I’m enormously large, though as small as a digit;
And I often at cards put old frumps in a fidget;
I’m rough, smooth, soft, hard; I’m both oval and square,
Yet nothing but angels which would make tories swear;
I’m the prop of the throne, and abhor revolution,
And yet for my treason deserve execution:
I’m blacker than jet, yet a lily more white;
I never am seen, yet am never out of sight;
I’m colder than ice, yet hotter than fire;
I die every minute, yet never expire.
Come guess me at once; make no fuss about me,
For ladies never sit down to piquet without me.
From the many contradictions and novelty of the piece, my curiosity is raised to such a degree, that I must request you to send me the answer. I have read it over carefully a great many times, and can form no idea what it can be.
Respectfully, your friend, &c.
We sympathize with our correspondent’s perplexity, and hasten to remove it—especially as we have a penchant for riddles ourselves. In spite of the anathemas of the over-wise, we regard a good enigma as a good thing. Their solution affords one of the best possible exercises of the analytical faculties, besides calling into play many other powers. We know of no truer test of general capacity than is to be found in the guessing of such puzzles. In explanation of this idea a most capital Magazine article might be written. It would be by no means a labor lost to show how great a degree of rigid method enters into enigma-guessing. So much is this the case, that a set of rules might absolutely be given by which almost any (good) enigma in the world could be solved instantaneously. This may sound oddly; but it is not more strange than the well known fact that rules really exist, by means of which it is easy to decipher any species of hieroglyphical writing—that is to say writing where, in place of alphabetical letters, any kind of marks are made use of at random.*
The method of which we speak enables us to say at once, in regard to our correspondent’s enigma, that he has puzzled himself, and would have puzzled himself to all eternity, in vain. It has no answer. That is, it has no word of solution which will reply to all the categories. The enigma is imperfect, and no doubt, composed by some ignorant person; one who, at all events, knows nothing of the laws of such compositions; for, like everything else, they have their laws. The style would indicate this ignorance sufficiently, without looking farther; but a little scrutiny fully exposes it. Still it is not difficult to perceive what the author intended as the answer—and this is light. The vulgar notions about light are embodied in the opening lines, and indeed throughout; while the “putting old frumps in a fidget at cards” &c. &c. plainly show the design.
Modern taste, however, at least modern newspaper taste, affects rather the conundrum than the enigma proper. The former has more spice in its composition, and its brevity gives it force. A good enigma, we have said, is a good thing, but a good conundrum may be a better. Consequently, we see our brethren of the press trying their hands at cons in all directions, and as soon as they perpetrate a decent one (after a severe effort) they set up a cackle forthwith, and the bantling goes the round of the papers in a kind of ovation. This inordinate estimation of conundrums arises from the chance hap-hazard manner in which they are conceived, making their conception a difficult thing. With a little of that method upon which we just now commented, they may be manufactured by the yard—yes, and of good quality, too. We will just look over the pages of a Johnson’s Dictionary for five minutes, and then shall have no trouble in concocting a string of them as long as your arm. No sooner said than done.
“Why is a bad wife better than a good one?—Because bad is the best.” This somewhat ungallant old query, with its horrible answer, is an embodiment of the true genius of the whole race to which it belongs—the race of the conundrums. Bad is the best. There is nothing better settled in the minds of people who know any thing at all, than the plain truth that if a conundrum is decent it wo’nt do—that if it is fit for anything it is not worth twopence—in a word that its real value is in exact proportion to the extent of its demerit, and that it is only positively good when it is outrageously and scandalously absurd. In this clear view of the case we offer the annexed. They have at least the merit of originality—a merit apart from that of which we have just spoken. At all events if they are not ours, we have just made them, and they ought to be. If any one has imagined such things before, he, evidently, has no business to do so. We say, with Donatus, apud Hieronymus, “Pereant qui anti nos nostra.”
1. Why are the Thugs like the crack omnibuses?
Because they are Phansigars. — fancy cars.
2. Why is a man a bad reasoner who bruises his knuckles?
Because he’s a sophist. — he’s a sore fist.
3. Poor Mary’s dead! why is she a many-sided figure?
Because she’s a Polly gone. — polygon.
4. Why is my fat friend Tom’s scarlet face like a small pungent esculent?
Because it’s a little reddish. — a little radish.
5. Why is his olfactory organ like a bunch of flowers?
Because it’s a nose gay. — a nosegay.
6. Why is his last new novel sleep itself?
Because it’s so poor. — spoor.
7. Why is Dr. Williams’ cash, the oculist, like a divorced wife’s pension?
Because it’s all eye-money. — alimony.
8. Why are Bennett’s ocular organs interrogative?
Because they are queer eyes. — queries?
9. Why is a lean cat a very common fish?
Because it’s a poor puss. — porpus.
10. Why is a tin cup like a crab?
Because it is a can, sir. — a cancer.
11. What kind of a vessel was Don Quixote’s squire?
A pan, sir. — a Panza.
12. Why is a pismire a good reply to that last question?
Because it is an ant, sir. — an answer.
13. What is the difference between a small tub and a runaway shoat.
The one is a piggin, pig in, the other a pig out.
14. I have a table needing repairs; why must the cabinet-maker who comes for it be in good circumstances?
Because he is comfortable. — come for table.
15. Why is the fifteenth letter of the alphabet, when mutilated, like a Parisian cockney.
Because it is a bad O. — badaud.
16. Why is the Pacific like an inhabitant of Languedoc?
Because it’s a languid ocean. — a Languedocian.
17. Why is ca chain like the feline race?
Because it’s a catenation. — a catty nation.
18. Why should my friend Miss Sarah Amanda be able to stand fire?
Because she’s a Sal Amanda. — a salamander.
19. Why is there little difference between herb soup and turtle?
Because one is herb soup, the other soup herb. — superb.
20. Why might a regular rowdy be eaten?
Because he’s a loafer bred. — a lofead. [[loaf o’bread]]
21. What must you do to a tea-table to make it fit to eat?
Take tea from it, t, it then becomes eatable.
22. What important difference is there between a sot and the purple Convolvulus?
The one is always drunk, the other blue every other day.
23. Why does a lady in tight corsets never need comfort?
Because she’s already so laced. — solaced.
24. When you called the dock a wharf, why was it a deed of writing?
Because it was a dock you meant. — a document.
25. Why ought the author of the “Grotesque and Arabesque” to be a good writer of verses?
Because he’s a poet to a t. Add t to Poe makes it Poet.
* For example—in place of A put † or any other arbitrary character—in place of B, a * &c. &c. Let an entire alphabet be made in this manner, and then let this al
phabet be used in any piece of writing. This writing can be read by means of a proper method. Let this be put to the test. Let any one address us a letter in this way, and we pledge ourselves to read it forthwith—however unusual or arbitrary may be the characters employed.
—Published in Alexander’s Weekly Messenger in December 1839. Though Poe received many responses to his challenge, he seems to have deciphered nearly all the coded messages the Messenger’s readers sent him in the following months.
Poe Triumphant
“A Few Words on Secret Writing”
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 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.
A pack of cards is sometimes made the vehicle of a cipher, in this manner. The parties determine, in the first place, upon certain arrangements of the pack. For example: it is agreed that, when a writing is to be commenced, a natural sequence of the spots shall be made; with spades at top, hearts next, diamonds next, and clubs last. This order being obtained, the writer proceeds to inscribe upon the top card the first letter of his epistle, upon the next the second, upon the next the third, and so on until the pack is exhausted, when, of course, he will have written fifty-two letters. He now shuffles the pack according to a preconcerted plan. For example: he takes three cards from the bottom and places them at top, then one from top, placing it at bottom, and so on, for a given number of times. This done, he again inscribes fifty-two characters as before, proceeding thus until his epistle is written. The pack being received by the correspondent, he has only to place the cards in the order agreed upon for commencement, to read, letter by letter, the first fifty-two characters as intended. He has then only to shuffle in the manner pre-arranged for the second perusal, to decipher the series of the next fifty-two letters—and so on to the end. The objection to this cryptograph lies in the nature of the missive. A pack of cards, sent from one party to another, would scarcely fail to excite suspicion; and it cannot be doubted that it is far better to secure ciphers from being considered as such, than to waste time in attempts at rendering them scrutiny-proof, when intercepted. Experience shows that the most cunningly constructed cryptograph, if suspected, can and will be unriddled.
An unusually secure mode of secret intercommunication might be thus devised. Let the parties each furnish themselves with a copy of the same edition of a book—the rarer the edition the better—as also the rarer the book. In the cryptograph, numbers are used altogether, and these numbers refer to the locality of letters in the volume. For example—a cipher is received commencing, 121-6-8. The party addressed refers to page 121, and looks at the sixth letter from the left of the page in the eighth line from the top. Whatever letter he there finds is the initial letter of the epistle—and so on. This method is very secure; yet it is possible to decipher any cryptograph written by its means—and it is greatly objectionable otherwise, on account of the time necessarily required for its solution, even with the key-volume.
It is not to be supposed that Cryptography, as a serious thing, as the means of imparting important information, has gone out of use at the present day. It is still commonly practised in diplomacy; and there are individuals, even now, holding office in the eye of various foreign governments, whose real business is that of deciphering. We have already said that a peculiar mental action is called into play in the solution of cryptographical problems, at least in those of the higher order. Good cryptographists are rare indeed; and thus their services, although seldom required, are necessarily well requited.
—Published in Graham’s Magazine in July 1841. In this essay, Poe lays out general principles for cryptography and demonstrates how both to create and to crack a number of cryptographs of varying complexity.
Cryptography in Poe’s Short Fiction
“I held the vellum again to the fire, after increasing the heat; but nothing appeared. I now thought it possible that the coating of dirt might have something to do with the failure; so I carefully rinsed the parchment by pouring warm water over it, and, having done this, I placed it in a tin pan, with the skull downwards, and put the pan upon a furnace of lighted charcoal. In a few minutes, the pan having become thoroughly heated, I removed the slip, and, to my inexpressible joy, found it spotted, in sev
eral places, with what appeared to be figures arranged in lines. Again I placed it in the pan, and suffered it to remain another minute. Upon taking it off, the whole was just as you see it now.”
Here Legrand, having re-heated the parchment, submitted it to my inspection. The following characters were rudely traced, in a red tint, between the death’s-head and the goat:
“But,” said I, returning him the slip, “I am as much in the dark as ever. Were all the jewels of Golconda awaiting me upon my solution of this enigma, I am quite sure that I should be unable to earn them.”
“And yet,” said Legrand, “the solution is by no means so difficult as you might be lead to imagine from the first hasty inspection of the characters. These characters, as any one might readily guess, form a cipher—that is to say, they convey a meaning; but then, from what is known of Kidd, I could not suppose him capable of constructing any of the more abstruse cryptographs. I made up my mind, at once, that this was of a simple species—such, however, as would appear, to the crude intellect of the sailor, absolutely insoluble without the key.”
“And you really solved it?”
“Readily; I have solved others of an abstruseness ten thousand times greater. Circumstances, and a certain bias of mind, have led me to take interest in such riddles, and it may well be doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma of the kind which human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve. In fact, having once established connected and legible characters, I scarcely gave a thought to the mere difficulty of developing their import.”
The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket Page 29
