The cache is not at the published coordinates.
Congratulations to hiking_fool for the FTF.
Francis Bacon was an influential English author, philosopher,
scientist and statesman who lived in the late 16th and early 17th
centuries. Bacon lived at the same time as William Shakespeare, and
while there are theories which suggest that Bacon is the true
author some of Shakespeare's works, these theories are generally
rejected by all but a few scholars.
Bacon was a man of many talents and interests, and he even
invented a cipher that could be used to conceal a secret message
within the text of another message.
In Bacon's cipher, two different typefaces are used to send a
non-encrypted message, and the secret message is conveyed by the
patterns of alternation between the two typefaces. This is not a
true cipher in the traditional sense, but instead a form of
steganographic (hidden) writing.
There are internet resources available for ayone who wants to
learn more about Bacon's cipher. I've included a short example of
it here, using a bold italized font to make the contrast in
typefaces more apparent. For the purposes of this exercise, the
letters I & J and U & V have been combined as per Bacon's
original formulation of this cipher:
You can check your answers for this puzzle on
Geochecker.com.
How can
my
Muse
want
subject
to invent,
While
thou
dost
breathe, that
pour'st
into
my
verse
Thine
own
sweet
argument,
too
excellent
For
every
vulgar
paper
to
rehearse?
How heavy do
I journey on
the
way,
When what
I seek (my
weary
travel's
end)
Doth
teach
that case and
that
repose
to say
'Thus far
the
miles are
measured from
thy
friend.'
How can I
then return
in
happy
plight
That am
debarred
the benefit
of rest?
When
day's
oppression
is not
eased by
night,
But
day
by night
and
night by
day
oppressed.
For
never-resting
time
leads
summer on
To
hideous
winter
and
confounds
him
there,
Sap checked
with
frost and
lusty
leaves
quite gone,
Beauty
o'er-snowed
and
bareness
every
where.
Three
beauteous
springs
to yellow
autumn
turned,
In
process
of the
seasons have I
seen,
Three
April
perfumes
in three hot
Junes
burned,
Since first I
saw you
fresh
which yet
are
green.
Thus can
my
love
excuse
the slow
offence
Of my
dull
bearer
when
from thee I
speed:
From
where
thou art why
should I
haste me
thence?
Till I
return,
of posting is
no
need.
But
thy
eternal
summer
shall not
fade,
Nor lose
possession
of
that
fair
thou
ow'st,
Nor
shall
death brag
thou
wand'rest
in his
shade,
When in
eternal
lines
to
time
thou
grow'st.
Then
were not
summer's
distillation
left
A
liquid
prisoner
pent
in
walls of
glass,
Beauty's
effect
with beauty
were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was.
from "Honorificabilitudinitatibus"Additional Waypoints