The Griffin and the Minor Canon (1885).

The history of the fairytale  reads like a list of forgotten names.  This is something of a perennial truism of the genre as a whole.  Everybody has at least heard of the Brothers Grimm, even if most of us don't have  clue who they were.  We know that their names adorn the collection of a long passed down anthology book of folklore, most of it stemming from the Northern European culture in which they were born and raised.  Beyond that bare collective of acknowledged fact, however, it's almost like those guys just never really existed.  History has a way of slipping through the cracks like that.  If we have only the vaguest knowledge of who the Grimm Brothers were, then the peasants, farmers, tale tellers, and Old Wives who passed on all these survivals of ancient mythological lore to them are as good as lost to time.  After all, how many of us even knew that the Grimm's were editors and compilers more than the actual authors of their collection of fairy tales?  It's the sort of pattern that you can find repeated just about everywhere else.  For every J.R.R. Tolkien that becomes a household icon you've got a mislaid and overlooked predecessor like E.R. Eddison, who was one of the first authors to try and tackle a complete and total fantasy novel set in a secondary world.  Eddison just takes the world of Arthurian Romance and sets it on the planet Mercury.

That might sound like a fun (albeit kinda goofy) notion.  If such a book like that exists, however, how come no one else is talking about it?  Exactly!  That's the way with pop culture.  Sometimes it bestows a sort of artistic immortality on some names (Tolkien), while allowing others (not just Eddison, but also forgotten luminaries such as Lord Dunsany, Abraham Merritt, James Branch Cabell, and Sir Walter Scott) to fade away.  Turns out there are a lot of names out there who are or were responsible for molding the modern fantasy genre into the shape and form that it enjoys now.  Guys like Tolkien don't just happen out of the clear blue overnight.  Nor is the whole truth to claim that they are of such levels of creative genius as to be able to conjure their flights of fantasy up without at least some measure of help from the fantasists who came before.  It's true that Middle Earth is, in the last resort, the result of Tolkien's gift for tapping into the psychological well-spring that is the human Imagination.  The trick is that I don't even someone with his set of talent skills would have been able to pull it off quite so well if her wasn't as avid a reader of fairy tales both old and modern.  Everything I've read or know about the author of LOTR points to him being self-aware as an Individual Talent at work within the confines of a Literary Tradition.

Odds are even that Tradition includes a whole catalogue of names or author bylines that probably made up his entire enthusiasm from the nursery on up for the once upon a time genre.  The point is even the best names of the business stand on the shoulders of giants.  The irony being that's a whole catalogue of forgotten titans right there, and it's difficult to say if we'll ever be able to get all of them back.  I have no way of knowing whether or not the lost name I want to talk about today was ever a favorite of Tolkien's. I just know that I found a short story of his in a collection by Douglas Anderson called Tales Before Tolkien: The Roots of Modern Fantasy.  Anderson states in the introduction to this anthology that his major goal was to try and suggest a picture to modern readers of what the artistry and atmosphere of Tolkien's chosen literary genre was like in the years before he arrived on the scene and more or less reshaped the format's entire parameters ever since.  It was there that I came upon the name of Frank Stockton for the very second time.  At first I didn't know who this individual was.  I had to look him up in order to realize that we had met once before (sorta) way back in high school.  Somewhere close to maybe the 9th or 10th grade, my class was assigned to read a story called "The Lady and the Tiger".

It's sort of funny because of all the works of short fiction I was ever assigned for my English Lit classes back then, it is the story of a prisoner who is condemned to either fall in love and marry or else be torn apart by the other King of the Jungle which has stayed with me the most.  I think it's one of those brief narratives that manages to find a way of sticking around in your memory long after you've put the book aside.  You'll be going along just doing your thing, like always, and then maybe these final snippets of narrative description will occur to you right out of the blue.  "And so I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened door - the lady, or the tiger".  I think it's got to be one of the main reasons that particular bit of protoplasmic Magical Realism has stuck around for as long as it has.  It's an entire narrative account based around an unanswered question.  It reminds me of something director Walter Hill once said in an interview.  He claimed that ambiguity can sometimes be the hallmark strength of a well told story.  He wasn't trying to set up an iron-clad rule, or anything.  It's just that you can tell this literary sleight-of-hand has done its work when you're able to still recall it many years later.

The one bit I'm sure most of us have trouble remembering is who even wrote the damn thing?  For the longest time, I've been able to remember the setup, the cast, and most of all the denouement (or lack thereof?).  I suppose that means the perfect capping irony is realizing you couldn't recall for the life of ya whose name it was on the author byline to the piece.  In that sense, deciding to pick up Doug Anderson's Tolkien oriented collection was a moment of almost perfect serendipity.  "The Griffin and the Minor Canon" were the words that managed to jump out at me from the table of contents for whatever reason.  It got me curious enough leap to the story's place in the book and start reading.  Somewhere in the middle of it all I got curious enough to go and see if I could look up who Frank R. Stockton was.  Discovering he was the artist responsible for "The Lady or the Tiger" was kind of like those experiences where you'd swear time was sort of doubling back on itself.  I don't think any of us can ever foresee those moments that are able to bring our pasts back to us with a surprising amount of clarity.  Like I can still see a clear enough image of the classroom where I first read that story.

It was a pleasant enough surprise is what I guess I'm trying to say.  One of the results of that discovery is that it made me curious to find out more about the kind of artistic mindset that was able to conjure the kind of images or visions that would have that level of staying power.  So I did some more digging, and here are the results I was able to come up with.  Let's take a look now at another work by the author of "The Lady and the Tiger", and see what Stockton's tale of a priest and a mythic beast can tell us.

The Story.

"Over the great door of an old, old church which stood in a quiet town of a faraway land there was carved in stone the figure of a large griffin.  The old-time sculptor had done his work with great care, but the image he had made was not a pleasant one to look at. It had a large head, with enormous open mouth and savage teeth; from its back arose great wings, armed with sharp hooks and prongs; it had stout legs in front, with projecting claws, but there were no legs behind — the body running out into a long and powerful tail, finished off at the end with a barbed point. This tail was coiled up under him, the end sticking up just back of his wings.

"The sculptor, or the people who had ordered this stone figure, had evidently been very much pleased with it, for little copies of it, also on stone, had been placed here and there along the sides of the church, not very far from the ground so that people could easily look at them, and ponder on their curious forms. There were a great many other sculptures on the outside of this church - saints, martyrs, grotesque heads of men, beasts, and birds, as well as those of other creatures which cannot be named, because nobody knows exactly what they were; but none were so curious and interesting as the great griffin over the door, and the little griffins on the sides of the church.

"A long, long distance from the town, in the midst of dreadful wilds scarcely known to man, there dwelt the Griffin whose image had been put up over the church door. In some way or other, the old−time sculptor had seen him and afterward, to the best of his memory, had copied his figure in stone.

"The Griffin had never known this, until, hundreds of years afterward, he heard from a bird, from a wild animal, or in some manner which it is not now easy to find out, that there was a likeness of him on the old church in the distant town.

"Now, this Griffin had no idea how he looked. He had never seen a mirror, and the streams where he lived were so turbulent and violent that a quiet piece of water, which would reflect the image of anything looking into it, could not be found. Being, as far as could be ascertained, the very last of his race, he had never seen another griffin. Therefore it was that, when he heard of this stone image of himself, he became very anxious to know what he looked like, and at last he determined to go to the old church, and see for himself what manner of being he was.

"So he started off from the dreadful wilds, and flew on and on until he came to the countries inhabited by men, where his appearance in the air created great consternation; but he alighted nowhere, keeping up a steady flight until he reached the suburbs of the town which had his image on its church. Here, late in the afternoon, he lighted in a green meadow by the side of a brook, and stretched himself on the grass to rest. His great wings were tired, for he had not made such a long flight in a century, or more.

"The news of his coming spread quickly over the town, and the people, frightened nearly out of their wits by the arrival of so strange a visitor, fled into their houses, and shut themselves up. The Griffin called loudly for someone to come to him but the more he called, the more afraid the people were to show themselves. At length he saw two laborers hurrying to their homes through the fields, and in a terrible voice he commanded them to stop. Not daring to disobey, the men stood, trembling.

"What is the matter with you all?" cried the Griffin. "Is there not a man in your town who is brave enough to speak to me?" "I think," said one of the laborers, his voice shaking so that his words could hardly be understood, "that−perhaps - the Minor Canon - would come." "Go, call him, then," said the Griffin; "I want to see him."

"The Minor Canon, who was an assistant in the old church, had just finished the afternoon services, and was coming out of a side door, with three aged women who had formed the weekday congregation. He was a young man of a kind disposition, and very anxious to do good to the people of the town. Apart from his duties in the church, where he conducted services every weekday, he visited the sick and the poor, counseled and assisted persons who were in trouble, and taught a school composed entirely of the bad children in the town with whom nobody else would have anything to do. Whenever the people wanted something difficult done for them, they always went to the Minor Canon. Thus it was that the laborer thought of the young priest when he found that someone must come and speak to the Griffin.

"The Minor Canon had not heard of the strange event, which was known to the whole town except himself and the three old women and when he was informed of it, and was told that the Griffin had asked to see him, he was greatly amazed and frightened. "Me!" he exclaimed. "He has never heard of me! What should he want with me?" "Oh! you must go instantly!" cried the two men. "He is very angry now because he has been kept waiting so long; and nobody knows what may happen if you don't hurry to him."

"The poor Minor Canon would rather have had his hand cut off than go out to meet an angry Griffin but he felt that it was his duty to go for it would be a woeful thing if injury should come to the people of the town because he was not brave enough to obey the summons of the Griffin. So, pale and frightened, he started off (7-9)".

Portrait of the Artist as a Forgotten Name.

It's like I've already said, history is a crap shoot when it comes to deciding which artist's reputation it's going to be kind to.  For every H.P. Lovecraft there are guys like H.F. Arnold who leave a smattering of short stories in their wake, and then disappear without so much as a blip on the radar.  If a Tolkien is able to enjoy a literary afterlife in the House of Fame, then who on Earth has time to recall all the praise the creator of Middle Earth was willing to heap on someone named H. Rider Haggard?  History is full of forgotten names, and that seems to have been the near fate of Frank R. Stockton.  Even if one of his short stories was deemed memorable enough to survive in the ivied halls of countless classroom curriculums, it's still telling that almost everyone recalls "The Lady and the Tiger", but not their author.  As you might have guessed, the more obscure the name, the greater the difficulty is in being able to find any reliable information that would help to give us a clearer picture of who the writer is, and what (if any) personal details about his life can help to shed some light on the contents of his bibliographic output.  In the case of the author of the Griffin and the Canon, I managed to have at least a bit luck on my side.  The following information all stems from the pages of The Fairy Tales of Frank Stockton, edited by Jack Zipes.

According to the editor's afterword in this posthumous collection, "Although he wrote some of the most innovative fairy tales of the nineteenth century and was the first significant American writer of this genre, Frank Stockton is hardly known today.  This is not to say that he has fallen into total oblivion.  During the 1960s an anthology of his stories, A Storyteller's Pack (1968), was published, and three of his best fairy tales, The Griffin and the Minor Canon (1963), The Bee-Man of Orn (1964), and Old Pipes and the Dryad (1968), were illustrated by such gifted artists as Maurice Sendak and Catherine Hanley.  Yet these publications represent only a small part of the achievement of Frank Stockton as a writer of fairy tales.  In fact, during his lifetime he was regarded as one of America's most popular novelists and held in high esteem due to his unusual works of fantasy.

"Born on April 5, 1834, in Philadelphia, Stockton was the oldest of three sons in his father's second marriage to Emily Drean.  His father, William, was...superintendent of the Alms House in Philadelphia when Frank was born.  A severe and ascetic man, Stockton, old enough to be his son's grandfather, was too busy conducting the affairs of the Alms House...to supervise Frank's education.  Consequently, his much younger wife, who was more open-minded, took charge of Frank's up-bringing and gave him a good deal of freedom during his youth.  Though partially lame from birth, Stockton enjoyed playing pranks, formed secret societies with his brothers, and read all kinds of fiction that his father condemned as scurrilous and decadent.

"In 1844 Stockton and his brothers had to curtail their customary play at home when their father was dismissed as superintendent of the Alms house due to a minor financial scandal.  The home was then turned into a sanctuary, where his father demanded a quiet atmosphere in order to write various...books and speeches.  Furthermore, his mother had less time to devote to him and his brothers since she founded a school for young ladies in West Philadelphia to help supplement the family income.  By 1848 Stockton enrolled at Central High School, which had an outstanding curriculum in the sciences and arts, equivalent to some small colleges today, and he developed a strong interest in writing and the arts, often inventing and memorizing stories on his way to an from school.  In a recollection written later in life he commented: "I was very young when I determined to write some fairy tales because my mind was full of them.  I set to work, and in the course of time, produced several which were printed.  These were constructed according to my own ideas.  I caused the fanciful creatures who inhabited the world of fairy-land to act, as far as possible for them to do so, as if they were inhabitants of the real world.  I did not dispense with monsters and enchanters, or talking beasts and birds, but I obliged these creatures to infuse into their extraordinary actions a certain leaven of common sense (423-4)".  

The first impression this background information leaves the reader with is its air of familiarity.  The facts of Stockton's upbringing display all the hallmarks of a distinct literary quality.  It's as if a human being of everyday flesh and blood were able to turn himself into a fictional character, and the events and personalities around him into those of a book.  The note of familiarity struck by Stockton's childhood experiences all stems from just how much it sounds like the beginning of a fairy story.  It's even possible, in fact, to identify the type of literary setup that the author found himself confronted with.  Stockton's upbringing bears a lot of the touchstones found in the opening act of J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan.  The initial action takes place in an ordinary household, and yet there are aspects of in the family composition which allow it to have this kind of Brother's Grimm style aspect to it.  For one thing, both in Barrie's play and Stockton's own life the protagonist is faced with having to deal with a less an ideal household situation.  Both Wendy and Frank are somewhat at the mercy of a father figure who tends to be one of those fantasy forbidding types.  The kind of person, in other words, who looks at the Imagination and its precincts as all belonging to one big, bad, and forbidding neighborhood.

Much like Mr. Darling, William Stockton seems to have been put out, even troubled by the possibility of fantasy.  In Wendy's case, the reason for this is hinted to be because her father has become something of a victim of Britain's Industrial Age rat race.  Mr. Darling has allowed himself to be turned into just another cog in the machine of modernity, a hook which others can take advantage of.  Stockton's situation plays out as a variation of this theme.  Here, the culprit seems to be less anything to do with the advent of Modernism as such.  Instead, Zipes' narration all points to the roots of Frank conflict with his dad as stemming from the fact that William Stockton proved to be too much of an old New England Puritan for either his own good, or anyone else's for that matter.  He seems to have proven that it's possible for a human being to turn themselves not into just a character, but also a cliche.  In Will Stockton's case, it seems to have been that old saw about how a man can be an Angel Abroad, yet a Devil at Home.  Much like with Mr. Darling, Stockton's father seems to have been the victim of too constricted an upbringing.  It appears to have been one that stulted all of the natural sentiments.  In that sense, a closer correspondence with Stockton's situation would be the works of Nathaniel Hawthorne.

In other words, William Stockton counts as a man who might have had too many essential qualities of his humanity scooped out first by his parents, and then the society around him.  Perhaps this also explains the father's peculiar desire to be involved with so many otherwise charitable causes.  It's a case of a neurotic patient looking for all those missing aspects of himself through observing and participating in their demonstration among others.  The one needful thing that he seems to have failed to grasp is that such change always has to begin within, and that might have been an effort too much for the father of the man.  If this is the case, then there is room to speculate that Zipes' indirect surmise that Stockton's efforts at becoming a literary fantasist counted as an act of covert, life-long rebellion against his dad might be able to have enough weight to it.  What's certain is that there came a point where the idea of being a writer was able to cement itself in first the child and then the young man's mind.  For his own part, Stockton is yet another form of cliche in the J.M. Barrie, Nathaniel Hawthorne style mold.

He sounds very much almost like an archetype of the dreamer, the kind of natural-born Romantic whose daydreams might (if he ever decides to put his mind to it) contain the seeds and capabilities for a viable career in the arts.  This seems to be the closest we will ever get to an identifiable shared quality among artists who otherwise show differences in temperament and personality.  Being able to tap into the Imagination just seems to be one of those naturally endowed gifts of birth.  The ability to create Art, however, is not, and never should be considered the same as saying that all artists are alike.  For Stockton, this approach to Art as a form of rebelling against a broken home meant a combination of daring and caution.  Whether or not he knew for a certainty that his future lay with the written word, it's clear enough that's the direction he wanted to take.  For the longest time, however, it was a career goal that had to be approached from within his father's shadow.  Because of the old man putting his foot down, Stockton didn't just catapult himself into the realm of letters right away.  His efforts wound up as something of an uneasy compromise position.  At is dad's insistence, the future writer started out in with a career in what was his father was willing to consider an honest enough trade in wood engraving.

It was close enough to actual, everyday work that paid on a regular basis that it kept Will Stockton off his son's back, while also allowing the boy to keep as close to the publishing world as possible.  At the same time, the young artist began his first hesitant attempts at the short story market.  Zipes never bothers to go into any great detail about what these sophomore efforts were like in terms of either style or content.  The best guess I can suggest is that it would have been a snapshot moment of the writer trying to test the waters and see if he can find out just what sort of fiction the market will take, and in particular what type of story he was really good at telling.  A further hinted implication is that a lot of this was done on the sly and out of sight, were the boy's father couldn't catch him and put a stop to his efforts.  This tenuous act of covert rebellion soon broke into an open one during and after 1860.  That was the year William Stockton was shuffled off this mortal coil (whatever that is) and his son Frank decided to set out on his chosen course in full.  From there, he began to devote the vast majority of his time towards his true interest, trying to see if had it in him to be something of a genuine wordsmith.

1867 appears to have been the year when Frank Stockton got his true break.  He'd managed to survive as a published author ever since his father's passing.  However, it was the creation of an initial series of modern day fantasy short stories that seems to have marked the point where the writer began to find his own true narrative voice.  Perhaps to his own surprise, Stockton's first efforts at a modern fairy tale were gathered together into a collection, and it became his first book (224-5).  "Years later he was to comment: "My first book was a long time in growing.  It came up like a plant by the wayside of ordinary avocation, putting forth a few leaves at a time; and when at last it budded, there was good reason to doubt whether or not it really would blossom.  At length, though, it did...It was a book for young people...It was made up of fairy stories, and when these first went out...to seek a place in the field of current literature, it was not at all certain that they would ever find such a place...They went...seeking admission in a realm where they were unknown (425)".  In other words, it's the same type of risk that all creative types have to face when they put their efforts for the first time.

In Stockton's case, the challenge facing his own fantasy stories seems to have revolved around the sometimes unenviable position of being the pioneer, or literary trendsetter in the room.  At least that seems to be the implication that both Stockton and Zipes' words hint at (to this reader, anyway).  If that's the case, and the author saw it all that way, then while I'm willing to believe that Stockton thought that's how it was, something tells me it's still best to use caution when claiming that the author of "The Lady and the Tiger" was 100% responsible for taking the Fantasy genre and fulfilling Ezra Pound's maxim to "Make it New".  It's true, for instance, that a lot of Stockton's tales revolve around the exploits of mythical creatures, and for the American public of the time this might have had all the appearance of a genuine artistic breakthrough.  At the same time, keeping in mind that the tropes of the fairy story extend all the way back to myths such as the Riddle of the Sphinx, it's just enough to want to make me say that any truly novel qualities in Stockton's efforts has maybe less to do with the kind of imaginary situations the writer places before his reads, and more to do with it's manner of expression.

In other words, it's just possible that Stockton might have to be labeled as the first (albeit unsung) literary talent responsible for being able to discover the best possible colloquial idiom that would allow the World of Myth to carve out a place for itself in the emerging modern American landscape.  The novelty comes in less from the type of characters or situations that you meet in any of his works, and more from the way familiar figures such as griffins, elves, and dryads both express and carry themselves, along with the ways and means they use to try and solve their problems, or whatever imaginary dilemmas that the work of fiction decides to throw at them.  In that sense, it is just possible to claim that Stockton's greatest achievement as an artist is that he helped pave the way for the sort of matter-of-fact style of telling a myth that would later be put on the map by guys like Alan Moore, Peter S. Beagle, Terry Pratchett and (for better and worse, I guess) Neil Gaiman.  It's the by now familiar setup of where the Fantastic is encountered in a modern urban setting, thus giving the situation the type of interesting meta slant that has been popularized by works like The Sandman and Watchman.

Or else, if the story takes place in a typical fairy tale like setting, then even if the basic plot beats remain familiar to the Once Upon a Time template, then the creativity comes from the characters being self-aware of themselves as mythic personalities, figures, or creatures.  It's that approach to telling a fairy tale by more or less commenting or finding creative riffs on the material while also somehow stopping short of dismissing it as a waste of time.  While writers like Moore and Gaiman have been able to mainstream this type of narrative as a critical commentary approach to telling fairy tales, it still leaves the question of where they learned to do it all in the first place.  It seems as if the fiction of Frank Stockton might be the best place to at least begin tracing the lineage of such a narrative tradition.  That just leaves the question of how good the writer was at putting all of this to work in an actual story?

Conclusion:  A Search for Common Sense. 

In retrospect, it's very fitting that I ran across this story for the first time in a collection dedicated to Tolkien and the fiction he either used or could have drawn upon to help craft his own secondary world.  If we enter into the story with this frame of reference in mind, it becomes easy to spot the ways in which its possible for one work of fiction to both inspire, echo, and reverberate in another.  In the case of Stockton's narrative, this comes about in several ways.  His diction might not be as fluid and elegant as Tolkien's, and yet it does manage to succeed at painting the kind of ink-stained landscape portraits that you find as you make your way through the Valley of Mordor.  In fact, it's one of those scenarios where the more you think over the quality of Stockton's words, even if just in terms of style, then it does become pretty amazing to realize that the writer has (in a sense) been able to take you from the type of perilous waste land mountain setting, and from there in the kind of microcosmic fictional small town setting that somehow manages to presage the advent of the Hobbits and their homeland as well as the normal settings of Mark Twain and Stephen King all in just a few simple paragraphs.  It's an example of the law of literary economy at it's very best, and deserves credit.

It's not the sort of artistic achievement you expect to be confronted with right out of the starting gate.  The fact that Stockton is able to pull such a multi-faceted feat off in the first place grants the story a feather in it's cap right away.  I can also see how this might be cited as a liability against it.  There's always going to be that kind of reader who will read LOTR and then maybe go and pick up Anderson's collection, read Stockton's opening paragraphs, and then say that it can't be any good because they've just read passages like this in another book.  That's a very mistaken reaction to have with a story like this for a number of reasons.  It may be possible for such a response to be valid.  However, that can only come about under the right circumstances.  For instance, if it's clear that we're dealing with a cheap, derivative knock-off which is just trying to ape the artistry of Tolkien while having no idea of what made the books special to begin with (and here I am thinking of The Sword of Shannara or The Rings of Power) then criticism is more than fair enough.  It's stops being that when it's lobbed at the wrong target.  In the case of the tale of the Griffin and the Cleric, were not in the realm of the derivative.

We're so far away from that dead end style of "writing" that it's a major error of judgment on the reader's part to claim that this neat little modern folktale has anything of the cheap or second rate about it.  What's happening instead is that we're in the middle of watching an interesting imaginative process take place.  Did you ever wonder if sometimes the Imagination (whatever it might be) is capable of trying to work its way towards something like a grand moment of artistic statement?  I don't know how that sounds, yet it's a possibility I can never quite discount.  I think the majority of 80s kids saw something like this with the advent of all these classic comedies that came out in the wake of the debut of the glory years of Saturday Night Live.  That show was a spark that set off a Renaissance in modern humor, and all of it seemed to find its culmination with the release of the original 1984 Ghostbusters.  That's one example of the kind of phenomenon I'm talking about.  What if it's possible that a similar thing was going on in the build-up to The Lord of the Rings?  What if a situation was going on in the Collective Unconscious where a lot of ingredients where starting to fall into place, and all that was required was for any one mind with enough creative talent in it could seize and define the moment?

What if Tolkien just turned out to be the one artist lucky enough to find or uncover that privilege of Inspiration?  And what if Stockton's unassuming yet somehow familiar tale of a human befriending a monster is one of the long lost shoulders of a forgotten giant that the more famous work will forever stand on?  The most obvious answer is that it amounts to a lot of speculation in just a few paragraphs.  And to be fair, Anderson says right in his editor's introduction to the story that "There is no evidence as to whether or not Tolkien knew Stockton's tales (87)".  At the same time, even if it is impossible to prove that the work of this one previous author ever had an inspirational effect on the latter, I'd argue whether it's still possible to ask if maybe Stockton and a host of other literary names who were (like Tolkien) able to catch bits and pieces of the archetype that eventually found its greatest (if perhaps never final) expression as the realm of Middle Earth?  Again, at the end of the day, speculation is always just that.  The perfect irony being that it's all that bookworms have to go on.  Welcome to the vague and wonderful world of literary criticism, folks.  It just gets more theoretical from here.  Trust me.  You can bet on it.  It's not much, and when all is said and done, it's all we'll ever have.

On a more concrete and grounded level, there are a lot of other interesting shared resonances and echoes between the two writers.  The central premise of Stockton's tale centers all around the interactions of the story's two title characters.  They form the narrative's main leads, and it's to the writer's credit that he's able to make their dealings with one another engaging and enjoyable.  This particular accomplishment is sort of crucial in a setup like this.  What Stockton has created for the reader is a Comedy of Manners in a Fantastic setting.  I'm not sure it's right to say this is the type of story the author chose to tell, merely the one he found as he began to uncover the archetype one bit at a time.  This means we're dealing with the sort of fictional framework where everything tends to hinge on the dialogue and exchange between the characters.  All of the tension, the rising and falling trajectory of the plot, even the exact nature of any action to be found in the text is  dependent on the content of the back and forth between the two protagonists, and the kind of setup they establish with their words.  This is what determines the arc of Stockton's narrative, and one of the things that jumps out at any Tolkien fan is just how familiar it all sounds on just a quick read through.  Here is there first exchange.

"Well," said the Griffin, as soon as the young man came near, "I am glad to see that there is someone who has the courage to come to me." The Minor Canon did not feel very brave, but he bowed his head. "Is this the town," said the Griffin, "where there is a church with a likeness of myself over one of the doors?" The Minor Canon looked at the frightful creature before him and saw that it was, without doubt, exactly like the stone image on the church. "Yes," he said, "you are right." "Well, then," said the Griffin, "will you take me to it? I wish very much to see it."  The Minor Canon instantly thought that if the Griffin entered the town without the people's knowing what he came for, some of them would probably be frightened to death, and so he sought to gain time to prepare their minds. "It is growing dark, now," he said, very much afraid, as he spoke, that his words might enrage the Griffin, "and objects on the front of the church cannot be seen clearly. It will be better to wait until morning, if you wish to get a good view of the stone image of yourself."  "That will suit me very well," said the Griffin.

"I see you are a man of good sense. I am tired, and I will take a nap here on this soft grass, while I cool my tail in the little stream that runs near me. The end of my tail gets red−hot when I am angry or excited, and it is quite warm now. So you may go; but be sure and come early tomorrow morning, and show me the way to the church (9-10)".  Any fan of The Hobbit will be able to tell that the family resemblances between the way the Griffin addresses the Canon, and how Bilbo Baggins converses with Smaug the Dragon are pretty darn uncanny.  The similarities all come down to questions of language and the manner of address in the two respective fictional dialogues.  If you ever go back and study one of the most famous encounters with a fire drake in the annals of English literature, be sure to notice the way one of the characters speaks in distinction from perhaps just two or three other actors out of Tolkien's cast members.  One of the aspects of the novel that helps Smaug stand out from all the rest is that he's the one figure in the plot who seems to act like a thoroughgoing modern character.  In other words, it's almost like you could see him being translated from his own secondary world and into another without having to alter him much.  He could just as easily pass for a the villain of the week in a detective story like those of Columbo or Sherlock Holmes as much as he works in a fantasy story.

In other words, the figure of the Dragon has this interesting level of multi-dimensionality to his character.  It's a strength that makes him such a compelling antagonist.  He's drawn to such a well done point that he's able to transcend any limitations that might otherwise have been placed on him by the boundaries of genre in the hands of a lesser writer.  Smaug's author is able to overcome this pitfall through the sheer use of his skills as a narrator.  The result is that he's able to create the type of character who is literally able and ready to step out of or fly off the pages.  It's one of his greatest, though perhaps underappreciated achievements as an artist, and a lot of it has to do with the way he pays attention to the construction of the dialogue.  Language was an important subject to Tolkien.  He was smart enough to realize that if you can find the proper diction for any given character, then a lot of what they say can perform a great deal of the heavy lifting necessary to make the story come to life.  It's a neat little bit of narrative sleight-of-hand that he uses in constructing the "Conversations with Smaug" chapter, and the best part about this hat trick is that its so subtle that most readers never notice it.

In terms of what this use of poetic diction says about the character of either Tolkien's Dragon or Stockton's Griffin, what should be noticed is that there is a slight, elevated level to their manner of speech.  You get the sense that we're listening to the sort of characters who are used to trying to carry themselves with dignity, for lack of a better word.  Their speech patterns never reach the same vaunted level as that of an Elrond, Faramir, or Denethor.  The speaking rhythms for all of those cast members are borrowed straight out of both medieval and Shakespearean examples.  The words of Smaug and the Griffin are cut from a more modern cloth.  They may be able to speak above the colloquial level, yet they appear to have no use for Shakespeare's diction, even if they are capable of rising to the Bard's level of dramatic pathos and urgency.  Instead, each of the fantastic flying creatures gives off the air of someone who is more or less "highborn", and comfortable enough in their skins be able to address others with the this sort of commanding presence that somehow doesn't belong to any social class.

The major difference between Tolkien and Stockton's characters is that there's always the lingering suggestion that Smaug is just kind of stuck with having to pretend to be or have some form of nobility that he doesn't really possess.  At the end of the day, he's still just a common thief.  His operations might qualify him as a white collar criminal, yet it's still not the same as being or having nobility.  Stockton's Griffin, meanwhile, is an interesting study in contrast, because it really does seem as if the creature has or at the very least is capable of this strange, yet genuine sort of natural born dignity in both bearing and character.  In many ways he's the most interesting figure in the entire plot.  This is not to sell the Cleric short, or anything.  The second half of the story's billing is more than able to pull his weight.  Much like the owner of Bag-End, our human protagonist is this quiet, reserved, and very much unassuming character.  He gives off all the vibes of someone with studious devotion to both his station and calling, while at the same time suggesting the picture of the kind of mind that is more than happy to retreat its way into the study or scriptorium and then disappear into the pages of the nearest available bit of reading material, or parchment manuscripts, depending on where you want to set this tale.

In other words, the entire corpus of the Minor Canon is that of an ordinary priest with a scholar's turn of mind who one day finds himself having to deal with a remarkable situation.  In spite of his own beliefs, his initial reaction to news of the Griffin implies that it was never the type of scenario covered anywhere in either his catechism, or his seminary studies.  It's funny and interesting to the extent that it gives Stockton's proto-Hobbit like character a surprisingly broad-minded outlook.  The key thing, however, is that this is the basic mindset that the Cleric start's out with, and he never really moves from that spot.  Instead, he winds up functioning more like the story's unmoved moral center while the rest of the cast winds up going through a shared narrative arc around him.  Nowhere is this more obvious than with the figure of the Griffin.  It's with him that all possible questions of character development get interesting.  On the one hand, it's clear Stockton has given us a very solid personality.  In many ways the Griffin's words, thoughts, and actions are those belonging to someone who could be considered of some type of noble birth.  His dealings with the Canon are both the polite and inquisitive.

"Day by day the Griffin became more and more attached to the Minor Canon. He kept near him a great part of the time, and often spent the night in front of the little house where the young clergyman lived alone. This strange companionship was often burdensome to the Minor Canon, but, on the other hand, he could not deny that he derived a great deal of benefit and instruction from it. The Griffin had lived for hundreds of years, and had seen much, and he told the Minor Canon many wonderful things. "It is like reading an old book," said the young clergyman to himself; "but how many books I would have had to read before I would have found out what the Griffin has told me about the earth, the air, the water, about minerals, and metals, and growing things, and all the wonders of the world (12)"!  Passages like this, as brief as they are, go a long way toward conveying an essential human aspect to the Griffin, for lack of a better word.  This in itself shouldn't come as too much of a surprise.  Since the dirty secret of all Fantastic fiction is that even the wildest beast of Imagination is, in the end, nothing more than an actor in a masque.  In other words, Bugs Bunny is really just a guy in a rabbit suit when you get down to it.  That's the way it is for all fantastic creatures in this kind of story, and the Griffin is no different.

Stockton's skill at balancing out these endearing qualities with more negative ones isn't able to change this basic secret at all, either.  The writer may be able to give the character moments of various tell-tale hints and subtle actions meant to convey that for all his sociability, the Griffin is still a wild beast.  A good example of this aspect of the creature can be seen from the gossip his arrival inspires in the town.  "Thus the summer went on, and drew toward its close. And now the people of the town began to be very much troubled again. "It will not be long," they said, "before the autumnal equinox is here, and then that monster will want to eat. He will be dreadfully hungry, for he has taken so much exercise since his last meal. He will devour our children. Without doubt, he will eat them all. What is to be done?" To this question no one could give an answer, but all agreed that the Griffin must not be allowed to remain until the approaching equinox (13)".  It's to Stockton's credit that he is able to generate a certain degree of convincing menace about one of the story's two main actors.  The irony, however, is that even when were being told that the Griffin is still a dangerous type of extraordinary predator, the punchline is that the character won't stop being anything other than his natural charming self.

I can't tell whether that counts as any sort of unorthodox way of presenting one of the narrative's lead protagonists.  All I know for sure is that it allows Stockton to uncover this intriguing schizoid quality that seems to be an inherent ingredient in his story.  It's how this curious dichotomy is resolved when the work reaches its final pages that gives me the most pause.  By now a lot of the contours of Stockton's narrative might be coming into better focus, and the setup might even start sounding kind of familiar.  You've got this otherworldly creature from ancient myth.  He winds up colliding with a society that seems poised somewhere between the tip edges of the Middle Ages and Modernity.  The entire village is meant to serve as a microcosm of modern society.  The villagers all act the way you'd expect them to in a story of this nature.  It's the kind of society you'd see in the pages of Twain or Hawthorne.  There's plenty of fear and paranoia going around.  Everybody wants the Griffin to go away, saying he's a threat or a menace, etc.  Their looking for a hero, and instead they're all stuck with the Minor Canon.  To make things worse, their representative is starting to befriend the beast.

These are all the hallmarks of the kind moralistic fables that we've heard time and again ever since the days of Aesop.  With such a familiar looking setup, there's bound to be a lot of readers who might venture to guess what happens next.  In any other variation of this scenario (say, the kind of tale told by the likes of Maurice Sendak, Edith Nesbit, or Peter S. Beagle) you might expect to see something like the following play out.  It would be up to the Minor Canon, perhaps along with some of the children from the village who have befriended the Griffin, to teach the whole town about the error of their ways.  There would be the usual round of misunderstandings, conflicts, setbacks, and even maybe a brief yet very skin of the teeth type struggle where it looks like either one or both of the two main leads are going to find their lives at risk before a convenient plot element occurs that allows both of them to show their true heroic colors in such a way as to win the whole crowd over, and everyone lives happily ever after.  Or else maybe it will be up to the Griffin himself to prove to the the township on his own that he really means them no harm.  He might not be a human (in a metaphoric way of speaking) yet he's really just an ordinary, easy-going kind of guy, despite what others may think of him, and the rest of the story involves the flying creature on some kind of quest that demonstrates his reliability and honor.

Either of these scenarios would be par for the course in terms of the setup that Stockton has given us.  We've seen or read interpretations of this material elsewhere that leaves us expecting to read a morality fable with a number of interlocking and related lessons attached to it all at the end.  It would involve ideas and concepts such as never judging the value and character of a person based solely on appearances.  Or that different people should learn to live to together in a harmonic coexistence.  Even the inciting action of the Griffin wanting to look at the statue with an uncanny likeness to himself can conclude with a message of personal discovery and the need for everyone to come to greater understanding of their own unique identities.  So how does Stockton take all of this familiar material?  Well, to start with, rather than face the Griffin head on, the angry mod turns right around and decides to kick the Canon straight out of town.  Their logic is that the mythical creature in their midst has grown so fond of the little quizzing that he'll be sure to follow the Priest out of the village and then he'll have his new meal by the time the equinox roles around.  Problem solved.  And the Canon goes along with it!

He's reluctant and sad to have this happening to him, yet in the end, he shoulder's his newfound burden and sets out for parts unknown.  It's from here that things stop going according to the usual rules for this type of story.  "When the Griffin found that the Minor Canon had left the town he seemed sorry, but showed no desire to go and look for him. After a few days had passed he became much annoyed, and asked some of the people where the Minor Canon had gone. But, although the citizens had been so anxious that the young clergyman should go to the dreadful wilds, thinking that the Griffin would immediately follow him, they were now afraid to mention the Minor Canon's destination, for the monster seemed angry already, and if he should suspect their trick he would, doubtless, become very much enraged. So everyone said he did not know, and the Griffin wandered about disconsolate. One morning he looked into the Minor Canon's schoolhouse, which was always empty now, and thought that it was a shame that everything should suffer on account of the young man's absence.   "It does not matter so much about the church," he said, "for nobody went there; but it is a pity about the school. I think I will teach it myself until he returns." 

"It was the hour for opening the school, and the Griffin went inside and pulled the rope which rang the school bell. Some of the children who heard the bell ran in to see what was the matter, supposing it to be a joke of one of their companions; but when they saw the Griffin they stood astonished and scared. "Go tell the other scholars," said the monster, "that school is about to open, and that if they are not all here in ten minutes I shall come after them." In seven minutes every scholar was in place. Never was seen such an orderly school. Not a boy or girl moved or uttered a whisper. The Griffin climbed into the master's seat, his wide wings spread on each side of him, because he could not lean back in his chair while they stuck out behind, and his great tail coiled around, in front of the desk, the barbed end sticking up, ready to tap any boy or girl who might misbehave.  

"The Griffin now addressed the scholars, telling them that he intended to teach them while their master was away. In speaking he tried to imitate, as far as possible, the mild and gentle tones of the Minor Canon; but it must be admitted that in this he was not very successful. He had paid a good deal of attention to the studies of the school, and he determined not to try to teach them anything new, but to review them in what they had been studying; so he called up the various classes, and questioned them upon their previous lessons. The children racked their brains to remember what they had learned. They were so afraid of the Griffin's displeasure that they recited as they had never recited before. One of the boys, far down in his class, answered so well that the Griffin was astonished. "I should think you would be at the head," said he. "I am sure you have never been in the habit of reciting so well. Why is this?" "Because I did not choose to take the trouble," said the boy, trembling in his boots. He felt obliged to speak the truth, for all the children thought that the great eyes of the Griffin could see right through them, and that he would know when they told a falsehood. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said the Griffin.  "Go down to the very tail of the class; and if you are not at the head in two days, I shall know the reason why."    

"The next afternoon this boy was Number One. It was astonishing how much these children now learned of what they had been studying. It was as if they had been educated over again. The Griffin used no severity toward them, but there was a look about him which made them unwilling to go to bed until they were sure they knew their lessons for the next day. The Griffin now thought that he ought to visit the sick and the poor; and he began to go about the town for this purpose. The effect upon the sick was miraculous. All, except those who were very ill indeed, jumped from their beds when they heard he was coming, and declared themselves quite well. To those who could not get up he gave herbs and roots, which none of them had ever before thought of as medicines, but which the Griffin had seen used in various parts of the world; and most of them recovered. But, for all that, they afterward said that, no matter what happened to them, they hoped that they should never again have such a doctor coming to their bedsides, feeling their pulses and looking at their tongues (14-16)".  Stockton has done a number of things here within the space of just three to four paragraphs when all added together.  To start with, he's done what all the lasting artists have been able to by giving an iconic type of Story Image.

There's just something about the idea of a classroom full of ordinary school children lined like always for the daily grind of a student, and there set at the head of the class is a mythical beast straight out of the works of Aesop, Homer, or Lewis Carroll.  The very picture conjured by the author's words is enough to help cement his story in your mind forever.  Those who've never heard about the Priest and his otherworldly Flying Friend will find themselves being drawn to that Image for a number of reasons.  The first is that the very nature of this illustration carries all the right notes of wonder and whimsy.  It's one of those imaginary portraits that seems to have all it needs contained within itself to both draw the reader's attention, and most important of all, to leave a hint or suggestion of greater mysteries waiting to be explored.  Somehow or other, Stockton was able to strike that rich vein of ore that all artists have to rely on when it comes to storytelling.  The writer appears to have done little more than stumble upon an Archetypal Image, the kind that manages to linger in the mind, long after the pages are closed.  For those who do decide to crack open any book spine containing Stockton's character's, it's going to be this proto-Hogwarts classroom style picture that will be used to help recall events and plot points.

At the same time he's entertaining us with these absurd yet somehow brilliant set pieces, it's pretty clear that the writer is also up to something different from what we've come to expect.  For better or worse, the story appears to be going off in its own direction, one that I'm not sure I was expecting when I picked it up again to read in full for this article.  Like most of you, I thought I knew what the outcome was going to be.  I expected your typical Schoolhouse Rock style fairy tale all wrapped up in a bow.  The funny thing is how it can be argued the final result still does just that.  However the narrative does so on its own terms, and I was so unprepared for it, that it took me a while to find out just what sort of meaning I was supposed to takeaway from the whole thing.  After giving it a lot of thought, I think it's possible to see at least the beginnings of what's going on here.  The first thing to do is to clear a potential confusion and pitfall out of the way.  We're not in the realm of poorly told shaggy dog stories such as The Last Jedi and other mistakes like it.  Neither the writer nor his story appear concerned with either "expectations" or "subversions" here.  This whole thing reads more like a Satire in the vein of Jonathan Swift, than anything else.  In other words it's a traditional fairy tale with an edge to it.  The real punchline is just how familiar the particular "bite" of this tale sounds once you reach the end.

Strange as it may sound, I can't shake the notion that I've just read a retelling of Beowulf.  Or rather let's say that I've stumbled upon a modern day variation on the ancient Anglo-Saxon bardic poem in which the Dragon Slayer and Grendel resolve the situation with words instead of mortal combat to the death.  If there's any truth to this, then there's a very ironic sense in which it ties in with something Zipes notes about Stockton's work as a whole.  "Stockton's protagonists do not use violence to achieve their goals, unlike the heroes of traditional folktales, in which "might makes right" is a common theme.  In fact, Stockton's tales all deal with the abuse of power, but instead of punishing the evil oppressors by executing them, his narratives expose their foibles and make them look ridiculous (427-8)".    The punchline is also kind of at his expense, though, because of the way the writer is willing to get out of the story's way, and let the narrative turn the tables on its readers.  Yes, a more non-violent solution to a problem has been found, and yet in the end one of the two characters commits himself to a choice which leaves him to play out his role as the self-chosen Grendel of the story.  

You expect the Griffin to be either the hero, or at the very least one of the good guys, with the town itself as the collective villain.  Instead, it's almost as if one of the story's two main leads has allowed himself to play into the people's fears, and do nothing to contradict or suggest otherwise.  It is a very peculiar way to end a story like this, and I can't say I knew what to make of it at first.  With a bit of reflection, however, I think I'm beginning to see the logic Stockton is trying to get at.  I also think I might at least have the beginnings of an understanding of why Douglas Anderson might think he fits in with the kind of artistic mold that was probably established long before Tolkien, but was nonetheless completed and near finalized by him, at least as far as he could take it.  In order to give a good idea of what Stockton might have been up to in his story of a Grendel whose friendship with Beowulf proves to be his undoing, I'll kind of have to introduce yet another allegorical Image, and then demonstrate how it acts as kind of like a governing metaphor for the entirety of this particular fairy story.  In Ancient Greece they had this myth of a philosopher who went about, to and fro, over the face of the Earth.  Everywhere he went, this elder sage always carried with him a lantern that he made sure to keep lit day or night.  Whenever people asked him what he was doing, or why he carried a light around, the Philosopher's reply forever remained the same.  He told them he was looking for an honest man.

It's one of those very Aesopian ideas, this notion of a practical and level-headed mind going out in search of others like himself.  The Image is popularly supposed to have originated with the life, teachings, and philosophy of an ex-Stoic thinker known as Diogenes Laertius.  However, I can't help thinking that the Image, in and of itself, is of such a nature that it preceded this one single philosopher out of many long before he ever arrived on this scene.  In other words, I can't help thinking that we're dealing with yet another Archetype from the Collective Unconscious here.  Nothing more than one of the most curious aspects of whatever existence is supposed to be.  It's all a matter of how a simple, ill-defined picture in the head can somehow take on a life of its own, and thus become a symbol that others can point to when they try to reference any and all harder to grasp aspects of life (not that any of us has an idea of what the word means; the same goes for our concept of death).  In the case of the artistic notion of a Philosophical Seeker with the Lantern, it's clear enough that what all we're dealing with is a thematic representation of the search, or better yet the quest for knowledge, or pure and simple common sense.  It's one of the perennial ideas, the kind of symbol that has as great a degree of application to our own times as it did in Diogenes' era.  At the same time, like all archetypes, the Image is universal enough that is has a greater scope and applicability than just one Greco-Roman malcontent.

It's the kind of Symbolic Image that could apply just as well to any of the great thinkers in our history, such as Plato and Aristotle and Cicero, to even their lesser known successors such as Plotinus and Macrobius.  It's just the normal sort of deal with archetypes, the great images tend to be multivalent, and hence can have the kind of imaginative resonance across differing times and cultures that allows to them have this constant level of staying power.  It's applicability in the case of Stockton's short story might lie in the way it is able to combine with those of the Beowulf narrative.  It takes the semi-related Image of the Dragon Slayer or the Fight Against Monsters, and in mixing in with these previous ingredients is able to transfigure the old legend into a different key, yet with its previous identity very much intact and still dictating the nature of the story.  When you put this all together, it seems very much that it is this need and search for common sense that appears to be the true underlying theme or idea in back of Stockton's fairy tale.  The whole train of events is set off by a number of characters taking a series of ill-conceived ideas about what's going on around them, or what others are like, and then the rest of drama is a satirical examination of how these false beliefs wind up playing out.  Again, it must be stressed that while the setup of the tale seems familiar, it all leads to a conclusion that is not what you'd expect.

If a case can be made that Stockton's short story can act as either a retelling or an allusive reflection of the contents of the Beowulf, then this not only acts as yet another connecting link with the writings of Tolkien, it also begs a lot of interesting questions about whether this otherwise comical bit of children's fiction might share any thematic overlap between the Anglo-Saxon legend and the American fairy tale?  The funny thing is how this is a concern that Tolkien himself seems to have had.  The only real difference is that his focus was on a British audience, rather than one from the States.  Beyond that, however, the resemblances between his concerns about the story of the famous Dragon Slayer and Stockton's narrative about an unassuming priest and his monstrous friend are starting to both contain and share a lot of eerie echoes with one another.  As for what all this family resemblance means, Tolkien was always of the opinion that the Beowulf Poet's primary concern in the poem was of that fine dividing line between monstrosity and humanity.  He viewed it as an allegory of good and evil, the plight of man in the cosmos, of men caught in the chains of circumstance or of their own character.

Another way to frame it is to say that the poem seeks to understand what monstrosities, human and otherwise, may convey about the nature of man and our penchant for embracing contradictions.  Strange as it may seem, that sounds like just about the best summation of the themes Stockton is working with.  The funny thing is how they were the Beowulf Poet's concerns long before that, and Tolkien would go on to make this set of thematic ideas his own later on down the line.  In the case of this forgotten children's tale, the author seems to be suggesting that monstrosity is something of a deliberate choice, more than anything else.  The Griffin winds up as this strangely mild and self-defeating version of Grendel, one who shows a surprising capability for learning about what it means to be human.  The implication of the narrative's main action is that he is being offered a choice.  Without ceasing to be himself (for whatever kind of creature a Griffin is supposed to be) he is still being offered a chance to become a better version of who he is.  This is an interesting potential development for his character if you happen to know that in traditional folklore a Griffin is in fact supposed to be this creature that symbolizes nobility, loyalty, honor, and even justice and prudence.  It means that the one in Stockton's story is being offered a chance to, in essence, become and be true to his own best self.

It's as far away from the nihilistic attitude of a Grendel as you can get, it also adds a nice bit of focus for tale's theme of looking for common sense.  If it is at all possible for someone to have a best or true and authentic self (the writing implies) then there may be an obligation to common sense to try and strive to live up to such ideals.  This in itself renders the meaning of the short story rather commonplace.  That is not, however, the same as calling it ridiculous, or a boring read, for that matter.  Indeed, one of the biggest strengths of Stockton's prose is that he's able to keep you engaged from the first page to the last.  He's great at creating these intriguing characters whose quirky natures are able to draw the reader into the plot with seamless ease.  By the time we near the end we're anxious to see whether or not the two main leads will find a good resolution for each other.  That's what makes the ending so fascinating, for it adds one final layer of literary allusion into the mix.  If the main undergirding text within Stockton's fairy tale is the Beowulf narrative, then the way in which he resolves this familiar pattern is by pairing one archetype with another.  Without giving too much away, the ending utilizes the Myth of Narcissus.

It's to Stockton's credit that he knows he's writing a One Upon a Time Fable, and he brings it to a satisfactory conclusion.  There are heroes, villains, and a happy ending.  It's also one of those tales where the denouement ends up changing the way you see and interpret everything that has come before.  Another way to put it is that much like with "The Lady and the Tiger" Stockton once again proves his skill at shuffling the cards dealt to him.  He lays his narrative out in such a way that you go in thinking you know the story he's telling, only for the writer to turn over the last Tarot hand in his deck of cards, and leave you stunned and amazed at his ability to tell you one kind of fairy tale under the guise of another.  This to my mind is an example of the Fake Out done right.  It's done less for the sake of pulling a fast one with the audience's expectation, and instead is utilized in a proper spirit of creative fair play.  A lot of that seems down to a tacit understanding on Stockton's part that the narrative is the boss, first, last, and always.  He may know a trick or two about how to mix and match the ingredients in the Cauldron of Story.  At the same time, he knows that if the final result leaves a bad taste in the reader's mind, then all it proves is that he's not all that good at being a storyteller.

That's why it's gratifying to have this kind of tricked pulled on you by someone who knows it's important not to break that necessary level of trust between artist and audience.  If it should turn out that this is a recurring motif or practice in all of Stockton's work, then all I can say is I'm eager for more now.  In terms of the author's use of the Myth of Narcissus to help wrap up his short story, what's going on there seems to be related to something Stephen King of all people said elsewhere.  In the pages of Danse Macabre, he broaches the topic of the Narcissus Myth as it relates to the archetype of the Ghost.  What I found remarkable upon digging up those passages is just how well they can apply to the icon of the Monster in general, and to the Beowulf narrative in particular.  King asks, "What is the ghost, after all, that it should frighten us so, but our own face?  When we observe it we become like Narcissus, who was so struck by the beauty of his own reflection that he lost his life.  We fear the Ghost for much the same reason we fear the Werewolf: it is the deep part of us that need not be bound by piffling Apollonian restrictions.  It can walk through walls, disappear, speak in the voices of strangers.  It is the Dionysian part of us...but it is still us (272)".  Perhaps those very words will have to stand as the best summary I am able to give about the role and function that the Griffin plays in Stockton's narrative.

He performs a dual role.  He is two in one.  He is both Grendel and Narcissus.  A better way to say it is that the Griffin functions as a version of of Grendel as Narcissus.  Everything that King just said as recorded above acts as a neat summation not just of the Griffin's position within the narrative, yet also his final outcome.  The Minor Canon, and even the village to which he belongs is able to prosper and learn from the visit paid to them by the strange flying beast.  The Visitor himself, meanwhile, leaves us marveling at how all the qualities of nobility can manage to exist side by with all the traits of the most abject failure.  In that sense, Stockton's creature can be said to point to the thematic purpose shared by both Ghost and Monster.  He's ultimately displayed as a reflection of some of the worst foibles of human nature.  Once it's realized that this is his proper function within the drama, then his ultimate fate is as fitting as much as it comes as kind of a surprise.  Perhaps it's a mistake to claim that Stockton was the first artist to ever realize the note of Tragic pathos to the Grendel figure, all of those qualities might be said to already exist in the original poem (a fact that a later writer, John Gardner, picked up on and turned into an entire novel).  Instead it's more that Frank was one of the first modern authors to realize the creative potential of this Tragic note to the archetype.  It's a realization that allows him to grant his version of Grendel a greater sense of dignity combined with the note of promise left unfulfilled.

It might sound like a glum note to leave off of, yet the surprising thing is that Stockton has written a very wry and funny fable.  It's the kind of story that concerns itself with asking what it means to be common sensical, and what steps might be necessary to achieve it.  To his credit, the writer is smart enough to know that this is something its wise not moralize or lecture over.  Instead, all he does is uncover a story about two figures who wind up caught up in this search.  One of them is able to learn a lesson and achieve some measure of common sense.  The other becomes a myth.  In assembling this all together, what we're left with is one of the first modern fairy tales that might be a forgotten harbinger for all of the later progresses that the Fantasy genre would make as the years went on.  It contains elements that would go on to be utilized in various ways by a number of then future, now contemporary writers.  In terms of its connection to the work of Tolkien, a lot of those ingredients have been illustrated already.  If it's true that Stockton has taken the archetype behind the Beowulf poem and given it a modern face and plot, then it acts as a precursor of sorts to what Tolkien himself would do later on in works like The Hobbit.  That's another riff on the Grendel-Dragon plot expanded to a full novel.

In addition to the similarities of narrative situation (man confronts monster) there's also this shared sense of humanism between the two writer's works.  Stockton finds himself united to Tolkien's later book by an almost natural sense of sympathy or need for understanding the other person's point of view.  One of the things that I don't think Tolkien gets enough credit for is that the arc of his narratives is always for his protagonists to gain a wider sense not just of life, but of all the kinds of people in it.  His stories tend to work their way towards this cosmopolitan sense of tolerance that is gratifying in an artist from that era.  Stockton's short tale contains all of these same ingredients of social and character dynamics.  Another preoccupation with both writers is the ways in which people can turn themselves into monsters, even when they think they have nothing but the best intentions in mind.  This can be seen in Middle Earth with characters such as Thorin, Boromir, Denethor, Saruman, Gollum, and perhaps even Frodo to an extent.  The funny thing is how the writer insists there is no intrinsic need for this course of action or development.  Indeed, I've heard that one of the things he wished he could have gone back and done was to give the Orcs, of all people, a greater degree of humanity than what they were left with in the finished product.  Tolkien felt it would grant a better picture of human nature.

All of these concerns appear in a very embryonic, yet clear and legible form in the trajectory of Stockton's Griffin.  If he is to be seen as the Grendel Narcissus, or Gollum of the story, then it's interesting how the crux of the tale insists that good or bad outcomes with such characters all depends on a matter of choice.  It is what you choose to be that determines your fate more than anything else.  This is the message that Stockton either aims for or else just naturally ends up with.  His interactions with the Minor Canon allow the Griffin a greater sense of what life is or can be like from the eyes of others.  The monster comes away with a greater perspective on the world, and yet his challenge remains the question of whether his sense of pride and prowess will allow him to start thinking in a more humanistic frame of mind.  Any and all resemblances between the Griffin's struggle and those of the cast of Lord of the the Ring are probably too numerous at this point to list in their entirety.

Beyond the Tolkien connection, there is the way the performance of Stockton's cast helps presage the kind of more depth filled interaction between characters in works of Fantasy fiction.  Tolkien was one of the first to pick up this ball and run with it.  The good news is that later writers in the genre would carry it forward from there.  The majority of Stockton's tale centers around the conversations the Minor Canon has with the Griffin.  It's to his credit that Stockton is able to imbue his two fairy tale figures with well rounded, three-dimensional personalities within the span of a work that ranges no further than about 10 to 15 pages.  For better or worse, this is the kind of narrative focus that will go on to define the novels (both graphic and print) of Neil Gaiman.  On a more positive note, we find this same character based focus in the works of Alan Moore, Stephen King, and Terry Pratchett.  It would appear then that Frank R. Stockton is a true literary pioneer, and the only issue is that his name has been all but forgotten to the passage of time.  It's a real shame if that's the case, because if a work like "The Griffin and the Minor Canon" is anything to go by, we're in danger of losing an awareness of one of the great unsung talents of Fantasy literature.  This would be a genuine loss for the Fantastic genres as a whole.

Here's a guy who can find all sorts of creative ways to surprise you with his narrative ingenuity and inspiration.  He is an artist capable of taking the complex and epic themes and plot points of a work like Beowulf and boiling them down to the level that even a grade school child reader can understand.  The good news is that he manages to never talk down to his audience about issues such as monstrosity or the need and search for common sense to any of his readers, whether young or old.  Instead, he's smart enough to realize that such themes are all just part of the intrinsic bells and whistles of any given narrative.  Their bound to show up one way or another as a matter of course.  All he needs to do as the writer is just let them have their voices, and then get out of the way and let the story do its job of entertaining, first, last, and always.  It's to Stockton's credit that he displays a natural born pro's understanding of these all-important matters.  It's what allows his short story to be well worth reading.