Our Twain issue steamboated itself out to subscribers last week, a little slow due to a stem-to-stern overhaul of The Journal's working space (the second, and hopefully, final one this year!)

So this week we're already deeply entrenched in Dickens' Little Dorrit in order to make up for lost time; and since all sorts of make-up work is heavy on our minds, we wanted to take a moment to share a few things here on this very neglected blog.

First, we had no opportunity to use two beloved Winslow Homer paintings in Mississippi Summer, but since they're perfect for back-to-school days and particularly for staying in from recess or staying after school to do do make-up work, we've shared them here.

Second, some make-up work that goes all the way back to last September. We've wanted to share this source where you can a have a step-back-a-century listen to a few of the period songs that have been featured in past issues--including an extra taste of Samuel Clemens Mississippi River via Stephen Foster. It's a cyberspace visit with the "EMG Colonel" that's given us a good deal of delight for a long time. We should have shared it while preparing our Betsy's Wedding issue--because it has a splendiferous version of "Good Morning, Mr. Zip, Zip, Zip" (and other of the songs sung by The Crowd at Tib's wedding) and even more so, because of the rattling-good reading (by Alfred Noyes himself) of The Highwayman (which Joe and Betsy read while on their honeymoon, sans Alfred Noyes himself, of course.). There's even some of A.A. Milne reading all about Pooh, Piglet and Woozles (we mention it even though there's no evidence that anyone from the Violent Study Club ever brought Winnie the Pooh as a favored text, but it is at our house.)

Here's a list, therefore, of other pieces that have been recommended in recent issues of which there are period renditions at The Colonel's YouTube Channel:

Betsy's Wedding (Vol 12 No 6):

Pack UpYour Troubles

K-K-K-Katy

Everybody's Doing It

It's A Long Way To Tipperary

Doctor Thorne & Framley Parsonage 

(Vol 13 No 3):

TheVillage Blacksmith

A Mississippi Summer (Vol 13 No 5):

Old Folks At Home

Lastly, still more make-up work by way of a recipe for a blender form of bouchons which we came up with awhile back that reminded us of the blackened stacks of steamboats, and so are perfect as part of a Mississippi River send-off. We featured a bouchon recipe a few months ago that's still a keeper--but this bouchon batter stirs up extra fast and means a batch of intense chocolate bliss can be ready from cocoa measuring to cooling rack in half an hour or less--though I believe bouchons improve an hour or more out of the oven, providing they last that long.

If you have an induction-based blender that can heat ingredients while blending, you can warm the eggs up for a few seconds, otherwise it's crucial to have eggs at room temperature.

Ingredients:

4 large eggs, room temperature

3/4 cup sugar

A fat pinch of salt

1/2 cup cocoa (I use indulgent Callebaut cocoa, which is available in bulk at really great prices from a local supplier, Orson Gygi. They also sell it online, and I've seen other online sellers as well if you don't have a good baking supply shop in your area.)

Any of the following flavorings: 1 teaspoon almond extract,or 1 teaspoon vanilla extract plus a fat pinch ground cloves, or grated rind of one orange, or enough imitation rum flavoring that anyone walking into the room knows what you've been up to (I also get that from Gygi's.)

1/2 cup ground almonds (If I don't have any already ground, I grind them in the blender before adding any other ingredients. The order of ingredients up to this point doesn't really matter.)

1/2 cup butter, melted and slightly cooled

1/2 cup, plus 1 tablespoon flour

Heat an oven to 375 degrees and butter or baking-spray 12 bouchon, popover or muffin tins and set aside. Put the eggs, sugar, salt, cocoa, flavorings and ground almonds in the blender and process until smooth. Add the melted butter and process just until incorporated. (This is one of those potentially-pesky-don't-overmix-don't-over-bake recipes, but one batch should give you the hang of it, and will be highly edible no matter what.) Barely mix in the flour by running the blender for only a second or two until just incorporated--or for a method even less inscrutable--simply toss the flour into the mixer and stir it in by hand with a skinny spatula until the white of the flour has just blended. Spoon as equally as possible into the prepared tins--this is probably the most time consuming bit, especially since male family members may be trying to prevent you from you baking it, because they think it's perfect prior to heat--and bake (despite all protests) until cakes are set, but still moist in the center--about 12 to 15 minutes. Makes one dozen. Dust with a little powdered sugar, if desired.  Very nice with fresh fruit in season.

By Al R. Young

This article presents the transcription of a document, from The Wainscott Collection, entitled Personal Memorandum: A Brief Description Of The Six Square Cipher. As the memorandum itself declares, the original document was created by Seymore Wainscott as a personal reminder of how the cipher works.

The folio in which the memorandum was found also contained two sheets of paper, later identified as some of Seymore’s worksheets prepared in creating and refining the cipher. Those worksheets are presented here with scant annotation. One of the sheets presents an early version of what Seymore referred to as pennants, mentioned in Seymore's memorandum. The other sheet contains ideas about enhancing the cipher through further work with the pennants.

Facsimile of Worksheet 1

Nothing in the folio contained a date. Accordingly, any attempt to assign a date would be speculative. While the history of lytfolc ciphers has yet to be written; indeed, with the task of cataloging The Wainscott Collection still in its infancy, and perusal of the documents and artifacts in the collection just beginning, the present is a time to let the documents speak for themselves. Nevertheless, it appears that cipher and other forms of encrypted communication had had a long history before Seymore was even born.

Seymore’s reminiscences appear to remark a thread of interest in the subject from his early youth, for he mentions his childhood fascination with “secret alphabets,” and his preoccupation with the very idea of coded messages carried by the couriers that were so prominent a feature of his youth (owing to Bevel Wainscott’s sprawling enterprise). Most importantly, however, Seymore speaks at length of his experience with his maternal grandfather, the great Foliaceous Gatherum.

When Bevel and his small household relocated to Lanham in 1757, Seymore, along with the rest of the family, was caught up in the devastating consequences of Bevel’s illness. During that time, Foliaceous reached out to his grandson, undoubtedly perceiving much of kindred interest and ability in the youth. In order to throw a lifeline to Seymore during those troubled times, Foliaceous not only reached out to the youth, but did so in terms of Seymore’s own interests and imagination. The bond between the two was fixed for life, and set Seymore’s feet upon the high road he traveled throughout his life. Grandfather and grandson exchanged encrypted letters even though they were essentially living in the same household. And one of the facets of the exchange was Seymore’s exposure to the languages by which the lytfolc had labored for centuries to preserve their history; languages that in times of peril had involved codes and ciphers, tokens and clues of amazing invention.

A Brief Description Of The Six Square Cipher

Created By Seymore Wainscott

The following sequence of 36 characters is referred to hereafter as the stream: ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ1234567890

Facsimile of Stream

Draw a grid six cells high and six cells wide.

Facsimile of Grid

Starting with the northwest cell, and assigning characters from the foregoing string (one at a time to each cell in the grid) assign the characters moving south until the end of the column, then move to the next (eastern) column and continue assignment until the last character in the stream is assigned to the cell in the southeast corner of the grid. The following columns present the desired arrangement of values in the cells in the grid. This is referred to as the constant grid.

A G M S Y 5
B H N T Z 6
C I O U 1 7
D J P V 2 8
E K Q W 3 9
F L R X 4 0

The constant grid looks like this:

Facsimile of Constant Grid

Create a list of 36 words. The following list of names is only an example. Any names or words will suffice; nevertheless, these words will serve as key words; for example, telling a coded-message recipient how the sender’s grid is configured. Inasmuch as a keyword may appear in correspondence or in some other means of communication that is more or less public, care should be taken to select key words that can be used in such means of communication without attracting attention. Names of individuals were chosen for this list because they could more readily be used in statements seeming to be of a personal nature. This list is referred to as the key-word list.

Hominy
Mulberry
Rosette
Transom
Newel
Tracery
Finial
Burrow
Signet
Rune
Pargetry
Ovolo
Boss
Anthem
Medallion
Penton
Sorrel
Lupine
Thwaite
Folio
Quarto
Corbel
Scotia
Lilium
Calyx
Currant
Quince
Marjoram
Lichen
Tasselin
Teviot
Sable
Gentian
Trillium
Lancet
Acorn

Draw another grid six cells high and six cells wide.

Assign each name in the key-word list to a cell in the empty grid. The order in which the names are assigned is of no moment. In the following grid, the names were assigned (north-to-south and west-to-east) in the order in which they appear in the key word list. This is referred to as the key-word grid.

Hominy Finial Boss Thwaite Calyx Teviot
Mulberry Burrow Anthem Folio Currant Sable
Rosette Signet Medallion Quarto Quince Gentian
Transom Rune Penton Corbel Marjoram Trillium
Newel Pargetry Sorrel Scotia Lichen Lancet
Tracery Ovolo Lupine Lilium Tasselin Acorn

The key-word grid looks like this:

Facsimile of Key-word Grid

The cipher is now ready for use in transmitting messages. The remaining steps should be repeated for each instance of the cipher’s use.

Draw another grid six cells high and six cells wide.

Select the name of a cell, in the key-word grid, at which to begin assigning stream values. For example, if Lilium is the keyword chosen for this purpose (that is, for creating a particular coded communication), the values in the stream are assigned beginning with the cell named Lilium in the key-word grid. The first four assignments of stream values look like this in the grid just drawn,

Facsimile of Lilium Grid

Stream values must be assigned in the order in which they appear in the stream. Their assignment begins with the named cell from the key-word grid and progresses from west to east in the manner indicated in the following grid. Note that stream values, in the following grid, wrap back to the grid’s northwest cell when the southeast cell is filled, and values continue to wrap around the grid until the stream reaches its beginning at the Lilium cell. This grid is called a message grid, whose key word is Lilium.

D E F G H I
J K L M N O
P Q R S T U
V W X Y Z 1
2 3 4 5 6 7
8 9 0 A B C

Given the stream-value cell assignments in the constant grid, the following list presents the letter equivalents for a coded message whose key word is Lilium.

For example, to write SEYMORE in cipher, according to the foregoing message grid, the person writing the message would first look for the location of S in the constant grid. In the constant grid, S is located in the 4th column and on the 1st row. Now, referring back to the message grid, the value at the same location (that is, column 4, row 1) is G; therefore, in the coded message, G stands for S.

The writer goes through the same process for E. In the constant grid, E appears at column 1 row 5. In the message grid, the value at column 1 row 5 is 2.

The writer repeats the foregoing steps for each remaining letter. This is the coded result:

G2HFR02

Because it may be undesirable to use the same character equivalences for every message, the key-word grid can be used to change character equivalences for any particular message. For example, if Signet is chosen from the key-word grid as the key word for a particular message, the writer of the message would follow the steps described above to create another message grid. Then, using the new message grid, SEYMORE is rendered thus in the resulting cipher:

1L2ZBTL

Space and punctuation are not included in the foregoing configurations of the cipher.

While this approach to cipher achieves encoding, the very appearance of coded material in a document announces the presence of such a message. And that announcement invites de-ciphering; meaning, of course, that all secrecy depends upon the fastness of the code. It were better to have a symbology for presenting the ciphered message; a symbology that does not announce the existence of a message. In other words, we sought a way of encoding not only the substance of a message, but the characters constituting the cipher. Ideally, such a symbology would be perceived as a visual, instead of a linguistic, element in the communication. Ideally, it would not be perceived as part of a communication at all.

The following divulges an early attempt at such a symbology. This is the point in this explanation of the Six-Square Cipher that another level of complexity is introduced. Intended use of the cipher must determine whether the added complexity is necessary.

As I worked on designing the following glyphs, for use with the Six-Square Cipher, they came to remind me of the signal banners used by skippers on the high seas. Accordingly, I called them pennants; nevertheless, I did not design these glyphs with any reference to such banners, but simply began the task of design with the objective of creating a set of simple graphics that would, in their variation provide enough distinct characters to accommodate at least 36 characters. I wanted visual objects that could be included in a decorative border, or some such usage apart from the written text of a message.

My design effort eventually resulted in 43 glyphs. Since there are only 36 characters in the stream, the set of 43 provided for a substantial number of meaningless glyphs that could be included in a message without affecting its content. Their inclusion would, of course, pose a considerable impediment to anyone attempting to decipher the pattern. Meaningless elements delay and can even frustrate the task of deciphering. It is imperative, however, that the use of meaningless glyphs fit a pattern of repetition unconnected with the repetition pattern in the significant glyphs. They must be used in a pattern of their own, and that pattern must not be connected to the pattern of the “real” glyphs.

In the accompanying glyph chart, the sequence of the glyphs is not significant. The glyphs and the key words are simply assigned one to another. Unassigned glyphs become the dummy glyphs that can be incorporated into the coded message for the purpose of obfuscation.

Facsimile of Glyphs

Once the key words have been assigned to the glyphs, the key word for a particular message (Lilium, for example) determines which of the glyphs represents the letter A. Once the glyph for A is identified, the remaining values in the stream are determined sequentially. This use of the key-word list means that a single key word serves for a coded message whether its cipher is simple (that is, uses only stream values for its cipher) or complex (uses a visual corollary for the representation of its cipher). These assignments are reflected in the following additions to the message grid for Lilium (not the constant grid).

Facsimile of Lilium Grid with Glyphs

Given the value assignments in the message grid for Lilium, this is how SEYMORE would be rendered in pennants with Lilum as the key word for the cipher.

Facsimile of Lilium Glyphs for Seymore

The following facsimile is the second worksheet found in the folio mentioned, above. Seymore’s notes prefigure his refinement of the Six Square Cipher into what became known as The Diamond Pavillion, a methodology of encryption that eventually transformed coded transcriptions into an art form.

Facsimile of Worksheet 2

One of my favorite things about creating The Storybook Home is the need we have to choose the subject for each article. Each issue becomes a treasure hunt for us—combing through each book, deciding what topics we'll be burrowing into during the months of research and creation. Sense and Sensibility was no whit behind in tantalizing our historic and creative curiosities. From down-sizing from Norland Estate, to the mulberry trees at Delaford, to Elinor's painted firescreens to the dainties Mrs. Jennings offered the grief-stricken Marianne, we've been stepping into Regency England Jane-Style, and loving every minute.

But as always, there's a treasure hunt tidbit or two which gets left out of the issue—the casualty of finite space. This time, one of the leftovers was a portion of the Music Box—my own discoveries about Marianne's music. Reading Austen's descriptions, I wondered what “opera duets” would have enticed a Willoughby or Marianne—Mozart? Gluck? Handel?—especially since the word “opera” contains such a wide swathe of traditions and definitions, and no film adaption of the novel gives much of a hint. (Though I imagine Jane would have wished for a composer like Patrick Doyle to compose especially for her heroines' pleasure.)

The answer to my opera question sent me on quite an interesting and unexpected odyssey. While Jane, herself, loved Haydn, Handel, Gluck, and other high-brow opera greats, her music books show equal proof of a taste for Arne, Dibdin, Shield—low-brow comic opera buffs of England's 18^th century. Surprisingly, however, the little hint Miss Austen leaves in her narrative as an “opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf [Marianne's] own name in [Willoughby's] hand-writing...” may point more favorably to Marianne and Willoughby inclining to the comic opera of the day—precursors of operettas more in keeping with Gilbert and Sullivan than Montiverdi—ballad operas filled to overflowing with the melodrama, ecstasies, and exaggerations similar to Marianne's own first love. By the time Marianne brought her “handsome pianoforte” to Barton cottage, complete piano transcriptions of decades-popular English operas were available for any Willoughby to purchase for their love, or any Lady Middleton to leave open on their instrument—and would have been much more readily available than a commercial piano transcription of “The Magic Flute” for instance.  Such simplified folios enabled a musical evening filled with myriad melodies and merriment, or an afternoon overflowing with a young lady spending “whole hours at the pianoforte alternatively singing and crying,” performing songs of love unrequited, the sighs of amorous youths, marriages forbidden, elopements indulged, reversals in fortune, and romantic reconciliations.

Many such transcriptions are digitized and widely available in both libretto and score in online archives. Their leather bindings, marble endpapers, and hand wrought elegance are a visual feast in their own right and, whether or not the music is deserving of a second listen, the folios, at least, are definitely worth celebrating. (As you can see, we couldn't resist recreating facsimiles of our own Willoughby-inspired leaflets to grace a “piano-forte” of our own, pictured right.)

For those not familiar with the genre (more commonly recognizable in their continental equivalents by Offenback, Rossini, or Lehar), the British ballad and comic operas such as Marianne might have performed, were generally compilations of songs and arias arranged and or composed by transforming popular broadsides, familiar folk tunes, and Italian arias into a play-cum-operetta of light-hearted romance and melodrama. (Some, like Thomas Arne, engaged in flagrant “Pastiche”--a kind of pre-copyright-plagarism—translating direct from Italian opera house to the Theater Royal, Drury Lane.)

In the era following England's first opera greats like Henry Purcell, silk-mercer-apprentice-cum -poet, John Gay, appeared on the scene, giving a fresh face to popular favorites like “Over the Hills and Far Away,” “The Broom,” and even “Greensleeves,” adding folk tunes to a smorgasboard-like array of songs known ever afterward as “The Beggar's Opera”--a parody of parodies that is attributed with launching Britain on a decades-long craving for comic opera which revived in Jane's day.

Not all comic opera was created equal, however (or at least I don't think so). Some scores seem heady, cumbersome, and repetitive; other librettos leave me believing they were merely an afterthought (or at least a misunderstanding on the part of composer and poets as to how many single syllables of English can be contained in a complete phrase of overly ornamented notes). But others are rather exceptional and deserving of attention. One such masterwork is Richard Brinsley Sheriden's libretto for “The Duenna” (incidentally praised by Lord Byron as “the best opera ever written”). Blessedly, its score by Thomas Linley the elder and his son (cleverly named “The younger) is equally worthy of praise, creating a Tour de force of real pleasure. My favorite, it's my personal belief that this was the very folio procured for Marianne, but the following shortlist is an equally plausible array of choices for any amorous John Willoughby:

Artaxerces (1762) by Thomas Arne

Inkle and Yarico (1787) by Samuel Arnold and George Colman the Younger.

Liberty Hall (1785) by Charles Dibdin

Love in a Village (1762) by Thomas Arne and Isaac Bickerstaffe

No Song, No Supper (1792) by Stephen Storace and Prince Hoare

Resina (1782), by Frances Brooke and William Shield

School for Fathers; or, Lionel and Clarissa (1768) by Isaac Bickerstaff and Charles Dibdin

The Beggar's Opera (1728) by John Gay, and its sequel, Polly, (1729)

The Duenna (1775) by Thomas Linley and Thomas Linley the Younger and Richard Brinsley Sheridan

The Haunted Tower (1789) by Stephen Storace and James Cobb

The Pirates (1792) by Stephen Storace and James Cobb

The Waterman (1774) by Charles Dibdin

As the school year ends, we suggest three lovable films that suit the summery move from homework to housework and sweaters to shorts. Though any of them are worth a watch any day, there's something about each of them that feels a little like the liberty of packing away the algebra and geography texts and packing up for a lazily-sweet three-months of vacation. They all possess something of a university setting--"just around the corner from Columbia" in the first instance, and two fictitious colleges to run away from or back to in the second and third. The films' other common denominator is that each was directed by one of Hollywood's very best—and two of them add the further inestimable advantage of instruction in the art of dancing a once incredibly popular, “The Big Apple.”

Our favorite, and the best known of the three, You Can't Take It with You, was so deeply into the “best” category that it earned Frank Capra his third Oscar for Best Director—a total shock to Capra as the critics hadn't been overly kind—and the film danced away with the Best Picture honors as well. Columbia pictures paid what was then the astounding sum of $200,000 for rights to Kaufman and Hart's Pulitzer-prize winning play—and Capra left about $90K worth of it out of the adapted script in order to depict “Love Thy Neighbor in living drama” and to glorify “the bloke that bushes the broom” in his own audience-pleasing, common man style. 

Unlike some of his films, Capra was smitten with his entire cast, so much so that he further altered his pricey script to celebrate them. Since Lionel Barrymore, whom Capra described as “the humblest, most cooperative actor” he'd ever known, was his one-and-only choice for the role of Grandpa Vanderhof, he wrote in a fictitious fall into Grandpa's part in order to justify Barrymore's need to peform his part on crutches due to to crippling arthritis—and Grandpa also sticks to stamp-collecting rather than snake-charming. In an unanticipated bit of casting, because he needed a no-pretending, real-life xylophone player for the part of Ed Carmichael, Capra auditioned wide-eyed, wide-grinned Dub Taylor. When Capra asked if Dub if he had ever “played in a picture,” Dub responded, “No, suh, but I played in The Rose Bowl on the Alabama football team.” And that, too, was worked into the script, and even the film set as well, in the form of U of Alabama pennants adorning the walls. Infant phenomena, Ann Miller, who played “the awkward Pavlova” character of Essie Carmichael was only 15-years-old when the film was made—though if Capra—or anyone else for that matter—knew they were adapting to the needs of a minor on the set is unclear. The “Our-Gangish” crew of street urchins, teaching Jimmy Stewart and Jean Arthur to dance The Big Apple—or at least a little of it—however, are undeniably quick and precocious minors, and are yet another of Capra's inventions.

The play deservedly still runs in theaters nearly eighty years after it was written if anyone wishes to see the un-Capra-sized version; but You Can't Take It with You undeniably works at every possible level that Capra might have wished. It legitimately earns every laugh, sigh and tear.

Jimmy Stewart headlines our second choice as well in Vivacious Lady which debuted only a few months earlier in 1938 than You Can't Take It with You.  In both films Stewart was still a relative newcomer, and was in Vivacious Lady only at star-billed Ginger Rogers' request. Rogers thought Stewart could play the character of a conservative botany professor who falls in love-at-first-sight with a night club singer, and pull off a performance innocent, vulnerable and dashing. She was right. Rogers as the aforementioned (and highly appealing) chanteuse is as smitten with with the prof as he with her and wedding bells ring before twenty-four bells have past since their first introduction.  

The complications arise, of course, because whirlwind courtships frequently reap whirlwind consequences. The professor seems to have forgotten many details in the fervor of his infatuation including a father (Charles Coburn) who rules not only the roost but an entire university which holds Stewart’s job and future hopes, a mother (Beulah Bondi) with an easily flared-up heart condition, and even a fiance (Frances Mercer) awash with social importance and aggressive possessiveness. Add to the combination a perpetually-postponed honeymoon and the rest is some fine comedic comebacks and screwball comedy antics—including Rogers teaching her repressed mother-in-law to dance The Big Apple. While the script may not be Pulitzer caliber, there are several highly memorable one-liners worth a watch alone.

Director George Stevens is best remembered for heavy-duty drama like Shane and Giant, but our favorite of Stevens' films are those where his comedic talents shine through like Gunga Din, Woman of the Year and I Remember Mama. And his flare for the light and delightful in both dialogue and physical humor is in good form here.  

 

The comedy, Elopement (1951), as the name implies, also features overnight romance and its consequences—though in a post-scewball fashion. Anne Francis plays Jacqueline aka “Jake” Osborne, the way-too-accomplished daughter of way-too-successful-and-self-important Howard Osborne, played by the ever ascerbic Clifton Webb. In the midst of the activities surrounding her college graduation Jake finds herself dancing with her handsome psychology professor, Matt Reagan, played by William Lundigan. Feted and adored by all, she has been unwittingly even more adored by Reagan—whom she has distantly loved throughout her senior year. She's about to leave for a three-year apprenticeship in industrial design under a Swedish design-icon, but upon discovering Lundigan's feelings, she impulsively suggests they elope to Maryland. Reginald Gardiner, in one of his most likeable and cerebral roles as Jake's godfather visiting from South Africa, becomes her only confidante. Shortly after she bolts off in the middle of the night, her parents--with mother played most agreeably by  mother Margalo Gillmore--discover her absence and go in search of her, eventually joined by Matt's parents, played by Charles Bickford and Evelyn Varden. The sets of parents are poles apart—the Osbornes, sophisticated, the Reagans strictly down-home—opposites in in all but their opposition to the marriage. Betwixt the pursuing parents, distrust morphs into grudging admiration and finally friendship—almost as quickly as second thoughts begin to overtake the eloping couple.

This is a Henry Koster film who also directed classics like The Bishop's Wife and No Highway In the Sky, and though this isn't up to their caliber—it's still makes for light and easy early summer viewing.

Few cautions to parents exist--in Elopement there's a Miro-esque nude sculpture in the Osborne living room that a big screen might just catch larger than life, if that's a problem.  And in both You Can't Take it with You and Vivacious Lady, African-Americans are depicted in somewhat stereotypical, though loveable, fashion.  The only other sensitive spot comes in the dance steps selected for The Big Apple performance in Vivacious Lady.  The Big Apple, originally created and performed by African-American night club performers and later popularized throughout the country, has just under a zillion different steps that can be put together in a vast number of ways. "Praise Allah" is one of the dance steps used in Vivacious Lady that may seem rather insensitive in today's world.

Though we missed Easter, we were able to get the Doctor Thorne and Framley Parsonage issue of theJournal mailed out—quite fittingly—today on the 198^th anniversary of Anthony Trollope's birth. Significant to posting today, as well, is the fact that Trollope is one of the British postal system's most celebrated sons. Split across two professions—postal employee and popular novelist—he managed to leave his mark on Victorian society through both. His most prominent contribution to the post, of course, are the iconic red pillar boxes which gave Victorians their first-ever opportunity to post their letters without having to enter the post office, wait in queues and have postal workers quiz them on their letter's contents—a sure boon to an increase in love letters. Of course, not everyone approved of such a bold move. In He Knew He Was Right, Trollope's obdurate character, the spinster Jemima Stansbury's, stance is quite clear on the subject:

Having taken all the journals to “a respectable post-office,” we're reasonably certain that yours should “reach its destination” soon.

While you wait, and for those yet uninitiated in Trollope's tales of Barsetshire, but wanting a quick taste to whet their appetites, look out for copies of The Bedside Barsetshire, a 1949 companion to Trollope written by Lance O. Tingay from used booksellers or at the local library.

By Nancy Young

Cocoa is the powder derived from the cocoa bean. The bean is derived from the cocoa tree. The cocoa tree was apparently derived from the Garden of Eden virtually unscathed, but obviously lonely. It waited patiently, however, for its derived powder to be joined with some pleasing fat, so it could again become a celestial food—which is now known as chocolate, and which I indulge in whenever I get the chance.

This bread resulted a few days ago from a combination of the need to use up an aging orange coupled with the need to devour chocolate. Addictions will tell.

It's remarkably quick, fortunately, to get from desire to satisfaction with this bread—for a yeast bread, at least—and it's also a very adaptable bread. It's wholegrain to make me feel better about the butter and sugar—but the sugar can be halved and so can the butter—why, I don't know, but they can. The entire recipe can be halved, in fact, since I concocted it to work in my very large KitchenAid stand mixer, and then it can be made in a smaller stand mixer or a large food processor. (Bread makers offend my delicate bread-and-chocolate sensibilities so I can't tell you about them.) And, of course, for the intrepid, the recipe's not too bad by hand, either. (I'm guessing that, I don't actually know, however, since, while I'm not lazy enough to use a bread maker, I'm plenty lazy enough to use a stand mixer.)

I've made it without salt (on purpose, actually, sometimes I make salt-free bread without it being on purpose) for a low-sodium friend, and have on discerning authority that it works in its salt-free form as well. And you can use refined sugar instead of the unrefined.

Since it's quick and has sugar, it does suffer a bit from the resultant flavor of a hefty dose of yeast—but the yeast can be reduced to a scant teaspoon if you have chocolate in another form to fall back on and can wait 6 hours or so for its first rise. Happy baking!

Ingredients:

2 cups warm milk

1 cup lightly warmed orange juice or water

1 tablespoon dried yeast

3 tablespoons molasses

1/2 cup unrefined cane sugar

grated rind on 1 large orange

1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened

1 tablespoon salt

6 or more cups whole wheat flour

Egg Wash (optional)

Place the milk and water in the bowl of a large, heavy-duty mixer, sprinkle with the yeast and add the molasses. Stir lightly and allow it to rest until the yeast has proofed--about five minutes (it's a good time to grate the orange peel). Add the sugar, orange peel, cocoa, butter and salt, and place the bowl under the dough hook and stir just enough to get them thinking about each other on good terms. Add the flour, stir lightly and let the dough hook do its magic for a minute or two. If the dough is slack, begin adding flour 1/2 cup at a time allowing about 30 seconds of mixing after each addition. Since it's never going to clean the bowl until it's too stiff, check the dough for doneness after each addition by snagging about a tablespoonful of dough and rolling it between your palms for a few seconds--if it's still sticky, add more flour. If it cleans up nicely, you're done adding flour and can let the dough hook work for about another 3 to 5 minutes; but if you're of the must-knead-it-myself-for-awhile-to-feel-I-really-made-it ilk—this is a very satisfying dough for hand kneading, silky and responsive.

The first rise will be surprisingly quick for such a rich dough--probably around an hour. Once risen (and scaled and benched and all that good stuff if you like to do it—and I do), the shape can be happily free form. This full recipe makes 4 pounds of dough—enough for four small loaves, three large loaves or two fat loaves. Rolls will vary but 4 dozen should be about right. I shape it into rounds or oblongs and toss it into bannetons, but it can be made into rolls, fat rounds or long baguettes and placed on silicone- or parchment-covered baking sheets, or simply cuddled down into regular loaf pans. The second rise will, naturally, be quicker than the first—about 35 to 45 minutes, so I generally start preheating the ovens as soon as the bread's shaped—especially since I use a baking stone. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees, and once the bread is doubled it can be popped out of the bannetons, if using, or left contentedly in place, if not, and slashed with a lame, a razor or a good serrated knife—again, in any old way you like best. (I like the handsome design the floured-banneton leaves on this loaf, so I don't brush it with egg wash, but for non-banneton rolls and loaves, egg wash lends a wonderfully dark, glossy edge to the baked loaves.) Once the loaves are safely in the oven, turn down the heat to 350 degrees.

Bake until rolls or loaves test clean and have non-wimpy bottom crusts ( obviously roll and loaf size will make a great difference)—but start checking at about 20 minutes for rolls and 35 minutes for all but very large loaves. Cool on wire racks, and if at all possible take a nice piece slathered with unsalted butter or marmalade to a quiet corner and pretend you're making sure that it's good enough for the rest of the family to eat. If it's not, you'll be forced to consume the loaves all by yourself.

Mr. Berg's review is part of the many research aids available at Ontheshortwaves.com, a must-visit for anyone interested in this aspect of World War II, as well as the comprehensive history of shortwave broadcasting and the shortwave broadcast DXing hobby. Mr. Berg is the author of On the Short Waves 1923-1945, Listening on the Short Waves, 1945 to Today, Broadcasting on the Short Waves, 1945 to Today, and The Early Shortwave Stations: A Broadcasting History through 1945.

When Elizabeth Gaskell first subtitled Wives and Daughters "An Everyday Story," she was, I believe, laughing at (or perhaps with) society and her readers.  At first meeting, little twelve-year-old Molly Gibson — daughter of the village surgeon in a bygone era — is, indeed "everyday." She is a young slip of a girl fretting over and eagerly anticipating her first visit to the Towers — the local seat of political power and fashion. She looks quaint in her plain white frock and straw bonnet, only to find out how disappointing society life can be.

Then, a few pages pass for years and Molly is nearly seventeen, with an everyday education, everyday interests, and (at first glance) everyday beauty; unwittingly attracting the "calf love" of an everyday young man (much to her father's perplexed dismay) during the long absence of her governess.

A few pages more, and Gaskell deftly turns Molly's everyday life topsy-turvey when her loving, companionable father and protector remarries a mindlessly frivolous, selfishly jealous school marm, complete with a winningly elegant daughter, Cynthia, who is just returning from a French education and a misguided past.  Added to Molly's everyday story are two young men whose father is the local landed squire — a gruff, good-hearted master whose resources are failing and whose old-fashioned prejudices are firm.  Molly's intimacy with the Squire's wife, Mrs. Hamley, further expands and complicates Molly's mundane world to include family quarrels to appease, secrets to keep (and try to forget) and, over time, love to cherish (and conceal) for the younger Hamley son, Roger — a young man whose own everyday experiences get him honors at Cambridge, engage him to Molly's step-sister, and take him a world away to conduct scientific research in Africa at the behest of the Geographical Society.

And so, Wives and Daughters is really a book about the exceptional in the everyday.  Molly rises above her heartbreaking early-life encounters with death and loss, unwelcomed change, unrequited love, and brutal village slander to become an "everyday" heroine of extraordinary character.  And her hero, Roger, is not a whit behind.  Between the two stars of the story, Gaskell weaves a tale that demonstrates the way in which everyday courage and goodness transform life into the truly exceptional.

Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope’s third novel in the Barchester series, is the story of devoted fatherhood. The innovative Greshamsbury physician, Henry Thorne, has always done the right and decent thing since his youth; no more so than when, despite his bachelorhood, he offers to take in the unwanted, illegitimate offspring of his older brother, to raise as his own child. At once, little Mary's hopes are his hopes, her dreams his dreams. Her sorrow is his sorrow, her triumph his own.

At twenty-one, Mary is beloved by all at Greshamsbury for her beauty, grace, and goodness — especially beloved by young Francis Newbold (“Frank”) Gresham, heir to to the failing family estate, whose “one great duty” is to “marry money” — the sole quality which Mary is most assuredly without. The book traces the victories and youthful scrapes of Frank after his coming of age, and the heroism of Miss Mary, who is ever-true to her love, despite misfortune, prejudice, and persecution.

The novel also follows Sir Roger Scatcherd — another, and an unknowing, uncle of Mary Thorne — and his rise to riches, title, position, and fame. His son and sole heir, Sir Louis — a debauched alcoholic who is also in love with Miss Thorne — has no liking for the young heir to Greshamsbury, and, himself, owns the title deeds to the Gerhamsbury estate. Through it all, Doctor Thorne is the devoted father and wise friend of all.

In Doctor Thorne, Trollope's use of detail, sense of place, and characterization are developed to their finest. Whether enjoying the witty and golden-hearted heiress, Miss Dunstable; the worldly Lady Amelia; the competitive Doctor Fillgrave; the fussy Lady Arabella; or the world-weary Squire Gresham, the reader is sure to find Doctor Thorne a companionable, all-weather friend.