Nolo Heroizari

Introduction

In the Christian moral tradition of the virtues, thinkers such as Benedict, Augustine, and Aquinas see the humble person as an individual who lives “close to the ground.” With respect to this low profile, Aquinas quotes Isidore favorably by noting that “a humble person is so called because that person is, as it were, ‘homo acclinis,’ i.e. inclined to the lowest place.” ¹ Since the word “humility” is derived from “humus”—earth we can say that a person who possesses humility is a person who is literally “well-grounded.” We should expect, then, that the humble person’s character will largely go unnoticed by those not paying close attention. At the culmination of The Sovereignty of Good, Iris Murdoch observes that “Humility is a rare virtue and an unfashionable one and one which is often hard to discern. Only rarely does one meet somebody in whom it positively shines, in whom one apprehends with amazement the absence of the anxious avaricious tentacles of the self.” ² The fact that the humble person lives “close to the ground” may explain why this quality is so often “hard to discern.”

Very few characters in literature capture the humble person’s disposition as successfully as Tolkien’s heroic hobbit, Sam Gamgee. But this hero for Tolkien is an unlikely person since he does not lust after heroic deeds. ³ Rather, the hero is reluctant and Tolkien explicitly invokes the wisdom of the medieval theologians when he writes to W. H. Auden, “Nolo heroizari is of course as good a start for a hero as nolo episcopari for a bishop.” ⁴ Tolkien and Aquinas both saw humility as central to the moral life of the individual regardless of social class or position. This fundamentally Christian orientation to moral character—as developed in the Christian Scriptures and tradition—shaped not only Aquinas’ depiction of it as a virtue but also Tolkien’s presentation of it in Sam Gamgee. ⁵

In his approach to the hero, Tolkien develops Sam in a way that reflects a Thomistic account of humility. Although Sam initially exhibits typical hobbit conceit, by the end of the narrative he has acquired a stable disposition that demonstrates the heroic possibilities of humility. I begin with a survey of the key events in Sam’s narrative. I then look to Aquinas and his account of humility. And finally, I return to consider how Samwise develops as a person and exemplifies Thomistic humility.

Sam Gamgee’s Journey

Tolkien titles the prologue to The Lord of the Rings “Concerning Hobbits” and takes the time to reintroduce the reader to the various characteristics of this unusual species and to elaborate on qualities that were not explicitly addressed in The Hobbit. He gives a general history of the people, an account of their political organization, a description of their lands, and even a historical account of “pipe-weed.” But it is the character of the hobbits that gets the most attention.

One of their main features is that they “have a close friendship with the earth.” ⁶ They tend to enjoy forests and gardens and even connect directly to the earth in that they wear no shoes. And, very importantly, they even live in the earth. He says that, “All hobbits had originally lived in holes in the ground, or so they believed, and in such dwellings they still felt most at home” (FR, I, 1, 6). Hobbits seem to have their origins—like the first human, Adam—in the earth. One particular hobbit, Sam Gamgee, not only lives in the earth, but also tills the earth. Like Adam, he also is a gardener. ⁷

The three primary hobbit protagonists are Bilbo, Frodo, and Sam, and although on a casual reading of the texts, Frodo seems to be the chief character, he is not. Tolkien sees him as “too ennobled” (Letters, 105). Frodo’s vocation—his mission—extends too far beyond the average person. Bilbo and Sam are clearly the two most accessible characters ⁸ and Tolkien points out that it is Sam and not Frodo who is the natural narrative successor to Bilbo. He writes,

Cert. Sam is the most closely drawn character, the successor to Bilbo of the first book, the genuine hobbit. Frodo is not so interesting, because he has to be highminded, and has (as it were) a vocation. The book will prob. end up with Sam. Frodo will naturally become too ennobled and rarefied by the achievement of the great Quest, and will pass West with all the great figures. But S. will settle down to the Shire and gardens and inns. (Letters, 105) ⁹

But a catalyst of some kind must provoke a person (or hobbit) to move beyond his or her own limited perspective and inherited values. Tolkien knows this and develops Sam’s character accordingly. He notes that Sam could not have developed without the journey, the encounter with persons nobler than himself, his education by Bilbo, and his preoccupation and fascination with the Elves (Letters, 329). But at the start of the story Sam is as “vulgar” as any of the other hobbits in Hobbiton. Tolkien claims that “Sam was cocksure, and deep down a little conceited; but his conceit had been transformed by his devotion to Frodo. He did not think of himself as heroic or brave, or in any way admirable—except in his service and loyalty to his master” ¹¹ (Letters, 329). Tolkien’s comments here are instructive as they point to the idea that humility requires an ecstatic movement away from (or “out of”) a person’s own self-oriented moral inertia. ¹² As Tolkien describes the pre-journey Sam, we find a person who is self-satisfied, content in his own parochial “wisdom,” and rooted in the Shire and its culture. Sam

is a more representative hobbit than any others that we have much to see of; and he has consequently a stronger ingredient of that quality which even some hobbits found at times hard to bear: a vulgarity—by which I do not mean a mere “down-to earthiness”—a mental myopia which is proud of itself, a smugness (in varying degrees) and cocksureness, and a readiness to measure and sum up all things from a limited experience, largely enshrined in sententious traditional “wisdom.” (Letters, 329)

We first truly encounter Sam in the scene where Gandalf narrates the history of The Ring for Frodo. The wizard tells of the power of The Ring, how it came to Bilbo, and the only manner in which it can be destroyed. Sam, who should be gardening pauses and listens in. Gandalf realizes this, stops his narration for Frodo, and confronts Sam by pulling him up by the ear. He interrogates Sam: asks him what he was doing, what he might have heard, and why he was eavesdropping. Sam replies, “Eavesdropping, sir? I don’t follow you, begging your pardon. There ain’t no eaves at Bag End, and that’s a fact” (FR, I, 2, 62). Sam then implores Frodo not to let Gandalf turn him into anything “unnatural.” But the wizard does not relent in his questioning and insists that Sam tell him what he heard. Sam manages to recall something about the enemy, Bilbo, and The Ring. But what really catches his attention is the mention of Elves. He exclaims, “Elves, sir! I would dearly love to see them. Couldn’t you take me to see Elves, sir, when you go?” (FR, I, 2, 63). Sam wants to see Elves. But why? Because he enjoys stories about Elves. They fascinate him. He has no interest in destroying The Ring or going on a quest; he wants to see Elves. His reason for going on the journey is based on satisfying his own curiosity. We see here that he also has a naïve understanding of what an adventure is. He does not realize the danger, the hardship, or the suffering it will involve.

In this first pericope, we gather two important details about Sam: he is both curious and ignorant. He is curious about the Elves and wants to see the Elves for himself. But it is his improper eavesdropping—his clandestine curiosity—that leads him to think this may simply be a casual outing with Frodo. And this curiosity extends to matters beyond what he is capable of understanding.

This naïveté can also be seen in the second important episode: his initial encounter with the Elves, who are on their way to the Grey Havens and are departing Middle-earth. The elves meet Sam, Frodo, and Pippin who are on their way to Buckland to meet up with Merry. In the course of their conversation, the Elves counsel Sam not to leave Frodo. He responds with, “Leave him! … I never mean to. I am going with him, if he climbs to the Moon; and if any of those Black Riders try to stop him, they’ll have Sam Gamgee to reckon with” (FR, I, 4, 86). As the reader comes to see, Sam has no idea who—or what—the Black Riders are. His provincialism limits his understanding and causes him to overestimate his own capacities inordinately. The journey, however, radically alters this attitude, especially in his encounter with Galadriel—the third of the episodes.

After Gandalf’s death, the Fellowship, fleeing the Orcs of Moria, journeys into Lothlórien. They are provided refuge by the Elves. But this safe haven is not without dangers of its own. Each member of the Fellowship encounters Galadriel and is “tested.” But Sam has three distinct encounters with her. His first meeting with Galadriel is upon entering Caras Galadhon—the City of the Elves; the second is at the “Mirror of Galadriel”; and the third is at the company’s departure when Galadriel presents each member of the Fellowship with gifts.

The first encounter with Galadriel is in her hall, high above the earth. When the members of the Fellowship finally make it to the top, they meet Galadriel; she holds their gaze and lays bare their deepest desires and weaknesses. Sam turns away quickly and blushes. Pippin later suggests that Sam had a guilty conscience and that he must have been hatching a plot to steal some blankets:

“I never thought no such thing,” answered Sam, in no mood for jest. “If you want to know, I felt as if I hadn’t got nothing on, and I didn’t like it. She seemed to be looking inside me and asking me what I would do if she gave me the chance of flying back home to the Shire to a nice little hole with—with a bit of garden of my own.” (FR, II, 7, 360)

A second encounter—and temptation—comes to Sam when he and Frodo go with Galadriel to her mirror. Sam desires to see some “Elf-Magic” (FR, II, 7, 364). She offers a look into the magic basin and he sees Frodo lying wounded in Mordor but he also sees trees being cut down in the Shire and a kind of Sarumanic industrialization of his beloved home; the magical visions are too much for Sam and he feels compelled to return to the Shire. But almost immediately he sees this is wrong and declares that he will “go home by the long road with Mr. Frodo” (FR, II, 7, 365).

The last encounter with Galadriel is the most significant. As the company departs Lothlórien, she gives each one a gift. Sam’s is the most humble of the gifts: a small box filled with earth from the “orchard of Galadriel.” She tells him it will make his garden—if he makes it back—like no other in Middle-earth. Sam is speechless, blushes once again, and bows low to the ground. ¹⁵

The fourth episode is the true time of trial for Sam; he crosses into Mordor, intent on saving Frodo from the Orcs who have captured him. He had temporarily taken The Ring, thinking Frodo to be dead and assuming the burden of carrying it to its ultimate destination. But The Ring, as it does to all people, tempts him to use it for his own: to achieve glory and power. Tolkien describes Sam’s time of trial:

Already the Ring tempted him, gnawing at his will and reason. Wild fantasies arose in his mind; and he saw Samwise the Strong, Hero of the Age, striding with a flaming sword across the darkened land, and armies flocking to his call as he marched to the overthrow of Barad-dûr … He had only to put on the Ring and claim it for his own, and all this could be. (RK, VI, 1, 911)

By this time, Sam has developed a strong sense of communion and friendship with Frodo. He knows what he should do, he knows his place, and he embraces his limitations. Tolkien writes, “In that hour of trial it was the love of his master that helped most to hold him firm; but also, deep down in him lived still unconquered his plain hobbit-sense: he knew in the core of his heart that he was not large enough to bear such a burden … The one small garden of a free gardener was all his need and due, not a garden swollen to a realm; his own hands to use, not the hands of others to command” (RK, VI, 1, 911). Sam rejects power for his self-chosen place in the world. He rejects a kingdom for a garden.

Sam Gamgee demonstrates a kind of self-awareness here that few characters in the narrative possess. He sees that, as Dominic Manganiello puts it, “fame is not an end in itself” but it is love—especially love for Frodo—that motivates him more than power. ¹⁶ Yet this rejection of power for love is only possible through the self-reflective work of humility. At this key stage in the story, Sam is able to think about who he is, his place in the larger scheme of things, and decide rightly how to proceed. Sam’s ability to see himself in an ongoing narrative is a key element of his moral character since it provides him with perspective that other characters seem to lack. ¹⁷

The fifth of the Sam Gamgee episodes is upon his return to the Shire. After the destruction wreaked upon it by Saruman and Wormtongue, the Shire needs healing and restoration. Sam, thus, stands here in stark contrast to Saruman. ¹⁸ As Saruman in his arrogance destroyed many of the trees of Fangorn and the Shire (including the Great Party Tree), Sam serves as the humble anti-Saruman who heals the ravaged land. Galadriel’s gift, in the context of the horrific environmental damage to the Shire, provides the occasion for Sam’s lavish generosity. He says,

“I’m sure the lady would not like me to keep it all for my own garden, now so many folk have suffered,” said Sam. “Use all the wits and knowledge you have of your own, Sam” said Frodo, “and then use the gift to help your work and better it. And use it sparingly. There is not much here, and I expect every grain has a value.” So Sam planted saplings in all the places where specially beautiful or beloved trees had been destroyed, and he put a grain of the precious dust in the soil at the root of each. He went up and down the Shire in this labour; but if he paid special attention to Hobbiton and Bywater no one blamed him. So he went to the Three-Farthing Stone, which is as near the centre of the Shire … and cast it in the air with his blessing. (RK, VI, 9,1035)

It may be that his humble vocation as a gardener is also what opens him up to new possibilities and growth; given the right circumstances, gardeners are people who can successfully care for those things entrusted to them. And given Tolkien’s own love for trees and all things green, a better occupation for one of the heroes could not be found. It is Sam’s humility that proves his salvation. It is what keeps him from overreaching, from desiring too much, and from dividing the fellowship. In short, his humility is the sine qua non of his greatness. It also opens him up to seeing things as he should, valuing others, and their well-being.

Humility in Aquinas

Four central themes tend to dominate Aquinas’ account of humility (II–II.161). He thinks that (1) humility employs right reason as a foundational concept, (2) humility resists pride (superbia)—the chief of the capital vices, (3) humility must be understood in relationship to its “twin virtue,” magnanimity, and (4) humility functions primarily as an infused virtue and so it must fundamentally concern a person’s understanding of oneself vis-à-vis God.

In general, the virtues are good habits of the soul. Aquinas accepts Augustine’s definition and says, “Virtue is a good quality of the soul by which we live justly, of which no one can make bad use, which God works in us without us” (I–II.55.4). Some virtues can be acquired by our own effort, like prudence and justice, but other virtues—in the deeper sense of virtue—are those infused by God, including faith, hope, and charity. But for Aquinas virtues that we can acquire by our own efforts, such as prudence and justice, can also be infused when we receive grace. But in order to see how humility fits into this scheme we should first map where humility is located.

Aquinas indicates that humility is a part of one of the four cardinal virtues: temperance (or self-control). This virtue regulates what he calls the concupisible appetite—i.e., the appetite for things we readily desire like food, drink, or sex. Specifically, humility is meant to temper our desire for our own excellence. It is fairly easy for us to desire our own excellence and this is why humility belongs, as it were, to temperance. We should desire our own excellence in appropriate ways and not simply give free reign to our desire for our own good at the expense of all else.

But even though we do, in fact, desire our own excellence, it is not always easy to attain it. Achieving our own excellence usually requires overcoming obstacles to it. We see here another desire at work, one found in the irascible appetite. We need a desire that encourages us when the excellent good seems too difficult. Otherwise, we can fail to act, due to a despair of not being able to obtain it. We have, then, two appetites acting with regard to our own excellence: a hope to achieve it and a despair of not attaining it. Thus, there are two virtues that operate in tandem. The virtue of humility tempers our desire for the excellent good so that we do not “overreach”; and the virtue of magnanimity encourages us against despair so that we do not fall short of our own (appropriate) excellence. Humility, therefore, primarily functions as a check on “desiring too much.” But exactly how do we know when we are desiring too much? In order to answer this question, we need to look briefly at prudence and right reason.

For Aquinas, all the virtues—as well as all the vices—can be understood with reference to right reason. Prudence, the chief of the cardinal virtues, is defined as “right reasoning about things to be done” (II–II.47,8). It is a capacity to understand the real relationships that exist between and among people as well as the ability to see one’s own abilities and the possible consequences of any given act. The ability to see the difference in relationships to one’s mother, one’s spouse, and one’s child enables a person to act accordingly. Prudence is the disposition to know and act, to reason rightly—in a habitual manner—according to those real relationships that shape our world.

Humility, therefore, as shaped by prudence, is a tempering of the desire for excellence according to right reason; it provides an internal restraint on our desire for our own excellence according to the real relationships that we can see operating in the world as well as an appropriate valuing and estimation of our own abilities. But this emphasis on right reasoning can be misleading. For Aquinas, humility is more about desire than about knowledge: although knowledge does play its part. Aquinas says that “humility tempers the appetite from aiming at great things contrary to right reason” (II–II.161.1, ad3). He also says, “It belongs properly to humility, that a person restrain himself from being borne towards that which is above him. For this purpose, he must know his disproportion to that which surpasses his capacity” (II–II.161.2). The key word here is “disproportion” as it indicates something contrary to the dictates of right reason. Disproportion, then, means either too little or too much and is always person-relative. ²⁰ But not only must reason identify what course of action we should take, it must also shape our desires in appropriate ways. Thus, “It pertains to reason to direct the appetites … Therefore, an appetite will be morally right and virtuous if the appetite is borne to a naturally desired good by the rule of reason, and there will be sin when the appetite exceeds the rule of reason or falls short of it.” ²¹ Humility tempers our desire for excellence by taking into account who we are and what is appropriate to us as created, dependent beings. ²² Right reason dictates how we should value ourselves in light of the fact that we are neither the most important person in the cosmos nor the most worthless. Aquinas says that humility is an “interior movement of the soul” whereby we value ourselves as we ought (II–II.161.2, ad4). In the words of Josef Pieper, “The ground of humility is man’s estimation of himself according to the truth.” ²³ But this estimation—or valuing—is primarily about controlling our desires. We can perceive any object as a good to be pursued but we must develop a disposition by which we can resist the lure of goods that exceed our capacities. Humility frees us to desire what is good for us according to the truth about who we are.

Another way of saying this is that humility enables its possessor to resist pride, the worst of the capital vices. For Aquinas, pride is a kind of über-vice. It stands behind all the other capital vices and is an excessive overreaching. “Pride is so called because a person thereby aims higher than he is … For he who wishes to overstep beyond what he is, is proud. But since right reason requires that every person’s will should aim at that which is proportionate to him, it is therefore evident that pride denotes something opposed to right reason” (II–II.162.1). Pride is the unrestrained disposition to desire more than we should regarding our own excellence. There are three ways in which we can exceed what is proportionate to us:

It happens in one way … when one’s desire is borne to something that exceeds one’s measure … It happens in a second way … that one attributes to oneself or one’s merits an excellence that one can obtain only through the favor of another … In the third way, one can exceed one’s due measure regarding the way one possesses an excellence … as when one affects to have something above others that they possess in the same way. (DM VIII.4)

In its most generic sense, magnanimity means a “great-souled” person since it concerns our desire for greatness, or our desire for honor. For Aristotle, this person strives for great honor for himself in achieving great things on his own and by being generous to others. ²⁴ Although he is generous to others, he sees himself as truly self-sufficient. Aristotle’s magnanimous man even makes the effort to forget the good that others do for him while remembering the good he does for them. ²⁵ He achieves greatness on his own and is uncomfortable acknowledging the good that others have done for him. But this is not Christian virtue—and Aquinas knows it. The Aristotelian virtue of magnanimity too closely resembles the vice of pride.

In the Christian tradition that both Tolkien and Aquinas inhabit, true greatness—and honor—come from God alone; greatness is a gift, and greatness is meant to benefit others. It is not self-oriented but offers its goodness to others. For Aquinas, magnanimity is the virtue whereby we are encouraged to do great things. But we are encouraged and empowered by God. He says, “magnanimity makes a person think himself worthy of great things in consideration of the gifts he has received from God: thus, if his soul is endowed with great virtue, magnanimity makes him tend to perfect works of virtue” (II–II. 129.3, ad4). It is God who bestows the excellences that we possess; but we, who receive the gifts, need to recognize in gratitude the gifts we have and should use them generously on behalf of others. And here the fourth key point about humility is that it is an infused virtue. Its primary referent is God.

Those virtues we can “get on our own” are the acquired virtues such as prudence, justice, courage, and temperance—the four cardinal virtues. Aquinas makes reference—although only once—to the fact that humility can be “acquired” (II–II.161.6, ad2). But this one reference is overshadowed by the repeated claim that the virtues are primarily infused by God—like faith, hope, and charity are. ²⁶ Humility is primarily understood in this way. Not only do we acquire the robust version of humility by divine infusion, we also see that humility is about a person’s relationship to God. He says, “humility, considered as a special virtue, regards chiefly the subjection of a person to God, for whose sake he humbles himself by subjecting himself to others” (II–II.161.1, a5) and again, “humility … properly regards the reverence whereby a person is subject to God” (II–II.161.3). It is in the divine encounter that people truly come to possess humility.

The etymological account of humility’s origins enables Aquinas to make the claim that humility refers to a “closeness to the ground.” Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange comments that

The proper act of humility consists in bowing down to earth; hence its name humility from the Latin humus, or ground. To put aside the metaphor, the proper act of humility consists in abasing oneself before God and before that which is of God in every creature. To abase oneself before the Most High is to recognize, not only speculatively but practically, our inferiority, our littleness, our indigence. ²⁷

Christ’s humble self-emptying attitude is one that should be emulated as it frees us to receive genuine goods. Aquinas says,

The reason why Christ chiefly proposed humility to us, was because it especially removes the impediment to a person’s spiritual well-being which consists in aiming at heavenly and spiritual things, in which he is hindered by striving to become great in earthly things … Humility is a kind of disposition to a person’s free access to spiritual and divine goods. (II–II.161.5, ad 4)

The Humility of Master Samwise

Sam’s moral development proceeds from a provincial and unrealistic understanding of the world to an internalization of his place in it; he acquires a humility that is informed by right reason. He knows that he cannot use The Ring and that he is not the “hero of the age.” Rather, he accepts that he is a humble gardener called to a task beyond his choosing; but he also knows—since he possesses magnanimity—that he is called to do something truly important and beyond his own capacities. In this call, he is supported by the grace and gifts of others. In the acquisition of humility, Samwise has learned to embrace his place in the world rightly.

He rejects the temptation of pride; or rather, he moves away from his naïve conceit to a view of the world that is larger than the Shire and his garden. For Tolkien, pride and the lust for power were the worst of the sins. He frequently refers to this in his letters and it shows through in this narrative. He says of Sauron that “he becomes a reincarnation of evil, and a thing lusting for Complete Power” (Letters, 151). The Ring, of course, enables and facilitates this unreasonable and immoral desire for domination so that even those who would use their power for good (e.g., Boromir) would eventually succumb to the power that destroys its possessor. Gandalf knows this intellectually—through wisdom. Sam knows this existentially through humility; and he is one of the few characters who realizes that you “cannot fight the enemy with his own ring” (Letters, 94). There is, in Sam Gamgee, the rejection of all that smacks of pride, arrogance, and vanity.

But Sam’s narrative also ties together humility and magnanimity; even though he does not see himself as a hero, he still does great things. His victorious battle against Shelob, his courage in saving Frodo from the Orcs in the Tower of Cirith Ungol, his brief stint as a Ring-bearer, and his constant faithfulness to Frodo all speak to his “greatness.”

But his magnanimity (and humility) are seen especially in what he does with the gifts from Galadriel. He knows they are gifts “from another” and that they do not truly belong to him alone. The light in the Phial is, in fact, the light of the Silmarils which originally captured the light of the two trees Yavanna (one of the Valar) grew and tended – for the good of all creation.²⁸ But he also uses the earth from Lóthlorien for the wellbeing of others when he distributes it throughout the Shire. Greatness can be seen not only in giving away one’s most precious possession but also in not resenting the obligation to do so. Sam rejoices in the fact that others can enjoy and benefit from these gifts.

But how is it that Sam’s humility is like an infused virtue? In providing the box of earth to Sam and the Phial to Frodo, Galadriel affords them the opportunity to practice humility and gratitude. These gifts of earth and light enable them to continue the journey without succumbing to the temptation of overreaching their capacities. The earth from Lóthlorien enhances the beauty and goodness of the Shire but it also serves to show Sam’s humility and magnanimity. To horde a gift is to deny the derivative nature of one’s own goodness. As a gardener, Sam understands that his central vocation here is to steward the gift, not own it. Paradoxically, in giving it away, he receives more than what was given to him originally.

Although the Phial is given to Frodo, it is Sam who uses it to its greatest effect. When attacked by Shelob. Sam is graced by its help:

Even as Sam himself crouched, looking at her, seeing his death in her eyes, a thought came to him, as if some remote voice had spoken. And he fumbled in his breast with his left hand, and found what he sought: cold and hard and solid it seemed to his touch in a phantom world of horror, the Phial of Galadriel. (TT, IV, 10, 736)

Even though he does heroic deeds, Sam does not think of himself in those terms. The humility that safeguards Sam prevents him from thinking too highly of himself or desiring too much. When he is tempted to use The Ring for power and domination, he can resist since his desires are merely for “one small garden … not a garden swollen to a realm” (RK, VI, 1, 911). He has not let his desire lead him to overstepping the boundaries of right reason. But not only does he desire rightly, he also knows that his goodness is derivative.

His use of the Phial in Mordor and the box in the Shire demonstrate that he has understood that he could not have accomplished these tasks on his own. He explicitly invokes the divine for an aid to his cause—and is so rewarded. ³⁰ Finally, and most importantly, humility keeps him from thinking too highly of himself. Sam consistently sees himself in terms of his vocation. He is a gardener. He does not enhance his own value, he does not think too much of himself, and he does not overreach. Yet, by the grace of others he is empowered to do heroic things. In reference to Hobbits in general and to the narrative arc of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien writes,

The story and its sequel are not about “types” or the cure of bourgeois smugness by wider experience, but about the achievements of specially graced and gifted individuals. I would say, if saying such things did not spoil what it tries to make explicit, “by ordained individuals, inspired and guided by an Emissary to ends beyond their individual education and enlargement.” This is clear in The Lord of the Rings. (Letters, 365)

Conclusion

The hero for Tolkien is not the person who desires to lead or the person who longs for greatness. Rather, it is the ordinary person who is set in extraordinary circumstances. It is the person whose unknown potential is actualized. It is the person whose life is interrupted by unforeseen events and is open to them—as well as being open to whatever task may serve as a vocation. It is the person, largely forgotten by the great and powerful, discharging his duties and being faithful to his vocation who brings about change—not because he desires greatness but because he is open to his vocation. Tolkien says that his approach to the story and the protagonists is to show that the often overlooked and seemingly insignificant people are often those who accomplish great things. He writes that these great things in the story are accomplished

through Hobbits, not Men so-called, because the last Tale is to exemplify most clearly a recurrent theme: the place in “world politics” of the unforeseen and unforeseeable acts of will, and deeds of virtue of the apparently small, ungreat, forgotten in the places of the Wise and Great (good as well as evil). A moral of the whole … is the obvious one that without the high and noble the simple and vulgar is utterly meaningless; and without the simple and ordinary the noble and heroic is meaningless. (Letters, 160)