SCS:=SubstitutionCryptosystem();
sample:=String(Encoding(SCS,"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and
nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the
world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing
grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily
pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my
hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately
stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea
as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon
his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in
their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs - commerce
surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the battery,
where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of
land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by
Whitehall northward. What do you see? - Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon
thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads;
some looking over the bulwarks

of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these
are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster - tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to
desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing
will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not
suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand -
miles of them - leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues, - north, east, south,
and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those
ships attract them thither?

Once more. Say, you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one
it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most
absent- minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries - stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he
will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great
American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as
every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic
landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a
hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle;
and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to
overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though
this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd's head, yet all were vain, unless the
shepherd's eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June,

when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger- lilies - what is the one charm wanting? - Water
- there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to
see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to
buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost
every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your
first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your
ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a
separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of
that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged
into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the
ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to
be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as
a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides,
passengers get sea-sick - grow quarrelsome - don't sleep of nights - do not enjoy themselves much, as a general
thing; - no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore,
or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I
abominate all honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much
as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as
for going as cook, - though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-
board - yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls; - though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and
judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will

speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous
dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures
in their huge bake-houses the pyramids.

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the forecastle, aloft there
to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a
grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one's sense of
honor, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or
Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it
as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you,
from the schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin
and bear it. But even this wears off in time.

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that
indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks
anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who
aint a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about - however they may thump
and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or
other served in much the same way - either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the
universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other's shoulder-blades, and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never
pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is
all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable
infliction that the two orchard

thieves entailed upon us. But being paid, - what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man
receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly
ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the forecastle deck. For
as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the
Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from
the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty
lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was
that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a
whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and
secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way - he can better answer than any one else. And,
doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a
long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that
this part of the bill must have run something like this:

Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States

Whaling Voyage by one Ishmael

BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a
whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in
genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces - though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all
the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me
under various disguises, induced me to set about

performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own
unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.

Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious
monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable,
nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds,
helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me,
I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous
coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it - would they
let me - since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.

By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung
open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless
processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air."));

rats:="Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.

Rats!
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
''Tis clear,' cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy;
And as for our Corporation -shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine
What's best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you're old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!'
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council,
At length the Mayor broke silence:
'For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell;
I wish I were a mile hence!
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain -
I'm sure my poor head aches again
I've scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!'
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
'Bless us,' cried the Mayor, 'what's that?'
(With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)
'Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!'

'Come in!' -the Mayor cried, looking bigger:
And in did come the strangest figure!
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red;
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in -
There was no guessing his kith and kin!
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire:
Quoth one: 'It's as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!'

He advanced to the council-table:
And, 'Please your honours,' said he, 'I'm able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.'
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the selfsame cheque;
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
'Yet,' said he, 'poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats;
And, as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?'
'One? fifty thousand!' -was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stepped,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives -
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished!
- Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he, the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary:
Which was, 'At the first shrill notes of the pipe
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press's gripe:
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out `Oh, rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said `Come, bore me!'
- I found the Weser rolling o'er me.'

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
'Go,' cried the Mayor, 'and get long poles!
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!' -when suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, 'First, if you please, my thousand guilders!'

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havoc
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow!
'Beside,' quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
'Our business was done at the river's brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what's dead can't come to life, I think.
So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!'

The Piper's face fell, and he cried
'No trifling! I can't wait, beside!
I've promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,
For having left, in the Calip's kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor -
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion.'

'How?' cried the Mayor, 'd'ye think I'll brook
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!'

Once more he stepped into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by -
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
'He never can cross that mighty top!
He's forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!'
When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say, all? No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say, -
'It's dull in our town since my playmates left!
I can't forget that I'm bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me:
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles' wings:
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!'

Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher's pate
A text which says, that Heaven's Gate
Opes to the Rich at as easy rate
As the needle's eye takes a camel in!
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men's lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart's content,
If he'd only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
'And so long after what happened here
On the Twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six':
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children's last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper's Street -
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great Church-Window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there's a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don't understand.

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers
Of scores out with all men -especially pipers:
And, whether they pipe us free, from rats or from mice,
If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.";
TC:=TranspositionCryptosystem(23);
tkey:=InverseKey(TC![ 6, 12, 3, 15, 20, 8, 7, 11, 1, 2, 19, 9, 18, 21, 10, 23, 4, 17, 22, 14, 13, 5, 16 ]);
ct:=String(Enciphering(tkey,Encoding(TC,rats)));