which the old quarter-master had called our attention I have no means of
determining; but, owing perhaps to the rapidity with which all the
subsequent events had transpired, it seemed to be scarcely five minutes.
In that interval a radical change had come over the heavens. The whole
of the larboard horizon was covered with a dense black cloud, extending
to the very zenith, and spreading with incredible velocity around the
seaboard and over the vault of heaven. Even as I gazed, the rising
clouds began to encroach on the western firmament, until only a narrow
speck of sky, through which the declining sun shone out with a ghastly
lustre was seen in that quarter of the horizon. In a moment more the
massy curtain of cloud obscured even this opening, and nothing was seen
above or around us but the wild and ominous darkness, which, reflected
from the unruffled surface of the deep, and struggling with the few
faint gleams of light that yet remained, wrapt everything in its own
sepulchral gloom. Never shall I forget the expression of my companions’
faces in that death-like obscurity.
The wind, meanwhile, had for the twentieth time within the last hour
died away, and we now lay moving unquietly on the troubled surface of
the deep. The man-of-war was to be seen in his old position, and as he
rose and fell sluggishly in the distant gloom, his white canvass
gleaming out with sepulchral effect through the darkness, one might
almost have fancied that the shadowy foe was some gigantic spirit ship,
hanging like an evil genius upon our quarter. As if awed by the sudden
change which had come over the firmament, both vessels had
simultaneously ceased firing. The pause on the part of the Englishman,
however, was only momentary. The outlines of his shadowy form were soon
illuminated by the red glare of his guns, bringing his tall masts out in
bold relief against the gloomy back-ground, and shedding a sulphurous
hue on everything around. The sullen booming of the guns; the ghastly
light flung over the deep; the low unquiet murmurs of the sea; and the
darkness gathering more and more terrific over the firmament and
reflected back from the sea until it seemed as colorless as ink, made up
a scene whose sublimity and horror no pen can describe. The men looked
like ghosts, as they flitted to and fro across the decks; and on every
countenance was impressed the feelings of the awestruck owner.
“Cannot yonder fellow see the doom that awaits him, unless he gives over
firing, and prepares for the squall?” said the old quarter-master.
Even as he spoke a low hollow murmur was heard as if coming out of the
deep, which struck a nameless terror into our hearts. It was the sure
presage of the coming hurricane. The men were already aloft getting in
the sails, but as that murmured sound struck on the skipper’s ear, he
shouted,
“Loose and let run—in with every thing—lose not a second—cut with and
cut all.”
He had hardly commenced speaking when the dark canopy of clouds on the
starboard seaboard lifted up, as if by magic, several degrees from the
horizon, displaying a long lurid, yet sickly streak of light, against
which the surges rose and fell in bold relief. At the same instant that
low wild sound was heard again rising out of the deep; then a hoarse
murmur, the like of which I had never listened to before, issued from
the lurid seaboard; then an ominous pause of a moment, and only a
moment, succeeded; and, while we gazed in mute wonder on each other at
these extraordinary phenomena, a deep, smothered rumbling sound was
heard, growing rapidly nigher and nigher, and increasing in loudness as
it approached; the sea on the starboard horizon became a mass of foam;
and, with a rushing noise, the tempest swept down upon us, hissing,
roaring, and screaming through our rigging, as if a thousand unearthly
beings were riding by upon the blast. The men had scarcely time to see
the approaching danger, and hear the captain’s cry,
“Down, for your lives, down—cut all, and slide by the backstays,”
before we were lying almost on our beam ends, while the sea flew over us
in a dense shower of spray, almost blinding our sight.
“Hard up!” thundered the skipper.
“Ay, ay, sir!”
It was a period of fearful peril. For several moments, during the first
force of the squall, we knew not whether our little craft would right
again. The mingled roar of the wind and water meanwhile was terrific,
and sufficient of themselves to paralyze the stoutest heart. As far as
the eye could see, on every hand, the sea was as flat as a table, and
covered with foam. The pressure of the hurricane even on our bare poles
was tremendous. Every one was forced to grasp a rope, to keep himself
from being blown bodily overboard. At length, however, with a painful
effort, our gallant craft slowly righted, staggered a moment uncertainly
beneath the squall, and then catching the hurricane well aft, went off
like a thunderbolt before the gale.
“Thank God!” ejaculated the skipper, drawing a long breath.
“Amen!” was my silent response.
During these few last moments of thrilling suspense, I had forgotten the
Englishman altogether, but he now recurred to my thoughts, and I looked
eagerly ahead for him. The driving spray, however, shut out everything,
except in our immediate vicinity, from our sight. At length, however, my
attention was arrested by seeing a tall spar rising over the mist on our
lee-bow, and, rushing on to it with inconceivable velocity, we were soon
on the weather quarter of the foe. Never shall I forget that sight. The
huge ship was lying on his beam-ends, and his mizen-mast had already
been cut away in an unsuccessful attempt to right him. The sea rolled
over him, as we approached, in cataracts. For an instant we gave
ourselves up for lost, as we were driving right on to the unhappy
stranger. At that moment, however, we saw his mainmast go over his side.
He righted slowly. We were now so near that I could have pitched a
biscuit on board.
“Hard up—ha-a-rd!” thundered the Englishman.
“Luff—luff!” roared the skipper, as we drove on to the quarter of the
foe.
It was a thrilling moment. For the space of a second we seemed dashing
right into the foe, and a stifled shriek burst from every lip; but just
as we gave up all for lost, the two vessels shot apart, grazed each
other in passing, and then rushed like maddened coursers each on his own
course. In less than a quarter of an hour, the foe had vanished in the
mists upon our larboard quarter.
* * * * *
THE DERVISH.
AN EASTERN LEGEND.
BY W. FALCONER.
The following little tale was related to me by a Catholic
Missionary, (who had resided thirty years at Pondicherry,) on
board the Panurge, during a voyage to Mauritius. It is curious
to remark how the early traditions of all lands have certain
points of resemblance, as this is exactly in the Rip Van Winkle
vein, and is an Indian legend as old as the mountain.
Diary.
The Sultan revelled in the gay kiosque,
Where Ganges’ waters to the morning rolled,
Quaffing the snow-cool wine from cups of gold;
A humble Dervish prayed in the lone mosque—
“Prophet of God!” with fervor deep, he cried,
“Grant me a token that my prayer is heard!”
He raised his eye, and lo! a lovely bird
Upon a pillar’s marble crown he spied;
No fairer warbler, from the Swerga-bowers,
E’er bathed in dews of paler earthly flowers,
The light of Aden on its green wings bringing;
Still, as he gazed, its colors richer grew—
At length, through morn’s fresh glades, away it flew,
Leaving the lone mosque with its music ringing.
The Dervish followed over mount and plain,
The spirit-bird still flitting on before him,
Th’ hour-numbering sun unheeded speeding o’er him—
He was all ear to drink its gushing strain.
A vain pursuit!—scarce on the bough alighted,
On, on it glanced, to be afresh pursued,
The pilgrim’s courage glowing unsubdued,
His soul on fire—his panting heart delighted!
But where the sunset’s heav’n-unfolding flood
Streams through the columns of the Banian wood,
Alas! ’tis melting from his eager eye,
Fading away with the quick fading beams—
A lovely phantom from the Land of Dreams—
Gone, as it came, to bowers beyond the sky.
’Neath dreamy twilight’s twinkling, dew-fed lamp,
He stretched his weary limbs along the moss
Under the Banian’s shade, and mourned the loss
Of the sweet-vision on his night-couch damp,
Yet slept at length, nor waked till dewy morn
Closed the full stars and oped the infant buds,
’Rousing the warblers of the Indian woods:
But his bright bird was gone, and he is lorn!
Yet prays, and in a fountain’s cooling waves,
With large ablutions, his hot brow he laves,
Resumes his staff, and seeks his humble home—
A weary journey—days and months speed by
Ere he hath reached that mountain summit high,
The emerald pillar of the sapphire dome
Amid whose rocks his little chapel stood:
But lo! what vision bursts upon his gaze!
Domes, spires and churches, ’neath the sunset rays,
Gleaming ’mid many a green and palmy wood.
The wayward Genii, he remembered, loved
To weave such cities of the filmy light.
Begun and finished in a single night;
But still his wonder grew, as lost he roved
Through streets and squares built of substantial stone,
Where late the camel-herds were browsing lone,
And gleamed the crescent from the minaret.
Was he awake?—the crowd around him spoke
A strange, rough tongue—new wonders on him broke,
And wonder filled the eyes of all he met.
A Fakir passed. Of him he wildly asks
Who, what, and where he is? With wondering smile,
Answers the Moslem, “From a northern isle,
Whose iron-coast a frozen girdle clasps,
Came Islam’s foes, and this rich city grand
Is the creation of the Infidel—
The haughty lords of radiant Indian land—
A tale most sad for Moslem lips to tell!”
A hundred years had fled since he had chased
The spirit-bird, swift as a dream effaced;
And that sweet warbler was a sainted sprite,
Sent from its rest, to lead so good a man
To Christian light—for so the legend ran
Which cheered my vigil on the ocean bright.
* * * * *
A FEW WORDS ON SECRET WRITING.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
As we can scarcely imagine a time when there did not exist a necessity,
or at least a desire, of transmitting information from one individual to
another, in such manner as to elude general comprehension; so we may
well suppose the practice of writing in cipher to be of great antiquity.
De La Guilletiere, therefore, who, in his “Lacedæmon Ancient and
Modern,” maintains that the Spartans were the inventors of Cryptography,
is obviously in error. He speaks of the _scytala_ as being the origin of
the art; but he should only have cited it as one of its earliest
instances, so far as our records extend. The _scytala_ were two wooden
cylinders, precisely similar in all respects. The general of an army, in
going upon any expedition, received from the ephori one of these
cylinders, while the other remained in their possession. If either party
had occasion to communicate with the other, a narrow strip of parchment
was so wrapped around the _scytala_ that the edges of the skin fitted
accurately each to each. The writing was then inscribed longitudinally,
and the epistle unrolled and dispatched. If, by mischance, the messenger
was intercepted, the letter proved unintelligible to his captors. If he
reached his destination safely, however, the party addressed had only to
involve the second cylinder in the strip to decipher the inscription.
The transmission to our own times of this obvious mode of cryptography
is due, probably, to the _historical_ uses of the _scytala_, rather than
to anything else. Similar means of secret intercommunication must have
existed almost contemporaneously with the invention of letters.
It may be as well to remark, in passing, that in none of the treatises
on the subject of this paper which have fallen under our cognizance,
have we observed any suggestion of a method—other than those which
apply alike to all ciphers—for the solution of the cipher by _scytala_.
We read of instances, indeed, in which the intercepted parchments were
deciphered; but we are not informed that this was ever done except
accidentally. Yet a solution might be obtained with absolute certainty
in this manner. The strip of skin being intercepted, let there be
prepared a cone of great length comparatively—say six feet long—and
whose circumference at base shall at least equal the length of the
strip. Let this latter be rolled upon the cone near the base, edge to
edge, as above described; then, still keeping edge to edge, and
maintaining the parchment close upon the cone, let it be gradually
slipped towards the apex. In this process, some of those words,
syllables, or letters, whose connection is intended, will be sure to
come together at that point of the cone where its diameter equals that
of the _scytala_ upon which the cipher was written. And as, in passing
up the cone to its apex, all possible diameters are passed over, there
is no chance of a failure. The circumference of the _scytala_ being thus
ascertained, a similar one can be made, and the cipher applied to it.
Few persons can be made to believe that it is not quite an easy thing to
invent a method of secret writing which shall baffle investigation. Yet
it may be roundly asserted that human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher
which human ingenuity cannot resolve. In the facility with which such
writing is deciphered, however, there exist very remarkable differences
in different intellects. Often, in the case of two individuals of
acknowledged equality as regards ordinary mental efforts, it will be
found that, while one cannot unriddle the commonest cipher, the other
will scarcely be puzzled by the most abstruse. It may be observed,
generally, that in such investigations the analytic ability is very
forcibly called into action; and, for this reason, cryptographical
solutions might with great propriety be introduced into academies, as
the means of giving tone to the most important of the powers of mind.
Were two individuals, totally unpractised in cryptography, desirous of
holding by letter a correspondence which should be unintelligible to all
but themselves, it is most probable that they would at once think of a
peculiar alphabet, to which each should have a key. At first it would,
perhaps, be arranged that _a_ should stand for _z_, _b_ for _y_, _c_ for
_x_, _d_ for _w_, &c. &c.; that is to say, the order of the letters
would be reversed. Upon second thoughts, this arrangement appearing too
obvious, a more complex mode would be adopted. The first thirteen
letters might be written beneath the last thirteen, thus:
n│o│p│q│r│s│t│u│v│w│x│y│z│
a│b│c│d│e│f│g│h│i│j│k│l│m│;
and, so placed, _a_ might stand for _n_ and _n_ for _a_, _o_ for _b_ and
_b_ for _o_, &c. &c. This, again, having an air of regularity which
might be fathomed, the key alphabet might be constructed absolutely at
random.
Thus, a might stand for p
b might stand for x
c might stand for u
d might stand for o, &c.
The correspondents, unless convinced of their error by the solution of
their cipher, would no doubt be willing to rest in this latter
arrangement, as affording full security. But if not, they would be
likely to hit upon the plan of arbitrary marks used in place of the
usual characters. For example,
( might be employed for a
. might be employed for b
: might be employed for c
; might be employed for d
) might be employed for e, &c.
A letter composed of such characters would have an intricate appearance
unquestionably. If, still, however, it did not give full satisfaction,
the idea of a perpetually shifting alphabet might be conceived, and thus
effected. Let two circular pieces of pasteboard be prepared, one about
half an inch in diameter less than the other. Let the centre of the
smaller be placed upon the centre of the larger, and secured for a
moment from slipping; while _radii_ are drawn from the common centre to
the circumference of the smaller circle, and thus extended to the
circumference of the greater. Let there be twenty-six of these _radii_,
forming on each pasteboard twenty-six spaces. In each of these spaces on
the under circle write one of the letters of the alphabet, so that the
whole alphabet be written—if at random so much the better. Do the same
with the upper circle. Now run a pin through the common centre, and let
the upper circle revolve, while the under one is held fast. Now stop the
revolution of the upper circle, and, while both lie still, write the
epistle required; using for _a_ that letter in the smaller circle which
tallies with _a_ in the larger, for _b_ that letter in the smaller
circle which tallies with _b_ in the larger, &c. &c. In order that an
epistle thus written may be read by the person for whom it is intended,
it is only necessary that he should have in his possession circles
constructed as those just described, and that he should know any two of
the characters (one in the under and one in the upper circle) which were
in juxta-position when his correspondent wrote the cipher. Upon this
latter point he is informed by looking at the two initial letters of the
document, which serve as a key. Thus, if he sees _a m_ at the beginning,
he concludes that, by turning his circles so as to put these characters
in conjunction, he will arrive at the alphabet employed.
At a cursory glance, these various modes of constructing a cipher seem
to have about them an air of inscrutable secresy. It appears almost an
impossibility to unriddle what has been put together by so complex a
method. And to some persons the difficulty might be great; but to
others—to those skilled in deciphering—such enigmas are very simple
indeed. The reader should bear in mind that the basis of the whole art
of solution, as far as regards these matters, is found in the general
principles of the formation of language itself, and thus is altogether
independent of the particular laws which govern any cipher, or the
construction of its key. The difficulty of reading a cryptographical
puzzle is by no means always in accordance with the labor or ingenuity
with which it has been constructed. The sole use of the key, indeed, is
for those _au fait_ to the cipher; in its perusal by a third party, no
reference is had to it at all. The lock of the secret is picked. In the
different methods of cryptography specified above, it will be observed
that there is a gradually increasing complexity. But this complexity is
only in shadow. It has no substance whatever. It appertains merely to
the formation, and has no bearing upon the solution, of the cipher. The
last mode mentioned is not in the least degree more difficult to be
deciphered than the first—whatever may be the difficulty of either.
In the discussion of an analogous subject, in one of the weekly papers
of this city, about eighteen months ago, the writer of this article had
occasion to speak of the application of a rigorous _method_ in all forms
of thought—of its advantages—of the extension of its use even to what
is considered the operation of pure fancy—and thus, subsequently, of
the solution of cipher. He even ventured to assert that no cipher, of
the character above specified, could be sent to the address of the
paper, which he would not be able to resolve. This challenge excited,
most unexpectedly, a very lively interest among the numerous readers of
the journal. Letters were poured in upon the editor from all parts of
the country; and many of the writers of these epistles were so convinced
of the impenetrability of their mysteries, as to be at great pains to
draw him into wagers on the subject. At the same time, they were not
always scrupulous about sticking to the point. The cryptographs were, in
numerous instances, altogether beyond the limits defined in the
beginning. Foreign languages were employed. Words and sentences were run
together without interval. Several alphabets were used in the same
cipher. One gentleman, but moderately endowed with conscientiousness,
inditing us a puzzle composed of pot-hooks and hangers to which the
wildest typography of the office could afford nothing similar, went even
so far as to jumble together no less than _seven distinct alphabets_,
without intervals between the letters, _or between the lines_. Many of
the cryptographs were dated in Philadelphia, and several of those which
urged the subject of a bet were written by gentlemen of this city. Out
of, perhaps, one hundred ciphers altogether received, there was only one
which we did not immediately succeed in resolving. This one we
_demonstrated_ to be an imposition—that is to say, we fully proved it a
jargon of random characters, having no meaning whatever. In respect to
the epistle of the seven alphabets, we had the pleasure of completely
_nonplus_-ing its inditer by a prompt and satisfactory translation.
The weekly paper mentioned, was, for a period of some months, greatly
occupied with the hieroglyphic and cabalistic-looking solutions of the
cryptographs sent us from all quarters. Yet with the exception of the
writers of the ciphers, we do not believe that any individuals could
have been found, among the readers of the journal, who regarded the
matter in any other light than in that of a desperate humbug. We mean to
say that no one really believed in the authenticity of the answers. One
party averred that the mysterious figures were only inserted to give a
_queer_ air to the paper, for the purpose of attracting attention.
Another thought it more probable that we not only solved the ciphers,
but put them together ourselves for solution. This having been the state
of affairs at the period when it was thought expedient to decline
farther dealings in necromancy, the writer of this article avails
himself of the present opportunity to maintain the truth of the journal
in question—to repel the charges of rigmarole by which it was
assailed—and to declare, in his own name, that the ciphers were all
written in good faith, and solved in the same spirit.
A very common, and somewhat too obvious mode of secret correspondence,
is the following. A card is interspersed, at irregular intervals, with
oblong spaces, about the length of ordinary words of three syllables in
a bourgeois type. Another card is made exactly coinciding. One is in
possession of each party. When a letter is to be written, the key-card
is placed upon the paper, and words conveying the true meaning inscribed
in the spaces. The card is then removed and the blanks filled up, so as
to make out a signification different from the real one. When the person
addressed receives the cipher, he has merely to apply to it his own
card, when the superfluous words are concealed, and the significant ones
alone appear. The chief objection to this cryptograph is the difficulty
of so filling the blanks as not to give a forced appearance to the
sentences. Differences, also, in the handwriting, between the words
written in the spaces, and those inscribed upon removal of the card,
will always be detected by a close observer.