The Coming of the Cryptic Clue

We have seen that in the original American crosswords, and in their earliest successors in Britain, all the clues were definitions. But crosswords had not long been established in our papers before cryptic clues began to appear. What is a cryptic clue? In its widest and earliest sense, it can be described as a clue which is not a plain definition but can lead the solver to the answer by disguised, and more entertaining, means. Who was the benefactor of the crossword community who wrote the first cryptic clue?

After some research I doubt if it is possible at this length of time to make a definite pronouncement, but I think it safe to say that the first composer to use cryptic clues at all extensively was Torquemada, first in the Saturday Westminster, and soon afterwards when he started his famous Observer series in March 1926. Some appreciation of his work as a pioneer, and of his genius, will be found in the next chapter: it is enough here to say that whether he was the first to write a cryptic clue or not, such clues were making fitful appearances in many crosswords by 1927.

At first most of the deceptions were naturally very mild; an example from a 1927 Daily Telegraph puzzle is: “Normally grateful and comforting, but the wet variety spoils everything [7]”. Mild as the deception is, one can feel that the solver could get a little more kick out of arriving at BLANKET from this than from “Article of bed-clothing”.

Later chapters will be devoted to analysing the various types of the modern clue; here it may be of interest to do the same thing, less fully and inevitably less systematically, to the ancient variety. It will be convenient to use first the Times Crossword Puzzle No. 1, of February 1930. I don’t want to spoil the fun for those readers who may like to solve it, so I shall not refer to individual clues and their answers, but in order to exemplify ancient methods I have analysed and roughly classified the Across clues of this puzzle as follows:

Plain definitions: five. These might come straight from a dictionary.
Elusive definitions: seven. These, while they refer to nothing but the normal meaning of the word, define it in various roundabout ways: one of them I would venture to call inaccurate, since the answer is an adjective, whereas the clue could hardly suggest anything but either a verb or a noun.
Hints rather than definitions: six. These suggest the sort of word needed without actually defining it. Nowadays one might criticize such clues as too vague, but their composer, especially in those early days, might well defend them by saying “You call these clues hints: well, isn’t a hint a clue?”, and one could hardly deny that it is. Nevertheless, the tendency since those days has been away from such clues, and they do undoubtedly fail to satisfy one requirement of a good clue, namely that when the solver has thought of his answer he should be able to feel fairly sure that he is right.
Indications of the letters, not of the meaning, of the word: three. This type, like the rather vague hint at a meaning, was fairly common in the early days of the cryptic clue. That was natural enough at the time: an indication had been given — why give more than one? Here again, as with the vague hint, the modern tendency has been against clues that give no suggestion of the meaning of the word required, and I will say nothing till later except that I agree with that tendency. Even today such clues still appear in the most reputable circles; whether they deserve adverse criticism now may be thought a matter of opinion, but it would certainly have been harsh to criticize them in 1930.
Bald anagrams, indicated by the parenthetical “(anag.)”: two. This is really a specialized form of Type 4, just discussed: when the idea of using anagrams for clues was first lit upon, this form of presentation was universal. This type, too, is still sometimes used, though most composers prefer nowadays a less bald and more artistic approach to anagrams, of which more later.
Much more modern cryptic clues with two parts, one being a definition, the other a different kind of indication: four. It is very interesting to find these at such an early stage in the crossword’s development. Two of them include anagrams, disguised in the modern way, with a definition added: one of these, let us notice, is an indirect anagram, i.e. a synonym of the anagram is given in the clue, not the anagram itself. The fairness of this device will be discussed later, but we must note at once that it has been used by many composers throughout the crossword’s history.

To sum up, out of twenty-seven clues, four certainly, probably four or five others, and possibly a few more, might find favour in a reputable crossword today: at least half would probably fail nowadays to satisfy. But we mustn’t forget that only four years had passed since clues were all definitions. Progress, therefore, had been by no means slow.

Analysis of the Down clues shows slightly different results:

Types 3 and 5 disappear; there are six plain definitions, no less than sixteen elusive ones, three references to the letters of the word only, and six cryptic clues; but I don’t consider that these technical differences alter the main picture very much. Let us now examine some samples from later pre-war crosswords, with a view to observing developments. We will take first a rather later Times puzzle: how does it compare with No. 1?

The number of plain definitions has fallen from five to three.
There are nine elusive definitions instead of seven, so the total number of clues which we can include under the heading of definition remains the same.
The vague hints have gone altogether an interesting sign.
Indications of letters only: two instead of three, and one of these is of some interest, being an instance of what we now call a “hidden” clue, but a very antiquated form of it: “My dog wags his tail at policemen, but he won’t wag it at ordinary people (hidden) [8]”. Note that, as with anagrams of Type 5, the word “hidden” is actually given, there is no surprise. One merely has to search the clue for eight consecutive letters that form a word—not a difficult task, nor, I think, a very rewarding one. Yet a “hidden” clue in its more artistic modern form can, if not appearing too often, be very satisfying. More of this later.
Two bald anagrams, no change.
Twelve cryptic clues instead of four — a big advance. This, I think, is an indication of what was happening in crosswords everywhere, though the advance may have been quicker in The Times than elsewhere. There are, however, three of these cryptic clues with whose wording I personally should quarrel nowadays. They are as follows: “Caning me — and how the schoolmaster looks when he is” — MENACING. Here we have an anagram and a definition, with a near connection in sense between the two — the essence of an artistic cryptic clue.

One thing is lacking: there is nothing to show that “caning me” is an anagram. Don’t mistake me, I don’t want that dull little “(anag.)” back! But why not something that will give a hint of an anagram, something that will it in with the general sense and at the same time can be interpreted to mean that the letters are to be mixed? In this case the addition of “roughly” or “with abandon” would do. I shall not go fully into the principle which governs such matters yet; it is enough here to call attention to the point, and to mention incidentally that such anagram clues are still, even now, so common that a solver is apt to suspect any word, or combination of words, that has the same number of letters as the answer of indicating an anagram, even with no hint of letter-mixture: this I dislike.

“Coastal noises” — SOUNDS. This is cryptic, in that it is not a straight definition, but alludes with the adjective to a second meaning of the word. To my mind it does so inaccurately, so that if I thought of that answer I should hesitate to write it in. A sound is a narrow tract of water joining larger ones. It lies between coasts, but does that make it coastal? I doubt it. If I had to clue the word in that sort of way, I should prefer “Watery noises”.

“Suitable bonnets for ostlers, when they’ve finished work” — DUNSTABLES. This refers, quite entertainingly, to “done stables”, the generally discredited and corny pun has lived on in crosswords (where it is very helpful to the composer) and still seems to be tolerated if not overdone. To the wording used here I have the same sort of objection that I had to the anagram in No. 1. There is no hint thats pun is intended. Something like “… as ostlers say, we hear, when they’ve finished work” would serve , then the solver would know what he was looking for, which I think he has a right to do, as long as he reads the clue correctly.

But these are only three clues out of twelve: let me also quote, as instances to which no such objections can be raised, “Beverage that may produce a trance” — NECTAR. “Fruit that sounds like a bathing belle’s companion” — BEECH-NUT. “Form of remission obtained by providing a sailor with a key” — ABSOLUTION. And this crossword appeared over thirty years ago, and only about five years after cryptic clues were invented.

I said just now that the growth of cryptic clues may have been more rapid in the Times puzzle than elsewhere. This is borne out by an examination of some Everyman crosswords in the Observer, which appeared a few years later than the Times puzzle just analysed. I take two of these at random.

In each of them there are more plain definitions than in the Times puzzle — eight and seven, there are eleven elusive definitions in each, mere hints are rare — one in each, indications of letters only, one and three, bald anagrams, two in each, cryptic clues, nine in one, only five in the other; and in the second one there is one clue of a type that I haven’t mentioned yet, a plain quotation with a blank for the required word. My impression is that this type of clue was at first very rare except in Torquemada’s puzzles — he had his own special reason for using it, as I shall explain in the next chapter — but that it has, if anything, grown in prevalence since. I should like personally to see it die out, because I find its solution, whether easy or difficult, dull: I will give my reasons in due course.

I don’t want to give the impression that in writing this chapter I am trying cunningly to suggest that these were very inferior, early efforts, and that when I started composing crosswords I soon changed all that! Nothing could be further from the truth, and to prove it I will now mercilessly analyse my first effort in the Observer at an Everyman-type crossword, in 1941. It wasn’t called Everyman, because in war-time, after the first year or so, there was only room for one puzzle each Sunday: we had a Torquemada type one Sunday, an Everyman type the next, all of them under the traditional name of Torquemada. But the Everyman-type puzzles really were of the everyday kind, with blocks, not bars, in the diagram and with reasonably familiar words throughout, though they were supposed, for the sake of Torquemada addicts, to be a little more difficult than an everyday puzzle: nevertheless, they should be judged and analysed in the same way.

Now what do I find in this puzzle? Plain definitions: two; elusive definitions: no less than fourteen, one shameless hint, references to letters only: two (yes, I own up), cryptic clues: eleven, at least four of which I shouldn’t pass nowadays, and finally one quotation with a blank. An example of a cryptic clue of which I now strongly disapprove is “See someone in three times six and we turn back” — IN-TER-VI-EW. It makes nonsense: the reference to ter (Latin) is out of place here, “we turn back” does not mean “we turns back” — of that more later in its proper place. So I am not claiming to have done much in those days to forward the cause of progress.

What about the first post-war Everyman, the first puzzle of the present Everyman series, which I initiated? Definitions: two; elusive definitions: still, I’m sorry to say, ten, hints and references to letters only: none, bald anagrams: one, cryptic: fifteen, at least four of which I should now call unsatisfactory; and two quotations. “Is this terrier ever the limit?” — SKYE, is one of those I disapprove of. The query is hardly enough to hit at the pun.

Finally, lest these analyses should degenerate into a boring catalogue, we will leap to the present time, when the genuine cryptic clue in the majority of crosswords far outnumbers all other kinds of clue. Naturally composers vary in their methods: many do not subscribe to the principles I am going to lay down in later chapters, and no doubt they will continue to ignore them — why shouldn’t they? I shall give my reasons; but many may not think them cogent and may maintain that crosswords could easily become too stereotyped, and much can be said for that view. All I maintain is that for me these principles are right, and that, as long as I stick to them, I believe my clues to be fair; my successors in the Everyman crossword follow them, so in their puzzles you will find endless examples of clues that I approve of; and you will find very many examples elsewhere. If you found them always, everywhere, crosswords might well be too monotonous, and it is only my personal opinion that they would be fairer to the solver.

I will finish this chapter, as I started it, with a Times crossword, a typical one, I think, of today. I think it is fair to say that the Times crossword has achieved a sort of unwritten but generally acknowledged seniority among crosswords of the everyday type whose clues are mainly cryptic, and I have already stated my belief that cryptic clues grew quicker there than elsewhere. I always find there some clues that I like: I usually, too, find liberties taken which I should never take. There I will leave the matter and make this last analysis of a recent puzzle: Plain definitions: one; elusive definitions: five; mere hints: none; references to letters only: two, bald anagrams: none, all the rest, twenty-four are cryptic, and in ten of them, at the most, I would quarrel, perhaps carpingly here and there, with the wording, e.g. “Seamen who put rings on their fingernail” — DECK HANDS: I can’t reconcile myself to that “who”. “Livens our disgust” — REVULSION: here, as I noted in a former puzzle, we have an anagram of which no hint is given. At the same time let me commend the neatness of “Dead tired?” — OUT OF BREATH, and, especially, of “A person who uses a car has imbibed nothing, but this one has imbibed a lot” — CAROUSER. Both of these are perfect clues. Incidentally, there are no quotational clues in this puzzle. That is not, I believe, typical, more often than not one finds one or two.