On this date in 1937, J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit was published.
When Bilbo opened his eyes, he wondered if he had; for it
was just as dark as with them shut. No one was anywhere near him. Just imagine
his fright! He could hear nothing, see nothing, and he could feel nothing
except the stone of the floor.
Very slowly he got up and groped about on all fours, till he
touched the wall of the tunnel; but neither up nor down it could he find
anything: nothing at all, no sign of goblins, no sign of dwarves. His head was
swimming, and he was far from certain even of the direction they had been going
in when he had his fall. He guessed as well as he could, and crawled along for
a good way, till suddenly his hand met what felt like a tiny ring of cold metal
lying on the floor of the tunnel. It was a turning point in his career, but he
did not know it. He put the ring in his pocket almost without thinking;
certainly it did not seem of any particular use at the moment. He did not go
much further, but sat down on the cold floor and gave himself up to complete
miserableness, for a long while. He thought of himself frying bacon and eggs in
his own kitchen at home—for he could feel inside that it was high time for some
meal or other; but that only made him miserabler.
He could not think what to do; nor could he think what had
happened; or why he had been left behind; or why, if he had been left behind,
the goblins had not caught him; or even why his head was so sore. The truth was
he had been lying quiet, out of sight and out of mind, in a very dark corner
for a long while.
After some time he felt for his pipe. It was not broken, and
that was something. Then he felt for his pouch, and there was some tobacco in
it, and that was something more. Then he felt for matches and he could not find
any at all, and that shattered his hopes completely. Just as well for him, as
he agreed when he came to his senses. Goodness knows what the striking of
matches and the smell of tobacco would have brought on him out of dark holes in
that horrible place. Still at the moment he felt very crushed. But in slapping
all his pockets and feeling all round himself for matches his hand came on the
hilt of his little sword—the little dagger that he got from the trolls, and
that he had quite forgotten; nor fortunately had the goblins noticed it, as he
wore it inside his breeches.
Now he drew it out. It shone pale and dim before his eyes.
“So it is an elvish blade, too,” he thought; “and goblins are not very near,
and yet not far enough.”
But somehow he was comforted. It was rather splendid to be
wearing a blade made in Gondolin for the goblin-wars of which so many songs had
sung; and also he had noticed that such weapons made a great impression on
goblins that came upon them suddenly.
“Go back?” he thought. “No good at all! Go sideways?
Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! On we go!” So up he got, and trotted
along with his little sword held in front of him and one hand feeling the wall,
and his heart all of a patter and a pitter.
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