A cipher - a code - secret writing - played an extremely important part in The Case of The Missing Marquess: An Enola Holmes Mystery. One of my favorite poets, Edgar Allan Poe, was a celebrated cryptographist. He is considered one of the first to write a detective story which in a sense is breaking the code of mystery surrounding a crime - solving the question of who committed it; so it is perhaps natural that he contributed to the popularity of cryptography during his lifetime. Poe’s short story “The Gold Bug” published in 1843 relates the story of a man who finds buried treasure by solving a secret code or cipher. His "Valentine" is not only contains a cipher but much word play.
Can you solve the mystery of
"A Valentine" For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines! - they hold a treasure
Divine - a talisman - an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure -
The words - the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose you labor!
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a saber,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent word oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets - as the name is a poet's too.
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto - Mendez Ferdinando -
Still form a synonym for Truth. - Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you
can do.
from Edgar Allan Poe: Complete Poems
(Library of Classic Poets)Note from the text:
[To translate the address, read the first letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the end. The name will thus appear.]
If you solved the cipher, you might enjoy knowing that the address was an American (1811-1850) poet and one of the most popular women writers of her day who exchanged romantic poems with Poe.
In my book . . . Ah - Sweet mystery! Yet, the untangled mystery hints at more mystery. It sent me searching for information about Osgood. It seems that Poe’s young wife approved of their flirtatious poetry exchange and was even friends with Osgood. A valentine can be simply a tribute or warm praise through words. So, to Poe, whose birthday was January 19th, I send this valentine!
Good Intentions!
Procrastination!
Identification!
I completely identify with the students who come to me frantic for the condensed version or the shortest book on the approved list for their book report which is due in four days! Of course, the condensed version or the shortest book has already been checked out by their fellow students who also don’t want to read anything without a picture on every other page or has more than 100 pages. But I love them anyway and convince them that they really can finish their assignment. In that vein and to prove to them that they can accomplish that goal, I confess my procrastination and finish my challenge in four days!
I am substituting a title that is on the list of Saturday Review of Books but that is not on my list of choices for the Challenge. I did not obtain The Goose Girl in time - note my identification with students; however, in my favor I did not choose to substitute The Penderwicks or A Wrinkle in Time both of which are on the approved list and for which I have already done reviews.
I am choosing as my replacement The Hound of the Baskervilles which I promise I had not read until this fall. Yes, I read many books during the fall - just not my assignment - again note my identification with students. I read Hound just after my completion of A Drowned Maiden’s Hair; and if you read that review, you will notice my mention of Arthur Conan Doyle. I have read many, many of Sherlock Holmes' cases and have watched many, many cinematic versions of The Hound. As an aside, in my opinion Jeremy Brett is the Sherlock!
The Hound of the Baskervilles
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
I feel completely inadequate to review this book. What more can be said about the incomparable Sherlock Holmes? All I can say is I loved it. The mystery genre is my genre of choice. I am happiest with a good mystery in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. My favorite authors cannot write fast enough to please me. Many literary scholars credit Poe with developing the detective novel. But along with many others, I think that Sherlock is the epitome of the Great Detective.
'The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Where do you think that I have been?'
'A fixture also.'
'On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire.'
'In spirit?'
'Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamfords for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that i could find my way about.'
'We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork,' said Dr. Mortimer.
'Say rather, into the region where we balance probabilities and choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination, but we have always some material basis on which to start our speculation.'
The more outre and grotesque an incident is the more carefully it deserves to be examined, and the very point which appears to complicate a case is, when duly considered and scientifically handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it.'
Doyle takes the reader to a place where it is perfectly logical that a mystical beast could exist. 'I say, Watson,' said the baronet, 'what would Holmes say to this? How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is exalted?'
As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it dies away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white through the darkness.
And then, as always, Holmes gets his man!
In my book . . . What could be better on a cold winter night that to curl up with a book that takes one to foggy London town and hear “The game is afoot.”?
English Nursery RhymeChristmas is a-coming.
The goose is getting fat,
Please to put a penny
In an old man’s hat.
If you haven’t got a penny,
A ha’penny will do.
If you haven’t got a ha’penny,
God bless you!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s:I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Longfellow wrote this poem on Christmas day in 1864 during the American Civil War. It inspired the carol sung today.
Speaking of bells - - -
Stanza 1 of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Bells”Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the Heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
“A Christmas Carol”
by Christina RossettiIn The bleak
mid-winter
Frosty winds made
moan,
Earth stood hard as
iron.
Water like a stone
Snow had fallen,
snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak
mid-winter,
Long ago.
Our God, Heaven
cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth
shall flee away
When he comes to
reign:
In the bleak
mid-winter
A stable place
sufficed
The Lord God
Almighty
Jesus Christ.
In my book . . . Christmas is a time for the heavens to twinkle with a crystalline delight and bells to carol wild and sweet words of peace. For to us a child is born,
To us a son is given,
And the government will be on
His shoulders.
And he will be called
Wonderful Counselor,
Mighty God,
Everlasting Father,
Prince of Peace.
Of the increase of his government
And peace
There will no end.
Isaiah 9: 6-7
This week traditionally marks a time of change - at least for me, a month after the autumnal equinox , the week of All Hallow’s Eve - a perfect week for the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe. Poe has always been a favorite of mine. For one thing, my favorite genre is the mystery; and Poe is credited as one the first authors of detective/crime fiction; and Poe’s life itself was a mystery.I love Poe’s best known poems:
The exquisite "The Raven"
the tintinabulation (word joy!) of "The Bells".
Poe believed that the purpose of a poem was it’s effect on the audience, it’s ability to elevate the soul. This is very close to the definition Emily Dickinson gave to poetry: If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can every warm me, I know it is poetry.
From Modern American Poetry
Edited by Louis Untermeyer
Winter is in the air. Of course, the temperature here in the South doesn’t register winter; but some leaves are turning brown; and acorns are being gathered by the squirrels. In the cycle of life, winter is a time of death and sleep - perfect for Poe’s:
"The Conqueror Worm"
Lo! ‘tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years -
A mystic throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly -
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast shadowy things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama - oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased forevermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes! - it writhes! - with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued!
Out - out are the lights - out all!
And, over each dying form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the seraphs, all haggard and wan,
Uprising, Unveiling, Affirm
That the play is the tragedy “Man,”
Its hero the conqueror Worm.
From Edgar Allan Poe: The Raven and Other Poems
Selected and Introduced by Richard Kopley
In my book . . . I’m cold!
