Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (32 page)

Among the company
circulated learned Dr. Thomas, the schoolmaster, assiduously pouring oil, as
became a clergyman, on waters that were soon revealed to be troubled. Miss
Fanny was in a fit of the sullens (’twas of a lover dismissed, I gathered so
much), and Mrs. Plumbe was clean out of humour, and the Alderman alternately
coaxing and shouting.

In an ill moment the
latter conceived the idea of bribing Miss out of her pouts, and accordingly he
fetches out the young lady’s Christmas box, four days too soon, and bestows it
upon her then and there; a step which he was bitterly to regret before the week
was out.

“O Lud!” screamed Mrs.
Thrale. “O Lud, ’tis a very Canopus!”

“’Tis indeed,” said Dr.
Sam: Johnson, “a star of the first magnitude.”

’Twas a handsome jewel,
though to my eyes scarce suitable for so young a lady—an intaglio artfully cut,
and set with a diamond needlessly great, whether for the brooch or for the
childish bosom ’twas designed to adorn.

“Sure,” screeched Mrs.
Thrale in her usual reckless taste, “such a size it is, it cannot be the right
gem. Say, is’t not paste?”

“Paste!” cried the
Alderman, purpling to his wattles. “I assure you, ma’am, ’tis a gem of the
first water, such that any goldsmith in the city will give you £200 for.”

Ralph Plumbe sucked a
front tooth; his prominent eyes goggled. Pretty Sally, the serving-maid,
passing with the tea tray, stared with open mouth. Little Dr. Thomas joined his
fingertips, and seemed to ejaculate a pious word to himself. The Alderman
pinned the gem in his daughter’s bosom, a task in which I longed to assist him.
She bestowed upon him a radiant smile, like sun through clouds.

Her fickle heart was
bought. She yielded to him with a pretty grace, those love-letters for which
she had previously contested, and the footman carried them over the way that
very afternoon to poor jilted Jack Rice, while Miss Fanny preened it with her
jewel like a peacock.

’Twas a day or two later
that I made one in a stroll about the Streatham grounds. Dr. Johnson and Mrs.
Thrale beguiled our perambulation in discourse with learned Dr. Thomas about
Welsh antiquities. Master Ralph Plumbe, ennuied by the disquisition, threw
stones alternately at rocks and at Belle, the black-and-tawny spaniel bitch.

Coming by the kitchen
garden, we marked curvesome Sally, in her blue gown and trim apron, skimming
along under the wall. She passed us under full sail, with the slightest of
running curtseys. Mrs. Thrale caught her sleeve.

“Pray, whither away so
fast?”

“Only to the kitchen, ma’am.”

Our sharp little hostess
pounced.

“What have you in your
hand?”

“Nothing, ma’am.”

Mrs. Thrale, for all she
is small, has a strong man’s hand. She forced open the girl’s plump fingers and
extracted a folded billet. “So, miss. You carry
billets doux.”

“No, ma’am. I found it,
if you please, ma’am,” cried the girl earnestly.

“Ho ho,” cried
hobbledehoy Master Ralph, “’tis one of Fan’s, I’ll wager.”

“We shall see,” said Mrs.
Thrale curtly, and unfolded the billet. I craned my neck. ’Twas the oddest
missive (save one) that I have ever seen. ’Twas all writ in an alphabet of but two
letters:

aabababbabbaaaabaaba
ababbabbabbaaaabaaba

abbaa’abbabbaabaaabaabaaab
baabaaabaa

aabbbaaaaaababaababaaabaa ababa’aabaaaaaaabaabb

abbabbaabbabaaa ababa’aaaaabaabbabbaaaabaa

abaaabaaaaaabaa baabaaabaa

aabbaaaaaabaaaaaaabbaabaa aabbbaaaaaabaaaabbaaaabaa

aaaaaabaaaababaababaaabaa
aabababaaabaaaaaabaaabbaabaaba

Learned Dr. Thomas
scanned the strange lines.

“’Tis some unknown,
primordial tongue, I make no doubt.”

“’Tis the talk of sheep!”
I cried. “Baabaaabaa!”

“No, sir; ’tis cypher,” said
Dr. Sam: Johnson.

“Good lack,” screeched
Mrs. Thrale, “’tis a French plot, I’ll be bound, against our peace.”

“No, ma’am,” I hazarded,
half in earnest, “’tis some imprisoned damsel, takes this means to beg release.”

“Pfoh,” said Mrs. Thrale,
“ever the ruling passion, eh, Mr. Boswell?”

“To what end,” demanded
Dr. Johnson, “do we stand disputing here, when we might be reading the straight
of the message?”

“My husband has the new
book of cyphers,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “I will fetch it at once.”

She sailed off, pretty
Sally forgotten; who put her finger to her eye and stood stock-still in the
path, until, perceiving how eagerly I followed where Dr. Johnson and the cypher
led, she flounced off with dry eyes.

Dr. Johnson made for the
drawing-room, and we streamed after him.

Seating himself by the
window, he peered at the strange paper. Dr. Thomas, Ralph Plumbe, and I peered
with him, and Fanny came from the mirror, where we had surprized her preening,
to peer too.

As Dr. Johnson smoothed
the billet, I threw up my hands.

“What can be done with
this!” I exclaimed. “We are to find out the 24 letters of the alphabet, and in
this whole message we find but two symbols.”

“What man can encypher,
man can decypher,” replied Dr. Johnson sententiously, “more especially when the
encypherer is one of the inmates of Streatham, and the decypherer is Sam:
Johnson. But see where our hostess comes.”

She came empty-handed.
The new book of cyphers was not to be found.

“Then,” said Dr. Johnson,
“we must make do with what we have in our heads. Let us examine this billet and
see what it has to say to us.”

We hung over his
shoulder, Mrs. Thrale, Dr. Thomas, the Plumbe children, and I. Ralph sucked air
through his teeth in excitement, little Fanny’s pretty bosom lifted fast.

“Now, ma’am,” began Dr.
Johnson, addressing Mrs. Thrale, not ill-pleased to display his learning, “you
must know, that cyphers have engaged the attention of the learned since the
remotest antiquity. I need but name Polybius, Julius Africanus, Philo
Mechanicus, Theodorus Bibliander, Johannes Walchius, and our own English
Aristotle, Francis Bacon—”

“Oh, good lack, sir,” cried
little Fanny with a wriggle, “what does the paper say?”

“In good time, miss,” replied
the philosopher with a frown. “We have here 330 characters, all either
a
or
b;
writ in 16 groups on a
page from a pocket book, with a fair-mended quill. ’Tis notable, that the
writer wrote his letters in clusters of five, never more, never less; you may
see between every group the little nodule of ink where the pen rested. Let us
mark the divisions.”

With his pen he did so. I
watched the lines march:

aabab/abbab/baaaa/baaba ababb/abbab
baaaa baaba

abbaa’/abbab/baaba/aabaa/baaab baaba
aabaa

aabbb/aaaaa/ababa/ababa/aabaa...

“We now perceive,” said
Dr. Johnson as his pen flicked, “that we have to do, not with a correspondence
of letter for letter, but for groups of letters. We have before us, in short,
Mr. Boswell, the famous bi-literal cypher of the learned Francis Bacon; as set
forth, I make no doubt, in Thrale’s missing book of cyphers.”

Mrs. Thrale clapped her
hands.

“Now we shall understand
it. Mark me, ’tis a plot of the French against us.”

“Alas,” said Dr. Johnson,
“I do not carry the key in my head; but I shall make shift to reconstruct it. ’Tis
many years since I was a corrector of the press; but the printer’s case still
remains in my mind to set me right on the frequencies of the letters in English.”

“Depend upon it,” muttered
Mrs. Thrale stubbornly, “’tis in French.”

“You will find,” he went
on calmly,
“e
occurs
the oftenest; next
o,
then
a
and
i.
To find out one consonant from another, remember also their frequency, first
d, h, n, r, s, t;
then the others, in what order I
forget; but with these we may make shift.

By this calculation the
learned philosopher determined the combination
aabaa
to
represent
e;
when a strange fact transpired. Of the sixteen groups, representing perhaps the
sixteen words of the message, nine ended with that combination! Dr. Johnson
considered this in conjunction with the little marks like apostrophes, and
glowered at Mrs. Thrale.

“Can it be French after
all?”

In fine, it was; for
proceeding partly by trial and error, and partly by his memory of the cipher’s
system, the learned philosopher made shift to reconstruct the key, and soon the
message began to emerge:

“Fort mort n’otes te—”

“’Tis poetick!” screeched
Mrs. Thrale. “
Strong death snatch thee not away!
Alack,
this is a
billet doux
after all, a
lettre d amour
to
some enamoured fair!”

“Oh, ay?” commented the
philosopher drily, penning the message:

“Fort mort n’otes te
halle l’eau oui l’aune ire te garde haine aille firent salle lit.”

“’Tis little enough
poetick,” I muttered, translating the strange hodgepodge:

“Strong death snatch thee
not away—market—the water, yes—the alder —anger—keep thee hatred—let him
go—they made room—bed.”

“O lud, here’s a waspish
message,” cried Fanny.

“Yet what’s this of a
market, water, and an alder tree?”

“There’s an alder tree,” cried
Ralph with a toothy inspiration, “by the kitchen pump!”

Infected by his
excitement, we all ran thither. There was the water, sure enough, in the old
pump by the kitchen garden, and drooping its branches over it, not an alder,
but a hoary old willow, whose hollow trunk knew the domesticities of
generations of owls. There was nothing of any note in the vicinity.

This strange adventure
made us none the easier; the less, as we encountered, at his ease on the bench
by the kitchen door, the one-legged sailorman. He pulled his forelock surlily,
but did not stir. His very particular wooden leg was strapped in its place, and
the iron-shod stump was sunk deep in the mud of the door-yard. Belle snapped at
it, and had a kick in the ribs for her pains.

The adventure of the
cypher much disquieted the Alderman, who incontinently decreed that Miss Fanny’s
brilliant must be made secure in Thrale’s strong-box. Now was repeated the
contest of pouts against Papa; Miss Fanny moped, and would not be pleased. At
last by treaty the difficulty was accommodated. Let the Alderman make the gem
secure today, and Miss Fanny might wear it in honour of the twelve days of
Christmas, to begin at dusk on Christmas Eve precisely.

Christmas Eve came all
too slowly, but it came at last. We were all in holiday guise, I in my
bloom-coloured breeches, Dr. Thomas in a large new grizzle wig, Ralph in
peach-colour brocade with silk stockings on his skinny shanks. Even Dr. Sam:
Johnson honoured the occasion in his attire, with his snuff-colour coat and
brass buttons, and a freshly powdered wig provided by the care of Mr. Thrale.

The ladies coruscated.
Mrs. Alderman Plumbe billowed in flame-colour sattin. Mrs. Thrale had a
handsome gown in the classick stile, with great sleeves, and gems in her hair. Miss
Fanny wore a silken gown, of the tender shade appropriately called maiden’s
blush; ’twas cut low and, and her brooch gleamed at her bosom. Even Belle the
spaniel was adorned with a great riband tied on with care by the white hand of
Miss Fanny.

’Twas Thrale’s care to
uphold the old customs, and play the ‘squire; while at the same time he had a
maccaroni’s contempt for the lower orders. ’Twas decreed, therefore, that we
should have our Christmas games in the library on the lower floor, while the
servants might have their merrymaking in the servant’s hall, and the strolling
rusticks had perforce to receive their Christmas gratuities withoutside.