No. 2.
Ofoiioiiaso ortsiii sov eodisoioe afduiostifoi ft iftvi si tri oistoiv oiniafetsorit ifeov rsri inotiiiiv ridiiot, irio rivvio covit atrotfetsoria aioriti iitri tf oitovin tri aetifei ioreitit sov usttoi oioittstifo dfti afdooitior trso ifeov tri dfit otftfeov softriedi ft oistoiv oriofiforiti suitteii viireiiitifoi ft tri iarfoisiti, iiti trir uet otiiiotiv uitfti rid io tri eoviieciiiv rfasueostr tf rii dftrit tfoeei.
In the solution of the first of these ciphers we had little more than ordinary trouble. The second proved to be exceedingly difficult, and it was only by calling every faculty into play that we could read it at all. The first runs thus.
“Various are the methods which have been devised for transmitting secret information from one individual to another, by means of writing, illegible to any except him for whom it was originally designed; and the art of thus secretly communicating intelligence has been generally termed cryptography. Many species of secret writing were known to the ancients. Sometimes a slave’s head was shaved, and the crown written upon with some indelible coloring fluid; after which the hair being permitted to grow again, information could be transmitted with little danger that discovery would ensue until the ambulatory epistle safely reached its destination. Cryptography, however, pure, properly embraces those modes of writing which are rendered legible only by means of some explanatory key which makes known the real signification of the ciphers employed to its possessor.”
The key-phrase of this cryptograph is—“A word to the wise is sufficient.”
The second is thus translated—
“Nonsensical phrases and unmeaning combinations of words, as the learned lexicographer would have confessed himself, when hidden under cryptographic ciphers, serve to perpdex the curious enquirer, and baffle penetration more completely than would the most profound apothems of learned philosophers. Abstruse disquisitions of the scholiasts, were they but presented before him in the undisguised vocabulary of his mother tongue——”
The last sentence here (as will be seen) is broken off short. The spelling we have strictly adhered to. D, by mistake, has been put for l in perplex.
The key-phrase is—“Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re.”
In the ordinary cryptograph, as will be seen in reference to most of those we have specified above, the artificial alphabet agreed upon by the correspondents, is employed, letter for letter, in place of the usual or natural one. For example:—two parties wish to communicate secretly. It is arranged before parting that
| ) | shall stand | for | a | |
| ( | ————— | ” | b | |
| — | ————— | ” | c | |
| * | ————— | ” | d | |
| . | ————— | ” | e | |
| ’ | ————— | ” | f | |
| ; | ————— | ” | g | |
| : | ————— | ” | h | |
| ? | ————— | ” | i or j | |
| ! | ————— | ” | k | |
| & | ————— | ” | l | |
| 0 | ————— | ” | m | |
| ‘ | ————— | ” | n | |
| † | ————— | ” | o | |
| ‡ | ————— | ” | p | |
| ¶ | ————— | ” | q | |
| #[[TN1]] | ————— | ” | r | |
| >[ | ————— | ” | s | |
| [ | ————— | ” | t | |
| £ | ————— | ” | u or v | |
| $ | ————— | ” | w | |
| ¿ | ————— | ” | x | |
| ¡ | ————— | ” | y | |
| %[[TN2]] | ————— | ” | z | |
| [TN1] | Transcriber’s note: In the original publication of the magazine, the character used was a small right pointing hand, which is visible in the illustration of the crytograph below. Although a modern html version of this character exists, it will not display in many modern devices, depending on the capabilities of the device itself and the fonts available for use in the device. It has therefore been replaced in this list with #. |
| [TN2] | Transcriber’s note: In the original publication of the magazine, the character used was a small left pointing hand. No suitable html character was found and even if available, the limitations of some modern devices and fonts prevents its use in this ebook. It has therefore been replaced in this list with %. |
Now the following note is to be communicated—
“We must see you immediately upon a matter of great importance. Plots have been discovered, and the conspirators are in our hands. Hasten!”
These words would be written thus—
This certainly has an intricate appearance, and would prove a most difficult cipher to any one not conversant with cryptography. But it will be observed that a, for example, is never represented by any other character than ), b never by any other character than (, and so on. Thus by the discovery, accidental or otherwise, of any one letter, the party intercepting the epistle would gain a permanent and decided advantage; and could apply his knowledge to all the instances in which the character in question was employed throughout the cipher.
In the cryptographs, on the other hand, which have been sent us by our correspondent at Stonington, and which are identical in conformation with the cipher resolved by Berryer, no such permanent advantage is to be obtained.
Let us refer to the second of these puzzles. Its key-phrase runs thus:
Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re.
Let us now place the alphabet beneath this phrase, letter beneath letter—
| S | u | a | v | i | t | e | r | |
| A | b | c | d | e | f | g | h |
| i | n | m | o | d | o | |
| i | j | k | l | m | n |
| f | o | r | t | i | t | e | r | |
| o | p | q | r | s | t | u | v |
| i | n | r | e | |
| w | x | y | z |
We here see that
| a | stands for | ————— c | |
| d | stands for | ————— m | |
| e | stands for | g, n and z | |
| f | stands for | ————— o | |
| i | stands for | e, i, s and w | |
| m | stands for | ————— k | |
| n | stands for | j and x | |
| o | stands for | l, n and p | |
| r | stands for | h, q, v and y | |
| s | stands for | ————— a | |
| t | stands for | f, r and t | |
| u | stands for | ————— b | |
| v | stands for | ————— d | |
In this manner n stands for two letters, and e, o, and t for three each, while i and r represent each as many as four. Thirteen characters are made to perform the operations of the whole alphabet. The result of such a key-phrase upon the cipher, is to give it the appearance of a mere medley of the letters e, o, t, r and i—the latter character greatly predominating, through the accident of being employed for letters which, themselves, are inordinately prevalent in most languages—we mean e and i.
A letter thus written being intercepted, and the key-phrase unknown, the individual who should attempt to decipher it may be imagined guessing, or otherwise attempting to convince himself, that a certain character (i, for example,) represented the letter e. Looking throughout the cryptograph for confirmation of this idea, he would meet with nothing but a negation of it. He would see the character in situations where it could not possibly represent e. He might, for instance, be puzzled by four i’s forming of themselves a single word, without the intervention of any other character; in which case, of course, they could not be all e’s. It will be seen that the word wise might be thus constructed. We say this may be seen now, by us, in possession of the key-phrase; but the question will, no doubt, occur, how, without the key-phrase, and without cognizance of any single letter in the cipher, it would be possible for the interceptor of such a cryptograph to make any thing of such a word as iiii?
But again. A key-phrase might easily be constructed, in which one character would represent seven, eight, or ten letters. Let us then imagine the word iiiiiiiiii presenting itself in a cryptograph to an individual without the proper key-phrase; or, if this be a supposition somewhat too perplexing, let us suppose it occurring to the person for whom the cipher is designed, and who has the key-phrase. What is he to do with such a word as iiiiiiiiii? In any of the ordinary books upon Algebra will be found a very concise formula (we have not the necessary type for its insertion here) for ascertaining the number of arrangements in which m letters may be placed, taken n at a time. But no doubt there are none of our readers ignorant of the innumerable combinations which may be made from these ten i’s. Yet, unless it occur otherwise by accident, the correspondent receiving the cipher would have to write down all these combinations before attaining the word intended; and even when he had written them, he would be inexpressibly perplexed in selecting the word designed from the vast number of other words arising in the course of the permutation.
To obviate, therefore, the exceeding difficulty of deciphering this species of cryptograph, on the part of the possessors of the key-phrase, and to confine the deep intricacy of the puzzle to those for whom the cipher was not designed, it becomes necessary that some order should be agreed upon by the parties corresponding—some order in reference to which those characters are to be read which represent more than one letter—and this order must be held in view by the writer of the cryptograph. It may be agreed, for example, that the first time an i occurs in the cipher, it is to be understood as representing that character which stands against the first i in the key-phrase; that the second time an i occurs it must be supposed to represent that letter which stands opposed to the second i in the key-phrase, &c. &c. Thus the location of each cipherical letter must be considered in connexion with the character itself, in order to determine its exact signification.
We say that some pre-concerted order of this kind is necessary, lest the cipher prove too intricate a lock to yield even to its true key. But it will be evident, upon inspection, that our correspondent at Stonington has inflicted upon us a cryptograph in which no order has been preserved; in which many characters, respectively, stand, at absolute random, for many others. If, therefore, in regard to the gauntlet we threw down in April, he should be half inclined to accuse us of braggadocio, he will yet admit that we have more than acted up to our boast. If what we then said was not said suaviter in modo, what we now do is at least done fortiter in re.
In these cursory observations we have by no means attempted to exhaust the subject of Cryptography. With such object in view, a folio might be required. We have indeed mentioned only a few of the ordinary modes of cipher. Even two thousand years ago, Æneas Tacticus detailed twenty distinct methods; and modern ingenuity has added much to the science. Our design has been chiefly suggestive; and perhaps we have already bored the readers of the Magazine. To those who desire farther information upon this topic, we may say that there are extant treatises by Trithemius, Cap. Porta, Vignere, and P. Niceron. The works of the two latter may be found, we believe, in the library of the Harvard University. If, however, there should be sought in these disquisitions—or in any—rules for the solution of cipher, the seeker will be disappointed. Beyond some hints in regard to the general structure of language, and some minute exercises in their practical application, he will find nothing upon record which he does not in his own intellect possess.
EXTRACT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF HOWARD PINCKNEY, ETC.
———
THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS.
’Twas on the outskirts of a wood—
A wood of tall and aged trees,
That gave a charm to solitude,
A murmur to the breeze;
’Twas when frequent falls the leaf,
And we begin to say that brief
And briefer grows the day;
When, far away, the evening sky
Looks sad and sober to the eye;
When darker grows the rivulet,
Where, in some tiny eddy’s play,
The fallen leaves so fitful fret,
Like Hope, when we would hold it yet,
And it would fain be far away.
How beautiful the beechen tree!
A beechen tree of giant mould,
Whose roots did many a rock unfold.
Entwining them, as you might see:
For, branching from the parent stem,
A velvet moss just covered them;
They sought the nurture of the brook
That from its shade a deep green took,
And murmur’d like the lullaby
Of cradle-watchers, when they look
Upon the infant’s closing eye.
Forth stepping like the timid deer,
And hearing her own step with fear,
On came a gentle maid;
She crosses o’er the rivulet:
Her silken slipper is not wet—
Why should she be afraid?
She seems spell-bound, and yet seems not;
If fearful thus, why seek the spot?
Why stops she by the tree?
We have volition where to go,
And we may wander to and fro,
Yet, we may not be free—
For Love, though all unseen his chain,
Will draw us over land and main;
And though we meet as far between
As winter wild from summer green,
Yet Love, like Heaven, will be above
The hearts that truly vow to love.
With step, e’en as the maiden’s, light,
But not a step that e’er knew fright,
Comes one with love-lit look;
He clasps her with his arms around,
As is yon water lily bound
By the encircling brook,
And as it palely droops to hear
The music of the whispering water,
She listens with a charmed fear,
Bound by the spell which there has brought her
The while her fair brow bends and beams
Like that pale flower that loves the streams.
How to his heart he holds the flower!
“O! ever blessed be the hour
Which brings thee, Helen, to my side.
Our friends would frown, I know, my bird
If but our slightest word were heard;
But, oh! thou yet wilt be my bride—
For though we meet here but to part,
’Tis not with a divided heart;
Thou wert the soonest here to-day,
But no neglect kept me away;
I know this hour—I know no more—
The rest are but to tell it o’er.”
“I came the sooner, love,” said she,
With maidenly simplicity—
“Because, before the sun goes down,
Stern darkness in the woods will frown;
And though I reach my home while yet
The red clouds linger in the west,
Methinks dark forms the woods beset;
They trouble me with sad unrest;
How, yester-eve, the big trees moaned!
Methought for me they sighed and groaned:
The screech-owl screeched above my path—
It seemed to haunt me with its wrath:
And all the gentler birds have flown—
The loneliness is all my own!”
“Love, this is autumn now, you know;
To other lands the wild birds go—
They only rest in summer bower,
And only stay while lasts the flower;
But, Helen, not thus let it be
With all this love that binds us now;
In winter, bare will be the tree,
No bird will sing upon the bough—
But see where I have taught the beech,
If either here should roam alone,
Long after this blest hour has flown,
The vows of both to tell to each:
Our names I’ve circled with a heart,
As thus I hold thee to my own,
And thus, though we afar may part
As ever yet did fond ones sever,
The love that binds us holds forever.”
This beech tree was their trysting-place!
There, oft in summer’s fragrant eve,
Just when the red sun took his leave—
When the coy moon, with half hid face,
Peeped o’er the eastern hills afar,
With here and there a radiant star;
When twilight came, with sober mien,
And silence brooded o’er the scene—
Thither the maid would often stray,
Humming, may be, a laughing lay,
That told true love was all untrue,
And made of nothing great ado;
She’d have them think, if she were heard,
She scorned the very love she sought,
And that she sung like careless bird—
A maiden who was free in thought:
Who roamed, and, roaming, trolled a glee,
Because she wanted company.
Upon this eve they met to part
Till spring again should clothe the vine;
They pledged their faith with beating heart,
And made the beechen tree their shrine;
He watched her white dress, glimmering bright
Thro’ the dark woods: “Good night! good night!”
SYBIL AND MAIDEN.
———
BY G. G. FOSTER.
———
Sybil.
Why art thou sad? Why droops the willowy lid
O’er the deep fountain of that passionate eye?
What monster in thy bosom’s depths is playing,
And heaving thus those delicate billows, which
The wind of thy sweet breath but dares to swell,
Most daintily, and sighs to fly away?
Maiden.
I nothing know, but that in a dream
A spirit of light on the pale moonbeam
Flew into my chamber—and it did seem
Nought but a brighter and purer beam
That had dropped from the beautiful sky,
’Till I wakened—and lo! a lovely mouth,
Whose breath was sweet as winds of the south,
And an eye flashing soft with love and desire,
Which thrilled all my frame with quivering fire,
Peered out, as a cloud swept by;
And a soft voice whispered a thrilling tale,
And my eye grew dim and my red cheek pale.
Sybil.
Thy guest, fair maid, was Love! Nay, do not start,
And turn thy modest eyes upon the moon—
The god within thee but betrays himself
In every graceful motion. Thou dost pant
To learn the mysteries of thy new found worship.
The secret torrent rushing through thy veins
Makes eloquent music to thy listening heart,
Which beats unconsciously the measure out.
I know thy malady—so come with me:
I’ll cure thee with indulgence.
The maiden bent her white and stately neck,
And sounds of joy flew from her parted lips,
Like birds from roses—and the sorceress flung
A dainty chain of gold and gossamer
About her, and with sound of wings and breath
Of fragrance, vanished.
Maiden, look up! behold!
A dark-haired youth, with eyes of burning light,
Kneels gracefully before her; and his words,
Scarce heard for sighs, thrill to the inmost heart
Of that fair listener. He takes her hand—
His arm is round her—kisses warm and sweet
Rain on her lips and eyes—she gasps with joy,
And melts into his arms.
St. Louis, April, 1841.
SPORTS AND PASTIMES.—ANGLING.
The natural history of Fishes may be greatly promoted by anglers, and some knowledge of that history assuredly adds interest to the pursuits of the sportsman. He ought, therefore, to be able to skin and prepare his specimens, to observe and describe them with precision, and to dissect them with sufficient skill to take cognizance both of their external parts and their internal structure. Every naturalist, on the other hand, should be an angler, and that for more reasons than one. In the remoter and less peopled districts of the country, which so frequently present the most interesting fields for observation, he has no means of inspecting the finny tribes, except by capturing them propriâ manû, and his doing so will greatly contribute, not only to his scientific knowledge, but his social comfort—trouts when newly angled and nicely fried, being worthy of admiration, as choice productions of nature adorned by the skill of art. But this latter branch of our subject comes so home to the “business and bosoms” of all men, that we need not here dilate upon it.
In the hope, however, that some useful knowledge may be conveyed to the minds of our readers through the medium of the present work, we intend to devote a portion of our space to a brief introduction regarding the organic structure and physiology of fishes. We know, from experience, that time may hang heavy even on the hands of anglers, who are seldom either feeble or faint-hearted men. We know that spring (all genial though it be in poet’s fancy) has yet its frequent flaky snows on mead and mountain, its spiky ice along the crystal stream;—that summer in its sunlit splendor suffers its long-enduring droughts, its sudden speats, and fearful overflows;—that melancholy autumn, in spite of all its mild effulgence, is not seldom violent, and perturbed
“By lightning, by fierce winds, by trampling waves;”
—and that each of these conditions of time and space is adverse to the angler’s art. Even with every sweet advantage yielded by cheerful spring, by glorious summer, by refulgent autumn (we now seek to soothe the seasons by more endearing terms), daylight does not last for ever, and so the angler cannot always ply his trade. Of night-fishing we seldom think—except in murmuring dreams of rheumatism and water-rats—and eye-sight often fails,
“When comes still evening on, and twilight grey
Has in her sober livery all things clad.”
Moreover, it is chiefly the home-hunting angler, he whose “lines have fallen in pleasant places,” who dwells habitually by river side, or sees “beneath the opening eyelids of morn” some broad lake gladdening his daily gaze—in moonlight sparkling with bright columnar fire within its cincturing trees, or greener margins—he, or some happy friend who shares his dwelling, alone can cast his angles in the night. No man, who “long in populous city pent,” wanders for a time in lonesome gladness by the side of glittering waters, can wait with patience for a summer night, however beautiful may be the countless stars—
“That sparkle in the firmament of June.”
Whether he will or no, he must wend his way to grassy bank, or pebbly shore, or alder-skirted brink, and if there he fishes all the live-long day, he cannot fish at night, at least he ought not so to do. He who spareth not the rod hateth himself, and produces a degree of fatigue and satiety which ought never to mingle with his healthful toil.
Suppose, then, that the gentle reader does not fish at night, that he dines heartily (sero sed serio), imbibes moderately, takes tea sedately, and has still an hour to spare before a light supper—let him read this article, and we promise to be as little prolix as we can.
