Chapter I: Front Matter

THE CROSS WORD PUZZLE BOOK

An Anthology of Fifty Cross Word Puzzles
Selected as the Best of the Thousands
That Have Been Submitted to the
New York World Published
Here Exclusively for
the First Time
and Edited

By

PROSPER BURANELLI
F. GREGORY HARTSWICK
MARGARET PETHERBRIDGE

THE PLAZA PUBLISHING COMPANY
New York :: 1924

THE CROSS WORD PUZZLE

By Newman Levy

For many years we’ve lived as man and wife,
As happy now as on the day we wed.
“We’re more like sweethearts,” I have always said.
No cloud has dimmed the sunshine of our life,
Though now and then I’ll seize a rolling pin
And playfully I’ll clout her on the dome
Just to preserve domestic discipline
And demonstrate who’s master in our home.
At times she’ll hurl with well-directed aim
A platter or an iron at my bean.
These slight attentions keep romances green
And keep alive the hymeneal flame.

On Sunday, when the evening lamp is lit
And peace and calm contentment fill our house,
With pipe and well-loved book at ease I sit,
And at my side, in earnest thought, my spouse,
Then fade the cares and troubles of the day;
With Conrad and Lord Jim I sail the sea,
When suddenly I hear my wife’s voice say,
“What word for ‘female child’ begins with G?”
“The word is ‘Girl’,” I growl. Again I try
To catch the shattered magic of my tale.
I find my place. Again with Jim I sail
Upon the tropic sea. My wife says “My,
What pronoun in three letters starts with Y?”

Calmly I rise and search about the place
To find a weapon of sufficient weight.
Aha! Upon our wall an ancient mace,
Studded with knobs of steel. The very thing.
I seize it, and with easy, graceful swing
Wallop my darling wife upon the pate,
The sconce or bean, or dome, or what you will.
Silent she tumbles headlong in the grate.
I take my book and leisurely resume
My tale, and peace and quiet fill the room.

From F.P.A.’s Conning Tower
in The New York World

THE CROSS WORD PUZZLE BOOK

CONFESSIONS OF A CROSS WORD PUZZLE EDITOR

When I was first made unwilling Cross Word Puzzle Editor some two years ago, the procedure in deciding what puzzle would be run was limited to picking out a good-looking one from among the bunch and sending it upstairs to be set. I saw no reason to change this splendid system. At that time, I had never taken the trouble to do a puzzle and the letters of anathema and condemnation that came in by the dozens had small effect on my conscience. They were evidently from cranks and couldn’t be avoided.

I must admit that the dawning of conscience began with the arrival of F.P.A., who came to work in the next room. When he discovered that I was responsible for the cross words, he formed the atrocious habit of stalking in every Monday morning bright and early (about eleven o’clock) to point out to me in sarcastic tones just what was wrong with yesterday’s. Well, to make a long story short, in order to avoid the moronish feeling that usually followed such a lecture, I decided to reform and find out what a really decent puzzle was like.

I began by trying to do one the next Sunday, and thus experienced the throes of acute agony that come to all solvers of puzzles on discovering definitions left out, numbers wrong, hideously warped definitions, words not to be found inside of any known dictionary, foreign words—very foreign—and words that had no right to be dragged out of their native obscurity. Then and there, with my left hand reposing on a dictionary and my right raised in air, I took an oath to edit the cross words to the essence of perfection. From then on, I instituted the procedure of doing the puzzles myself on the page proof—sort of trying it on the dog—applying the principle,

“If it be not fair to me,
What care I how fair it be!”

Since that momentous day, F.P.A.’s visits have grown less frequent—in fact, he has to make up excuses to come in and converse on other matters—and the cross words even came in for an occasional bouquet in Sam Pepys’s diary. So now you all know whom to thank for the perfection (more or less) of the cross word puzzle found each Sunday on the World Magazine’s Ingenuities Page.

Margaret Petherbridge

HOW TO SOLVE THEM

Solving a cross word puzzle offers numerous enjoyments of which the uninitiated are ignorant. There is the pure esthetic stimulation of looking at the pattern with its neat black and white squares, like a floor in a cathedral or a hotel bathroom; there is the challenge of the definitions, titillating the combative ganglion that lurks in all of us; there is the tantalizing elusiveness of the one little word that will satisfactorily fill a space and give clues to others that we know not of; and there is the thrill of triumph as the right word is found, fitted, and its attendant branches and roots spring into being. No better illustration could be used than a recent brilliant construction of Mr. Gelett Burgess, published in the Sunday World Magazine.

Consider the solver as he faces his problem. The numbers in the squares, he knows, refer to the definitions; in the system of numbering used in this book, the first letters only are indicated by numbers. Thus 1 horizontal means a word that will fill the space following the figure up to the next black square.

Horizontal +-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
| 1 | 2 | 3 | | 4 |#####|
1 Lowest form of life | | | | | |#####|
12 Product of coal or pine +-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
18 Opponent | 12 | | |#####| |
| | | |#####| |
Vertical +-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
| 18 | | | 20 | |#####|
1 Gustated | | | | | |#####|
2 Divine nourishment +-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
3 Before |#####| |#####| |#####|
4 Indefinite number |#####| |#####| |#####|
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
| 30 | | 32 | | 33 |#####|
| | | | | |#####|
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
|#####|
|#####|
+-----+

The solver, then, looks the puzzle over. Aha! a friend. 12 horizontal, three letters long—“product of coal or pine.” Triumphantly the solver writes TAR in the spaces and proceeds with this clue. 2 Vertical is defined as “Divine Nourishment.” It links with TAR at the second letter. A moment of thought and MANNA appears as the only possible solution. He turns to 1 vertical, the second letter of which is the first of 12 horizontal—T. The definition is “gustated,” and the word is of three letters. Why hesitate? ATE goes into the space. “A cinch!” reflects the solver, and joyously writes ENEMY in 18 horizontal, defined as “Opponent.” 3 vertical is defined as “Before,” and with -RE staring him in the face he would be dull indeed who did not write ERE. And now 1 horizontal stands revealed. “Lowest form of life,” eh? AMEBA goes down. 4 vertical is “Indefinite number.” Well, A-Y cannot be anything but ANY—and there is the corner complete, with three clues to the words in other sections.

+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
| 1 | 2 | 3 | | 4 |#####|
| A | M | E | B | A |#####|
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
| 12 | | |#####| |
| T | A | R |#####| N |
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
| 18 | | | 20 | |#####|
| E | E | E | M | Y |#####|
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
|#####| |#####| |#####|
|#####| N |#####| |#####|
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
| 30 | | 32 | | 33 |#####|
| | A | | | |#####|
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
|#####|
|#####|
+-----+

So far the sailing has been fairly easy. But trouble waits just around the corner. There are other definitions which are not so simple as “product of coal or pine.” In the far reaches of the puzzle to which the above corner belongs may be found such definitions as “Vexation (Provincial British),” “Humorous figure of speech,” “One-sided headaches” and “Droning dung-beetles.” Is the solver prepared to state that he can fill the spaces represented by those words without the assistance of the linked horizontals or verticals?

It is here that one of the greatest charms of the crossword puzzle lies: the discovery of new words by the process of building them, though entirely ignorant of their actual spelling. Consider another portion of Mr. Burgess’ puzzle. The construction of the provincial form of “Vexation” and “Humorous figure of speech” fortunately come in juxtaposition; they illustrate at once the vocabulary-building feature of the cross word puzzle and a constructional weakness which may lead to non-solution.

The definitions surrounding this precious pair are as follows: Horizontal, “Series of games,” “Self,” “Means of sustenance,” and “Surface of fibres”; Vertical, “Drinking vessel” and “Body of cavalry.” When these words are solved one finds:

+-----+
|#####|
|#####|
+-----+-----+-----+
|#####| |#####|
|#####| |#####|
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
|#####| | | |#####|
|#####| S | E | T |#####|
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
|#####| | | | | |#####|
|#####| | T | U | R | |#####|
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
| |#####| | | |#####| |
| |#####| E | G | O |#####| |
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
|#####| | | | | | | |#####|
|#####| A | L | I | M | O | N | Y |#####|
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+
|#####| | | |#####|
|#####| N | A | P |#####|
+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+

Now the unfortunate part of it is that the section is completed; there are no more clues, and if one does not know what the humorous figure of speech is and what the British provincialism is, there is no way of discovering them aside from the use of deduction. A little thinking will show that the first letter of the provincialism is more likely to be “S” than any other letter, and a short search in the dictionary will give “Sturm” as the answer; while as for -EUGMA, a brief running through the alphabet will so limit the possibilities that a very short search will reveal ZEUGMA as correct.

It is extremely difficult, in the construction of cross word puzzles, to avoid the use of such “unkeyed” letters, and effort has been used to ensure the presence of common words where more than one letter is unkeyed; but the exigencies of construction will not always allow this. Nor should it always be done; allowance must be made for erudition on the part of the solver. When such a construction appears as S-ALE-E, defined as “Unequal sided and angled” and with all clues exhausted, it is with a warm sensation of culture that one triumphantly fills the blanks with “C” and “N.” And the same thrill is present when “One-sided headaches,” standing clueless with M-GRI-S, is properly filled in to become MEGRIMS.

Thus is the solution achieved; in part by the science of deduction, in part by mother-wit, in part by erudition; appeals to as many as possible of the lobes of the brain. There is no nobler satisfaction than the fitting in of the last word that makes the pattern complete; one rises to lyric heights in the contemplation of the evolution of such a word as one enthusiastic constructor included in his design, the definition of which was “Parallel pairs of simulacra in echinoideans.” The cross-constructions showed BIVIA as the necessary filler and the vocabularies of the solvers were enriched by an addition of high esthetic value and utter incomprehensibility, to be used as occasion demands.

The cross word solver becomes a collector, a connoisseur of words. They lose, to him, their mundane purpose of a suitable medium for the exchange of thoughts, and take on an esoteric significance, akin to the appeal of slip-ware to the collector of pottery or the three-cornered Mauritius to the philatelist. He and Hamlet are one. “Words, words, words”—except that he has the advantage of the melancholy one. Hamlet’s words ran in decorous file, one after the other; the solver’s twine and intertwine, each leading to others, resulting in a harmonious whole unapproached by any except the masterpieces of classic literature.

It is generally conceded that as a form of amusement, cross words are very instructive, and that as a form of instruction, they are very amusing. The first thing that strikes the eye is the pattern in which the words are intermingled. Our experience teaches that an all-over interlock is an absolute necessity, and except in a few cases you will find that the puzzles in this book possess this quality. The advantages are obvious; when all the words interlock, you can check up the horizontal by the vertical, and vice versa.

Occasional stunt patterns are interesting, but as a general thing they are apt to detract from the value of a puzzle as a thing to be solved.

The numbering system used to be quite intricate and took up a lot of precious space. It required two numbers to each definition. On July 22, 1923, at the suggestion of an ardent puzzler who calls himself “Radical,” we offered the new system of numbering, which calls for only one number to a definition. It is quite simple to read either horizontally or vertically from one number, and forms a decided improvement over the old style. “Radical” deserves a special vote of thanks. All the puzzles in this book use the new system of numbering.

As for the words that find their way into cross words, strange as it may seem with the whole of the dictionary to choose from, the same old favorites have a way of recurring ceaselessly. Of course, all the two letter words are overworked, and many have to compromise on abbreviations. Our sole objection to abbreviations is that they cannot be defined without practically telling what they are. Parts of the verb “to be”; prepositions; the Egyptian Sun God, Ra; Pi, em, ma, pa, i.e., e.g., so, to, go, do, are to be found in almost every cross word puzzle, and the solver gets heartily tired of them. So the better patterns avoid these two word spaces. The three letters words contain some old favorites, too. Eel, emu and gnu are among the most popular. It seems that almost nine-tenths of the puzzles we look at have a “snake-like fish” wriggling in them somewhere. And who hasn’t found err, sin, and erg; cam, moa, tar; pal, ode, née, ace, e’er, o’er, sac; lee and lea; ape and pea; ego, ago and age; era and eon; Eli and spa; and all the notes of the scale from do to do. Truly, all these words are to the puzzler as buttons are to a shirt.

Among the longer words, the rule seems to hold that words with alternating consonants and vowels can be used more frequently than others. It is evident that a word containing three consecutive consonants, for instance, may have to take, in the word just below it, three consecutive vowels—and who hasn’t heard the cross-word constructor asking plaintively for a seven-letter word beginning with e-a-o and ending with u? Among the much-used words, you’ll surely find opera, onus, tenor, estop, used, ameer, renal, depot, emit, cabal, item, sere, lunar, nacre, neve, apse and the rest.

F. Gregory Hartswick

THE SCIENCE AND LORE OF CROSS WORD PUZZLES

Everyone knows the classic Riddle of the Sphinx: what is it that walks on four legs in the morning, on two at noon and on three in the evening? the answer being man, who goes on hands and knees in infancy, with bipedal locomotion in after years, and in old age with a cane.

The posing of such riddles was an important affair with ancient peoples. It was a tradition of the archaic Scandinavians, among whom it shows clear literary relations. Thus, the riddle—what is the name of the horse that flies with upright wings across the sea, the answer being ship—becomes the metaphor, of a type common in the Sagas—the upright-winged horse of the sea.

Old forms of writing take on puzzle forms. In the Maya hieroglyphics of Central America is found an element similar to the mechanism of the rebus. It is as though the symbol meaning “hair” in juxtaposition with the one meaning “ring,” might mean “hair and ring” or it might mean herring. This makes the decipherment of the Maya writing so very difficult for modern scholars. The old fashioned charade has rebus-like elements. Cryptography, of course, must have begun in the earliest times when a literate man had a secret message to convey. The most recondite systems of hidden writing have been devised both for practical use and literary fantasy, remembering only Poe’s ingenious speculations. Much of the “Baconian Theory” has revolved around supposed cryptography in Shakespeare.

Ancient and medieval folk were much given to anagrams; that is, to phrases of related meanings and made up of the same letters—as the masterpiece, “They see,” answer “The eyes,” or “Honor est a Nilo,” answer “Horatio Nelson.” Into theological controversy came such damnations as this: The Calvinistic opponents of Jacobus Arminius rearranged the letters of his name to spell, “vani orbis amicus,”—“friend of the false world.”

A recent “Baconian” argument based itself on an anagrammatical treatment of the long dedication of the sonnets. The author rearranged the letters of the dedication to form a statement that it was Lord Bacon who had written the verse. An experienced puzzler might object that he could rearrange the numerous letters to spell out a statement of almost anything, that he would rearrange the letters that make up Aristotle’s Poetics into a treatise proving that when the Democrats are in office hard times come. Similar to the anagram in principle is the transposition, in which you fill blanks in a text with words that are made up of the same letters; for instance, angered, enraged, derange.

Of ancient glory, too, is the palindrome, which is properly not a puzzle at all, but an ingenuity. A palindrome reads the same backward and forward, as in the familiar “Madam, I’m Adam,” and “Able was I ere I saw Elba.” Perhaps the most charming of antique palindromes is the Roman legal maxim, “Si nummi immunis,”—“if you pay you go free.”

But perhaps the most fascinating of all word puzzles are the types in which words are to be guessed from definitions. There is the well-known acrostic, where with definitions as clues you arrive at a set of words of which the initial letters, or finals or second letters or third, as may have been determined, will spell another or other words. During the struggle for Italian freedom an acrostic was seen in the shibboleth, Vittorio Emmanuele Re D’Italia, giving the name of the composer, Verdi. Most august of all is the fish symbol for Christ, which was held in much mystic veneration in the early Christian centuries. The Greek word for fish, Ichthys (Ιχθυς) was seen to be composed of the first letters of the sacred phrase, Iesous Christos Theou Huios Soter (Ἰησοῦς Χριστὸς Θεοῦ Υἱὸς Σῷτήρ), meaning “Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior.”

It is the feature of determining words from definitions that has made “word forms” the most popular genus of puzzle. A word form is a set of words arranged one under the other so that their letters may be read across and down to give sensible readings, sometimes the same readings across and down and sometimes different readings. They may be of many geometric configurations, as square, pyramid, octagon, etc. Their origin is lost in the mists of time.

Word forms, especially squares, have a considerable following of very skillful adepts, most of them members of the National Puzzlers’ League, who construct and solve them with the same sort of devotion that a chess player demonstrates toward chess. Among such the forms take the most learned guise and consist of the most unusual sort of words. With the adepts any word that has ever been printed in an English book is allowable, and thus there is a great selection of exotic words in various spellings from old gazetteers, books of travel, etc. The adept delights in words that no one has ever heard of before. Here are several examples of recondite ingenuities.

By Mentor, in The Enigma