a complex narrative which had been brewing in my mind for years. It was overtly addressed to children for two reasons: I had at that time children of my own and was accustomed to making up (ephemeral) stories for them; I had been brought up to believe that there was a real and special connexion between children and fairy-stories. Or rather to believe that this was a received opinion of my world and of publishers. I doubted it, since it did not accord with my personal experience of my own taste, nor with my observation of children (notably my own). But the convention was strong.

  I think that The Hobbit can be seen to begin in what might be called a more ‘whimsy’ mode, and in places even more facetious, and move steadily to a more serious or significant, and more consistent and historical. . . . . But I regret much of it all the same. . . . .

  The first question, it seems to me, to ask in any discussion of this kind is: What are ‘Children’? Do you limit your enquiry, as may be supposed, to (North) European children? Then in what ages between the cradle and the end of legal infancy? To what grades of intelligence? Or literary talent and perceptiveness? Some intelligent children may have little of this. Children’s tastes and talents differ as widely as those of adults, as soon as they are old enough to be differentiated clearly, and therefore to be the target of any thing that can bear the name of literature. It would be useless to offer to many children of 14 or even of 12 the trash that is good enough for many respectable adults of twice or three times the age, but less gifts natural.