...and curiouser.
I got an email from a Mr Grandison of London, England (or someone writing on his behalf, whatever, sure this dude is very old). Another Rupert Grandison. I can't write this without laughing. This Rupert Grandison is the Grandison's grandson. He knows all about the Gold-Bug, about his grandfather. He believes there is indeed treasure and he wants my help, everyone's help in finding out what happened.
Here is the email address of his assistant if you want to help. See what a nice guy I am. See you when we're rich - that study about Arts degrees not earning you any money is feeling falser by the minute.
Saturday 1 September 2007
Saturday 25 August 2007
?
It's just sinking in that if the story is true, that Grandison was really Legrand, that the treasure was real and stolen by Moray, then perhaps...
that treasure is real and really somewhere?
that treasure is real and really somewhere?
The Gold-Bug
Here is the story of my treasure hunt.
It was buried inside a mound of newspaper clippings. An envelope. Opened, I'm sure, by Mabbott. But maybe he'd then lost it? Who knows.
Anyway, it was a letter to Poe himself. Dated 1845. From a Mr Rupert Grandison, of Sullivan's Island, South Carolina. If you know your Poe, you'll recognise that as the setting for The Gold-Bug, the story of codebreaking and treasure-hunting that was a sensation when published.
But this is the real sensation.
It was a true story.
Only the names were changed. Rupert Grandison aka William Legrand found the buried treasure of Captain Kidd, by deciphering that very cipher as published in Poe's story.
So Grandison's letter to Poe was one of accusation. For he wanted to know how Poe had heard of his story and of the very same cipher.
Grandison's friend and accomplice - equivalent to the unnamed narrator in Poe's story - was called Moray. And it turns out Moray stole a considerable portion of this treasure from his friend... and vanished.
Grandison suggested that Poe could only have known the details of this story if he had in fact been in correspondence with Moray. Grandison wanted to know of Moray's whereabouts, and...here I quote...
'as you, sir, have made your fortune on an account of my fortune stolen by a thief, it befits you to make such recompense'
No copy of a reply from Poe, nothing about this anywhere else, this is an academic treasure.
It was buried inside a mound of newspaper clippings. An envelope. Opened, I'm sure, by Mabbott. But maybe he'd then lost it? Who knows.
Anyway, it was a letter to Poe himself. Dated 1845. From a Mr Rupert Grandison, of Sullivan's Island, South Carolina. If you know your Poe, you'll recognise that as the setting for The Gold-Bug, the story of codebreaking and treasure-hunting that was a sensation when published.
But this is the real sensation.
It was a true story.
Only the names were changed. Rupert Grandison aka William Legrand found the buried treasure of Captain Kidd, by deciphering that very cipher as published in Poe's story.
So Grandison's letter to Poe was one of accusation. For he wanted to know how Poe had heard of his story and of the very same cipher.
Grandison's friend and accomplice - equivalent to the unnamed narrator in Poe's story - was called Moray. And it turns out Moray stole a considerable portion of this treasure from his friend... and vanished.
Grandison suggested that Poe could only have known the details of this story if he had in fact been in correspondence with Moray. Grandison wanted to know of Moray's whereabouts, and...here I quote...
'as you, sir, have made your fortune on an account of my fortune stolen by a thief, it befits you to make such recompense'
No copy of a reply from Poe, nothing about this anywhere else, this is an academic treasure.
Sunday 19 August 2007
!
I've found a treasure. A bona-fide literary treasure. I am so going to get my Master's.
Hell, this could be a doctorate.
I'll tell all anon.
Hell, this could be a doctorate.
I'll tell all anon.
Tuesday 24 July 2007
Metzengerstein
The first of Poe's tales acknowledged to actually be by him. The kid of this name receives his inheritance and becomes a baron so cruel that he sets light to the stables of the family rival to his, and kills the king of the family and all the king's horses. And the next day, a mysterious horse turns up in his stables. And... duh. He gets obsessed with riding it and nothing else. Until one day his castle bursts into flames and he plunges on the horse's back into the fire and is killed. The last of the Metzengerstein line. Typically jaunty Poe stuff.
Now this other researcher Ben Fisher published a paper saying that this story wasn't so much fictional. It was in a manner of speaking true, autobiographical, but with a metaphorical transformation akin to that of the mysterious horse. Poe was himself orphaned at a young age. And the castle represented the home of his foster-father John Allan. Whom he really didn't like.
The one annoying thing is that a lot of the correspondence between Fisher and Mabbott is locked up under seal until 2025. I bet there's some really interesting stuff in there.
Now this other researcher Ben Fisher published a paper saying that this story wasn't so much fictional. It was in a manner of speaking true, autobiographical, but with a metaphorical transformation akin to that of the mysterious horse. Poe was himself orphaned at a young age. And the castle represented the home of his foster-father John Allan. Whom he really didn't like.
The one annoying thing is that a lot of the correspondence between Fisher and Mabbott is locked up under seal until 2025. I bet there's some really interesting stuff in there.
Thursday 19 July 2007
where I am now
I'm out in the mid-west right now. Iowa. I scraped together some money from a scholarship and I'm rifling through the Edgar Allan Poe Archive, the papers of Thomas Ollive Mabbott. He is the don of Poe researchers. He's got copies of everything Poe ever wrote, correspondence as well as fiction. There's a lot in there.
I'm not getting out much, but I am getting much out.
I'm not getting out much, but I am getting much out.
Wednesday 23 May 2007
The Great Dupin
The inspiration for Dupin. This is awesome, this is what made me decide to do this master's in the first place.
Auguste Dupin was the first of the literary mastermind detectives, before even Sherlock Holmes. Dupin was only in three stories of Poe's - The Murders In The Rue Morgue, The Purloined Letter and The Mystery Of Marie Roget - and then Ellery Queen wrote some more stories about Dupin that I read as a kid. But still he was Poe's, and to Paris as Holmes was to London. Even though Conan Doyle made Holmes pretty snippy about him in 'A Study In Scarlet' -
"It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remind me of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of stories."
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."
But the inspiration in turn for Dupin was a real historical person, Eugene Vidocq. (Arguably the most famous person ever to have the letters O C Q consecutively in their name.) Vidocq was a thief who turned police informer and then into policeman. He introduced many of the techniques of modern police investigation. And there is a members' club, the Vidocq Society, of detectives and forensics who still meet every month and discuss unsolved cases brought to them.
How. Cool. Is. That?
Poe made Dupin snippy about him in Rue Morgue -
"We must not judge of the means," said Dupin, "by this shell of an examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but, not unfrequently, these are so ill adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain's calling for his robe-de-chambre - pour mieux entendre la musique. The results attained by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing, their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser and a persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a star by glances—to view it in a side-long way, by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to behold the star distinctly—is to have the best appreciation of its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but, in the former, there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the firmanent by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.
But every literary detective is snippy about his rivals, especially if they are an inspiration. That's the argument in my thesis.
Auguste Dupin was the first of the literary mastermind detectives, before even Sherlock Holmes. Dupin was only in three stories of Poe's - The Murders In The Rue Morgue, The Purloined Letter and The Mystery Of Marie Roget - and then Ellery Queen wrote some more stories about Dupin that I read as a kid. But still he was Poe's, and to Paris as Holmes was to London. Even though Conan Doyle made Holmes pretty snippy about him in 'A Study In Scarlet' -
"It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remind me of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of stories."
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."
But the inspiration in turn for Dupin was a real historical person, Eugene Vidocq. (Arguably the most famous person ever to have the letters O C Q consecutively in their name.) Vidocq was a thief who turned police informer and then into policeman. He introduced many of the techniques of modern police investigation. And there is a members' club, the Vidocq Society, of detectives and forensics who still meet every month and discuss unsolved cases brought to them.
How. Cool. Is. That?
Poe made Dupin snippy about him in Rue Morgue -
"We must not judge of the means," said Dupin, "by this shell of an examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but, not unfrequently, these are so ill adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain's calling for his robe-de-chambre - pour mieux entendre la musique. The results attained by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing, their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser and a persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a star by glances—to view it in a side-long way, by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to behold the star distinctly—is to have the best appreciation of its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but, in the former, there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the firmanent by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.
But every literary detective is snippy about his rivals, especially if they are an inspiration. That's the argument in my thesis.
Thursday 17 May 2007
in the family
There's something else I never told them at LAP when I was applying for my master's, in case they think I'm a crazy. I think I've got a weird family connection to Poe. Almost like I was fated to fall under his spell. When my dad retired he - like most parents - got obsessed with tracing his family history (cheaper than buying a Chevy). And pretty conclusively, I'm related to this poet called Frances Osgood. (Mr Wiki also says that there was a famous Peter Osgood who played soccer in the UK, I'm not related to him. I suck at sport. I like books.) Now Fanny had married a painter Samuel Osgood, and as wiki says, the engraving was based on a portrait he did of her. And I guess I'm sprung somewhere from that union. But - as wiki says - she'd separated from him and she met Poe who - although he was also married to his sickly wife Virginia- became obsessed with her. And wrote her this riddling valentine. But he wasn't the only one interested in her. The infamous Rufus Griswold, renowned in Poe circles at least as a character assassin - check out the obituary he published under the pseudonym Ludwig. Like most, I think his enmity was spurred if not started by his rivalry for the fair hand of ... my great-great-great-grandmother (however many greats it was).
Friday 11 May 2007
Edgar Allan Poe
He's had a fittingly gothic stranglehold on my imagination ever since I got a battered paperback of horror stories as a kid. I was too scared to open it for about a week because of the shock of the lurid face screaming on the cover, a face that still floats gaping in my nightmares. Not that the illustration had anything to do with the stories. When I finally read them, something more shadowy wormed its way into my mind's corner. Something itchy and flitting.
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