Articoli di riviste sul tema "1861-1962"

SummaryFor the century following Unification, malaria was the principal Italian public health problem. This article seeks to explain this high incidence and explores its impact both on the sufferer and on society. An eradication campaign began after Unification; gathered momentum at the turn of the century; and achieved victory following the Second World War. Important themes are the growing understanding of malaria; the search for weapons to combat it; and the contrasting approaches of the Liberal and Fascist regimes. Italy was the classic country to eradicate malaria by a national campaign and it is important to relate its success to the ongoing global debate surrounding malaria control and eradication.

Eburodacrys pilicornis Fisher, 1944 is redescribed based on a female from Brazil (Mato Grosso do Sul), and new state record for Venezuela and new department record for Colombia are provided. Notes and new state records in Brazil for Tilloglomus spectabile Martins, 1975 are provided. The pronotal shape of Piezocera flavipennis (Zajciw, 1970) is commented on. Piezocera serraticollis Linell, 1897 is synonymized with P. monochroa Bates, 1885 and an updated key to species of Piezocera Audinet-Serville, 1834 is provided. Lepturges (Lepturges) luanae sp. nov. is described from Brazil (Goiás). New geographical records are provided for an additional 17 species belonging to three subfamilies (Cerambycinae, Lamiinae and Lepturinae): Gnomidolon cruciferum (Gounelle, 1909); Microibidion bimaculatum Mehl, Galileo, Martins & Santos-Silva, 2015; Lepturges (Lepturges) centralis Monné, 1978; Lepturges (Lepturges) mattogrossis Gilmour, 1962; Leptostylus perniciosus Monné & Hoffmann, 1981; Urgleptes villiersi Gilmour, 1962; Oreodera bituberculata Bates, 1861; Rosalba smaragdina (Breuning, 1940); Colobothea rubroornata Zajciw, 1962; Aerenea subimpetiginosa Breuning, 1948; Cicuiara nitidula (Bates, 1866); Desmiphora (Desmiphora) crocata Melzer, 1935; Estola acricula Bates, 1866; Gisostola bahiensis Martins & Galileo, 1988; Hypsioma chapadensis Dillon & Dillon, 1945; Lypsimena fuscata Haldeman, 1847; and Strangalia flavocincta (Thomson, 1861).

This article aims to clarify the theme of continuity and epistemological discontinuity from Pierre Duhem (1861-1916) and Gaston Bachelard (1884-1962), both French thinkers. The first author has a continuum view on the development of sciences, in which the progress of scientific knowledge would occur from continuous repairs on a theoretical system that evolves gradually. Gaston Bachelard, on the other hand, defends the thesis of the epistemological rupture, according to which he thinks the evolution of the sciences through his interregnums and reorganizations. Knowledge moves through rectifications of knowledge that are updated in the light of new experiences, without a cumulative process of ideas occurring. It is intended in this work to clarify the Bachelardian view on epistemological discontinuity as opposed to Duhemian thought. Keywords: Continuity. Discontinuity. Epistemology. Duhem. Bachelard.

Family-group names proposed for beetles belonging to the family Cerambycidae are catalogued and their availability is determined using the rules of the current International Code of Zoological Nomenclature. A synoptic classification of the family summarizes the validity of the names. Type genera of all family-group names are listed and the type species and stems of genera of available family-group names are included. A new family-group name, Elytracanthinini Bousquet (type genus: Elytracanthina Monn, 2005, a replacement name for Elytracantha Lane, 1955) is proposed for Elytracanthinae Lane, 1955. Ichthyosoma armatum Montrouzier, 1855 is designated as type species of Icthyosoma Boisduval, 1835. Reversal of precedence is used to preserve the validity of the following family-group names: Anaglyptides Lacordaire, 1868 (over Anaglyptisidae Gistel, 1848 [Buprestidae]); Dryobiini Arnett, 1962 (over Dryobiadae Gistel, 1856 [Ptinidae]); Hemilophitae Thomson, 1868 (over Amphionychitae Thomson, 1860) and Hétéropsides Lacordaire, 1869 (over Dichophyiaeidae Gistel, 1848). The following family-group names, although junior synonyms, are preserved as valid until an application is submitted to the International Commission on Zoological Nomenclature; in these cases a reversal of precedence could not be applied: Eurypodini Gahan, 1906 (over Zaracinae Pascoe, 1869); Macronides Lacordaire, 1868 (over Enchapteritae Thomson, 1861); Pyresthides Lacordaire, 1868 (over Pseudolepturitae Thomson, 1861 and Erythrinae Pascoe, 1866) and Stenoderinae Pascoe, 1867 (over Syllitae Thomson, 1864). A total of 238 valid cerambycid family-group names (413 available names) are recognized in the following 13 subfamilies: Vesperinae (1 valid family-group name), Oxypeltinae (1), Disteniinae (4), Anoplodermatinae (3), Philinae (1), Parandrinae (2), Prioninae (24), Spondylidinae (5), Necydalinae (1), Lepturinae (8), Lamiinae (80), Dorcasominae (1), and Cerambycinae (107).

From 1861 to 1962, clinicopathologic research tried to explain the association of abnormal uterine bleeding with uterine enlargement. The etiology was theorized as metropathy, suggesting that myometrial dysfunction may predispose to abnormal uterine bleeding. Research reached a nadir in 1962, when a major review dismissed myometrial hypertrophy as a plausible explanation after prior rejections of the theories of chronic myometritis, fibrosis uteri, and subinvolution as causes of bleeding. Subsequent to this arose a crusade against unnecessary hysterectomies in the 1970s. Although myometrial hyperplasia was proposed in 1868, it is only in the past 25 years that tangible evidence has supported that idea. It now appears that clinically enlarged uteri are due to globoid outward bulging of the uterus, caused by increased intramural pressure—often unrelated to either uterine weight or myometrial thickness. Abnormal (dysfunctional) uterine bleeding may often be due to spontaneous rupture of thrombosed dilated endometrial vessels, due to the combined effects of obstructed venous drainage by increased intramural pressure, and Virchow’s triad. Despite a century-old known association of parity with naturally occurring outer wall myometrial scars (fibrosis uteri with elastosis), it was not previously suggested that these may reflect healing reactions to muscle tears during labor and delivery. We now suggest that smaller, similar inner wall elastotic scars in the nerve-rich inner myometrium may explain many cases of pelvic pain. This review suggests that diverse pressure-related lesions may be present in clinically abnormal uteri that have been called “normal” since the crusade against unnecessary hysterectomy.

We investigate morphology and taxonomic rank of several Alona species related to A. rectangula Sars, 1861. Despite high morphological intraspecific variability, a number of synapomorphies shows that taxa related to A. rectangula are sufficiently different in external and internal morphology from “true” Alona Baird, 1843. These are removed from Alona into separate genera. The rare West-African A. holdeni Green 1962 is redescribed and we describe a new species from North Africa, Arabia and islands in the Western Indian Ocean. We reinstate the name Coronatella Dybowski & Grochowski to receive A. rectangula, A. holdeni, and a new species, C. anemae. Sharing several synapomorphies, the subantarctic species A. weinecki Studer appears related to A. meridionalis Sinev, 2006. We assign them to Ovalona gen.n., similar in morphology to Coronatella, but with less limb reductions. At a higher level, we discuss morphology and distribution of both genera and of the similar A. elegans-group. To situate Coronatella within the subfamily, we introduce a “Coronatella-branch”, a group of medium-sized Aloninae with limb reductions, comprising Coronatella, Leberis, Celsinotum, A. dentifera, A. monacantha and possibly Karualona and A. verrucosa-group, in comparison with a “Hexalonabranch” and Alona s.str. Adaptations to life in temporary pools and salinity tolerance may have played an important role in separation and radiation of a Coronatella-branch.

The family Discidae has undergone extensive speciation in the Macaronesian region (eastern Atlantic Ocean), with 11 endemic species recognised from Madeira and the Canary Islands in recent checklists (Bank, Groh & Ripken 2002; Seddon 2008; Fauna Europaea database project 2011), grouped into the genera Keraea Gude, 1911 and Discus Fitzinger, 1833: K. deflorata (R.T. Lowe, 1855) and D. (Atlantica) guerinianus (R.T. Lowe, 1852), from Madeira; and nine species from the Canary Islands: K. garachicoensis (Wollaston, 1878), D. scutula, (Shuttleworth, 1852), D. engonatus (Shuttleworth, 1852), D. textilis (Shuttleworth, 1852), D. retextus, (Shuttleworth, 1852), D. putrescens (R.T. Lowe, 1861), D. ganodus (J. Mabille, 1882), D. gomerensis Rähle, 1994, and D. kompsus (J. Mabille, 1883). In contrast with the anatomical data known for the European and North American genera Discus and Anguispira Morse, 1864 (Uminski 1962; Pilsbry 1948), there has hitherto been no information published on the internal anatomy of the Canary Islands and Madeiran species, which are known only by their shell characters. In this paper we raise Atlantica to the rank of genus in the Discidae and describe shell and anatomical characters for two new species from La Gomera and Tenerife, respectively. They are grouped in a new subgenus of Atlantica, largely restricted to the laurisilva. This laurel-rich forest occurs in humid subtropical and warm-temperate regions with little variability in temperatures and is developed between 600 and 1,200 m above sea level in the Canary Islands (Yanes et al. 2009b: Fig. 2).

O presente estudo crítico pretende tratar do ato de filosofar enquanto possibilidade de retomada da infância mais longínqua e que permanece por toda a vida. O ato criador é antes de tudo um potencial cósmico, pelo qual a criança se apropria de seus mundos interiores em toda a sua inteireza na multiplicidade das infâncias, de modo que a infância pode e deve habitar em cada um de nós. Nesse sentido faremos um estudo crítico aproximando a filosofia de Gaston Bachelard (1884-1962) com Rudolf Steiner (1861-1925). Um lampejo dessa aproximação já foi realizado anteriormente por Michel Onfray (1959 -) em seu livro Cosmos, contudo, por meio de um ponto de vista crítico diferente de Onfray (que considera o trabalho de Steiner duvidoso), gostaríamos de encontrar aproximações possíveis entre o humanismo bachelardiano e a antroposofia, tentando conciliar principalmente os aspectos de transição entre a infância e a juventude, que ambos empreender e que são baseados na relação do ser com o cosmos, a natureza e seus elementos. Para isso, partiremos do texto A poética do devaneio de Bachelard fazendo uma intersecção com a conferência O valor moral da cultura científica, bem como, nos utilizaremos de dois textos de Steiner, A filosofia da liberdade e A educação da criança segundo a ciência espiritual. Nesse processo investigativo, utilizamos uma metodologia praxeológica que vai desde uma investigação contextual sobre os aspectos filosóficos, pedagógicos e antropológicos que nos levaram aos resultados do imaginário da infância bem como suas implicações morais na construção subjetiva do conhecimento.

AbstractA well-preserved fauna of largely articulated trilobites is described from three new localities close to one another in the Bull River Valley, southeastern British Columbia. All the trilobites from these localities are from the lower or middle part of the Wujiajiania lyndasmithae Subzone of the Elvinia Zone, lower Jiangshanian, in the McKay Group. Two new species are proposed with types from these localities: Aciculolenus askewi and Cliffia nicoleae. The trilobite (and agnostid) fauna from these localities includes at least 20 species: Aciculolenus askewi n. sp., Agnostotes orientalis (Kobayashi, 1935), Cernuolimbus ludvigseni Chatterton and Gibb, 2016, Cliffia nicoleae n. sp., Elvinia roemeri (Shumard, 1861), Grandagnostus? species 1 of Chatterton and Gibb, 2016, Eugonocare? phillipi Chatterton and Gibb, 2016, Eugonocare? sp. A, Housia vacuna (Walcott, 1912), Irvingella convexa (Kobayashi, 1935), Irvingella flohri Resser, 1942, Irvingella species B Chatterton and Gibb, 2016, Olenaspella chrisnewi Chatterton and Gibb, 2016, Proceratopyge canadensis (Chatterton and Ludvigsen, 1998), Proceratopyge rectispinata (Troedsson, 1937), Pseudagnostus cf. P. josepha (Hall, 1863), Pseudagnostus securiger (Lake, 1906), Pseudeugonocare bispinatum (Kobayashi, 1962), Pterocephalia sp., and Wujiajiania lyndasmithae Chatterton and Gibb, 2016. Pseudagnostus securiger, a widespread early Jiangshanian species, has not been previously recorded from southeastern British Columbia. Non-trilobite fossils collected from these localities include brachiopods, rare trace fossils, a complete silica sponge (Hyalospongea), and a dendroid graptolite. The faunas from these localities are more diverse and better preserved than those from other previously documented localities of the same age in the region.Additional specimens of a rare species, found by amateur collectors in previously documented localities of slightly younger age (upper part of Wujiajiania lyndasmithae Subzone) in the same region, are documented. These new specimens, when combined with an earlier discovered specimen, provide adequate type material to propose a new species of Labiostria, L. gibbae, which may be useful for biostratigraphy.UUID:http://zoobank.org/89551eac-b3af-4b2b-8ef3-7c2e106a560d

New records are provided for the following species: Aderus populneus (Creutzer, 1796) from Armenia, Azerbaijan and Cyprus; Otolelus flaveolus (Mulsant & Rey, 1866a) from Tessin and Valais (Switzerland), O. neglectus (Jacquelin du Duval, 1863) from Switzerland; O. ruficollis (Rossi, 1794) from Jordan, and Pseudanidorus pentatomus (Thomson, 1864) from Italy. Euglenes oculatus (Paykull, 1798) is excluded from the Italian fauna. The southernmost records for Pseudanidorus pentatomus (Italy, Latium) and Phytobaenus amabilis amabilis R. F. Sahlberg, 1834 (Italy, Calabria) are provided. The following synonymies are established: Xylophilus pruinosus var. testaceus Baudi di Selve, 1877b (not X. testaceus Kolenati, 1846) = Otolelus pruinosus pruinosus (Kiesenwetter, 1861) n. syn.; Xylophilus testaceus var. humeralis Favre, 1890 (not X. humeralis Champion, 1890a) = Otolelus neglectus (Jacquelin du Duval, 1863) n. syn. Escalerosia n. gen. (type species Hylophilus aculithorax Escalera, 1922) is described by validation of Escalerosia Báguena Corella, 1948 [nomen nudum]. Type species are designated for the following genus-group names: Pseudolotelus Pic, 1901 (type species Euglenes punctatissimus Reitter, 1885), Syzeton Blackburn, 1891 (type species Syzeton laetus Blackburn, 1891), and Syzetoninus Blackburn, 1891 (type species Syzetoninus mundus Blackburn, 1891). The following names are established to be unavailable: Carinatophilus Báguena Corella, 1948; Escalerosia yebonensis ab. benzanensis Báguena Corella, 1948; E. severini ab. telluricus Báguena Corella, 1948; E. bicolor var. binigropedes Báguena Corella, 1962; Hylophilus curtipennis var. tauricus Pic, 1917, and H. monstrosipes var. semibrunnescens Pic, 1917. Otolelus Mroczkowski, 1987, established as replacement name for Olotelus Mulsant & Rey, 1866a (not Olotelus Solier, 1851), lacks a type species and is an unavailable name; its authorship is attributed to Klinger (2000), who fixed Xylophilus pruinosus Kiesenwetter, 1861 as type species. Euglenes pygmaeus (DeGeer, 1775) is an incorrect subsequent spelling of pygmeus but is in prevailing usage, thus it is deemed to be a correct original spelling. Notoxus ruficollis Rossi, 1794, currently Otolelus ruficollis (Aderidae), and Notoxus ruficollis Champion, 1890 (Anthicidae) are homonyms but the senior homonym was placed in a separate genus before the junior name was described, so no immediate nomenclatorial action is required. Xylophile Latreille, 1825 is confirmed to be a vernacular unavailable name, whereas Xylophilus Latreille, 1829 (type species Notoxus populneus Creutzer, 1796) is a synonym of Aderus Stephens, 1829 n. syn. Xylophilus Curtis, 1830 (type species Anthicus oculatus Paykull, 1798), is removed from synonymy with Aderus Stephens, 1829 and is established to be an objective synonym of Euglenes Westwood, 1830 n. syn. Xylophilus bimaculatus is confirmed to be only a subsequent incorrect spelling (unavailable name) of X. bisbimaculatus Hampe, 1850. Euglenus, Aglenes, Helophilus, Pseudoloterus, Tokyophilus, Tokiophylus, Xilophilus and Xylophylus are established to be subsequent incorrect spellings (unavailable names) of Euglenes Westwood, 1830, Hylophilus Berthold, 1827, Pseudolotelus Pic, 1901, Tokiophilus Pic, 1921 and Xylophilus Latreille, 1829, respectively. Xylophila Lamarck, 1817 is excluded from the Aderidae; a formal assignment of this genus to a family based on a type species selection has not been done.

The purpose of the study is to study and analyze the long-term variability of the statistical parameters of the distribution of the average annual water flow (norms, variation coefficients, and asymmetry) of the rivers of Ukraine, which have long series of observations. For this, we used the sequence of observations of the average annual water discharge at hydrological posts: river Dniester – the city of Zalishchyky, an observation period of the year 1882-2015; river Prut – the city of Chernivtsi, 1895-2015; river Desna – the city of Chernihiv 1895-2015; river Pripyat -the city of Mozyr, 1882-2014; river Southern Bug – the city of Alexandrovka, 1914-2015; river Danube – the city of Reni, 1861-2015; river Dnipro – the village of Lotsmanskaya Kamenka, 1818-2015. The duration of actual continuous observations varies from 102 to 155 years. The longest series of average annual water discharges was 198 years (the Dnieper River – the village of Lotsmanskaya Kamenka), but it consists of observations (1818-1961 – 144 years) and restored (1962-2015 – 54 years). To identify the long-term variability of the main parameters of the distribution of the average annual water flow, a comparison method is used. In our case, we compared the main statistical parameters of the rivers understudy for individual 30-year periods – sequential and with an overlap of 15 years – with the main parameters that were determined for the entire observation period. The determination of the average absolute deviations of the main statistical parameters for 30-year periods from the parameters for a long-term period, defined in %, made it possible to analyze the degree of their long-term variability. Slight variation in time has runoff norms and variation coefficients, which can be considered the most stable distribution parameters. In a long-term section, the variability of these parameters for runoff norms is in the range from 2 % to 14 %, for variation coefficients – from 7 % to 23 %. It should be noted that the highest percent deviations (14 % and 23 %, respectively) are for the observed average annual flow of water on the river Prut – the city of Chernivtsi, which turned out to be heterogeneous according to the Fisher criterion. The greatest amplitude of time variability falls on asymmetry coefficients, for which the average absolute deviation of parameters over 30-year periods from parameters over a long-term period for the studied rivers is in the range from 29 % to 98 %.

A supertribe Setapiitae Legalov, supertrib. n. (type genus <em>Setapion</em> Balfour-Browne, 1944), four new tribes Acanthopygini Legalov, trib. n. (type genus <em>Acanthopygus</em> Montrouzier, 1861), Philippinauletini Legalov, trib. n. (type genus <em>Philippinauletes</em> Legalov, gen. n.), Setapiini Legalov, trib. n. (type genus <em>Setapion</em> Balfour-Browne, 1944), Apiomorphini Legalov, trib. n. (type genus <em>Apiomorphus</em> Wagner, 1912), new genus <em>Philippinauletes</em> Legalov, gen. n. (type species <em>Philippinauletes rubrauletiformis</em> Legalov, sp. n.), and new subgenus <em>Apiomorphilus</em> Legalov, subgen. n. (type species <em>Apiomorphus inermipes</em> Voss, 1931) of the genus <em>Apiomorphus</em> Wagner, 1912, <em>Orthorhynchoides</em> (<em>Guineorhinotia</em>) <em>telnovi</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>Vossicartus kakumensis </em>Legalov, sp. n., <em>Philippinauletes rubrauletiformis</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>Deneauletes lackneri</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>Auletanus </em>(<em>Neauletes</em>) <em>palawanensis</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>A. </em>(<em>N.</em>) <em>versicolor</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>A. </em>(<em>N.</em>) <em>banggiensis</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>A. </em>(<em>N.</em>) <em>kuscheli</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>A. </em>(<em>N.</em>) <em>kurimansis</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>A.</em> (<em>Stictauletes</em>) <em>mabilabolensis</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>Macroauletes philippinensis</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>M. luzonensis</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>Auletobius </em>(<em>Auletobius</em>) <em>barligensis</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>A. </em>(<em>A.</em>) <em>crockerensis</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>A. </em>(<em>A.</em>) <em>emeljanovi</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>A. </em>(<em>A.</em>) <em>indochinensis</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>A. </em>(<em>A.</em>) <em>kapataganensis</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>A. </em>(<em>A.</em>) <em>weigeli</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>A. </em>(<em>Pseudometopum</em>) <em>hartmanni</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>Pseudauletes </em>(<em>Eopseudauletes</em>) <em>parvus</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>Pseudomesauletes </em>(<em>Pseudomesauletes</em>) <em>boettcheri</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>P. </em>(<em>P.</em>) <em>luzonensis</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>Lasioauletes insolitus</em> Legalov, sp. n., <em>Cyllorhynchites </em>(<em>Pseudocyllorhynus</em>) <em>limbourgi</em> Legalov, sp. n. are described. Trigonorhinini Valetnine, 1999, syn. n. is synonymized with Anthribini Billberg, 1820, Jordanthribini Morimoto, 1980, syn. n. with Proscoporhinini Lacordaire, 1866, Platyrhinini Bedel, 1882, syn. n. with Zygaenodini Lacordaire, 1866, Auletobiina Legalov, 2001, syn. n. and Guineauletina Legalov, 2003, syn. n. with Auletorhinina Voss, 1935, <em>Eosalacus</em> Legalov, 2007, syn. n. with <em>Pseudominurus</em> Voss, 1956, Acritorrhynchitina Legalov, 2007, syn. n. with Eugnamptini Voss, 1930, Chonostropheina Morimoto, 1962, syn. n. with Deporaini Voss, 1929, Anisomerinina Legalov, 2003, syn. n. with Temnocerina Legalov, 2003, Rhynchitallina Legalov, 2003, syn. n. with Rhynchitina Gistel, 1856, <em>Zherichiniletus</em> <em>cinerascens</em> Legalov, 2007, syn. n. and <em>Zh.</em> <em>luchti</em> Legalov, 2007, syn. n. with <em>Parauletanus</em> <em>kabakovi</em> (Legalov, 2003), <em>Stictauletoides</em> Legalov, 2007, syn. n., <em>Neauletoides</em> Legalov, 2007, syn. n., <em>Javaeletobius</em> Legalov, 2007, syn. n., <em>Auletanoides</em> Legalov, 2013, syn. n. with <em>Neauletes</em> Legalov, 2003, <em>Auletobius insularis</em> Voss, 1933, syn. n. with <em>Auletanus</em> (<em>Stictauletes</em>) <em>punctiger</em> (Voss, 1922), <em>Auletorhinus</em> Voss, 1935, syn. n. and <em>Zherichiniletoides</em> Legalov, 2007, syn. n. with <em>Auletobius</em> s. str., <em>Auletobius</em> <em>pumilio</em> Marshall, 1954, syn. n. with <em>Pseudomesauletes</em> (<em>Pseudomesauletes</em>) <em>gamoensis</em> (Marshall, 1954), Oxystomatina Alonso-Zarazaga, 1990, syn. n. with Toxorhynchina Scudder, 1893, Acratini Alonso-Zarazaga, Lyal, Bartolozzi et Sforzi, 1999, syn. n. with Ithystenina Lacordaire, 1866. The systematic position of Distenorrhinoidini Legalov, 2009, placem. n., <em>Parexillis</em> Jordan, 1904, placem. n., <em>Isanthribus</em> Holloway, 1982, placem. n., <em>Polycorynus</em> Schoenherr, 1839, placem. n., <em>Mecocerina</em> Jordan, 1895, placem. n., Ischnocerides Lacordaire, 1866, placem. n., <em>Sharpius</em> Holloway, 1982, placem. n., <em>Systellorhynchus</em> Blanchard, 1849, placem. n., Nessiarini Morimoto, 1972, placem. n., <em>Exillis</em> Pascoe, 1860, placem. n., <em>Phloeops</em> Lacordaire, 1866, placem. n., <em>Lagopezus</em> Dejean, 1834, placem. n., <em>Neoxenus</em> Valentine, 1999, placem. n., <em>Cyptoxenus</em> Valentine, 1982, placem. n., <em>Sicanthus</em> Valentine, 1989, placem. n., <em>Holostilpna</em> Jordan, 1907, placem. n., <em>Euxenulus</em> Valentine, 1960, placem. n., <em>Acaromimus</em> Jordan, 1907, placem. n., <em>Habroxenus</em> Valentine, 1989, placem. n., Auletanina Legalov, 2003, placem. n., <em>Parauletanus</em> <em>kabakovi</em> (Legalov, 2003), placem. n., <em>Auletobius</em> (<em>Auletobius</em>) <em>horaki</em> (Legalov, 2007), placem. n., Eosalacina Legalov, 2007, placem. n., Trichapiina Alonso-Zarazaga, 1990, placem. n., <em>Mythapion</em> Kissinger, 2005, placem. n., <em>Hecyrapion</em> Kissinger, 2005, placem. n., <em>Rhamnapion</em> Kissinger, 2005, placem. n., <em>Acarapion</em> Kissinger, 2005, placem. n., <em>Pystapion</em> Kissinger, 2005, placem. n., Stereodermina Sharp, 1895, placem. n., Atopobrentina Damoiseau, 1965, placem. n., Hoplopisthiina Senna et Calabresi, 1919, placem. n., <em>Schizotrachelus</em> Lacordaire, 1866, placem. n., Tychaeina Schoenfeldt, 1908, placem. n., Ithystenina Lacordaire, 1866, placem. n. and Pholidochlamydina Damoiseau, 1962, placem. n. are changed. Status of Phloeotragini Lacordaire, 1866, stat. res., Apolectini Lacordaire, 1866, stat. res., Cappadocini Alonso-Zarazaga et Lyal, 1999, stat. res., Valenfriesiini Alonso-Zarazaga et Lyal, 1999, stat. res., Homoeoderini Pierce, 1930, stat. res., <em>Australobelus</em> Legalov, 2009, stat. res., <em>Blackburnibelus</em> Legalov, 2009, stat. res., <em>Leabelus</em> Legalov, 2009, stat. res., <em>Pascoebelus</em> Legalov, 2009, stat. res., <em>Pseodorhinotia</em> Legalov, 2009, stat. res., <em>Tasmanobelus</em> Legalov, 2009, stat. res., <em>Germaribelus</em> Legalov, 2009, stat. res., Afrocorynini Voss, 1957, stat. res. , Hispodini Voss, 1957, stat. res., <em>Crowsonicar</em> Legalov, 2013, stat. res., <em>Daulaxius</em> Pascoe, 1887, stat. res., Vossicartini Legalov, 2003, stat. res., Parauletanini Legalov, 2007, stat. res., <em>Australetobius</em> Legalov, 2007, stat. res., <em>Longoauletes</em> Legalov, 2007, stat. res., <em>Micrauletes</em> Legalov, 2003, stat. res., <em>Pseudoparauletes</em> Legalov, 2001, stat. res., Eugnamptini Voss, 1930, stat. res., Synapiina Alonso-Zarazaga, 1990, stat. res. and Paussobrenthina Gestro, 1919, stat. res. are recovered. Changes of status for Montsecanomalinae Legalov, 2015, stat. n., <em>Neauletes</em> Legalov, 2003, stat. n., <em>Stictauletes</em> Voss, 1934, stat. n., Mecolenini Wanat, 2001, stat. n., Catapiini Alonso-Zarazaga, 1990, stat. n., Hephebocerina Lacordaire, 1866, stat. n., Pholidochlamydina Damoiseau, 1962, stat. n., Pholidochlamydina Damoiseau, 1962, stat. n. and <em>Protocylas</em> Pierce, 1941, stat. res. are made. New combinations for <em>Parauletanus</em> <em>kabakovi</em> (Legalov, 2003), comb. n., <em>Auletanus</em> (<em>Neauletes</em>) <em>baitetensis</em> (Legalov, 2007), comb. n., <em>A</em>. (<em>N</em>.) <em>drescheri</em> Voss, 1935, <em>A</em>. (<em>N</em>.) <em>madangensis</em> (Legalov, 2007), comb. n., <em>A</em>. (<em>N</em>.) <em>mindanaoensis</em> (Legalov, 2007), comb. n., <em>A</em>. (<em>N</em>.) <em>relictus</em> (Legalov, 2003), comb. n., <em>A</em>. (<em>N</em>.) <em>salomonicus</em> (Thompson, 1982), comb. n., <em>A</em>. (<em>N</em>.) <em>sumbaensis</em> (Legalov, 2013), comb. n., <em>A</em>. (<em>N</em>.) <em>tawitawensis</em> (Legalov, 2007), comb. n., <em>A</em>. (<em>N</em>.) <em>toxopeusi</em> (Voss, 1957), comb. n., <em>Auletanus</em> (<em>Stictauletes</em>) <em>punctiger</em> (Voss, 1922), comb. n., <em>Auletobius</em> (<em>Auletobius</em>) <em>horaki</em> (Legalov, 2007), comb. n., <em>Pseudominurus</em> (<em>Pseudominurus</em>) <em>reunionensis</em> (Legalov, 2007), comb. n. are established. A key to the families of Curculionoidea is given. The keys to subfamilies, supertribes, tribes and subtribes of Nemonychidae, Anthribidae, Belidae, Ithyceridae, Rhynchitidae and Brentidae, key to Oriental genera of tribe Parauletanini, key to genera of subtribe Auletorhinina, key to subgenera of genus <em>Auletanus </em>and key to subfamilies and genera of Brachyceridae are provided.

Canon and oblivion. The memorials of archaeologyThe article takes its point of departure in the sun chariot; the find itself and its find site at Trundholm bog where it was discovered in 1902. The famous sun chariot, now at the National Museum in Copenhagen, is a national treasure included in the Danish “Cultural Canon” and “History Canon”.The find site itself has alternated bet­ween experiencing intense attention and oblivion. A monument was erected in 1925; a new monument was then created in 1962 and later moved in 2002. The event of 1962 was followed by ceremonies, speeches and songs, and anniversary celebrations were held in 2002, during which a copy of the sun chariot was sacrificed.The memorial at Trundholm bog is only one of several memorials at archaeological find sites in Denmark. Which finds have been commemorated and marked by memorials? When did this happen? Who took the initiative? How were they executed? Why are these finds remembered? What picture of the past do we meet in this canon in stone?Find sites and archaeological memorials have been neglected in archaeology and by recent trends in the study of the history of archaeology. Considering the impressive research on monuments and monumentality in archaeology, this is astonishing. However, memorials in general receive attention in an active research field on the use of history and heritage studies, where historians and ethnologists dominate. The main focus here is, however, on war memorials. An important source of inspiration has been provided by a project led by the French historian Pierre Nora who claims that memorial sites are established when the living memory is threatened (a thesis refuted by the many Danish “Reunion” monuments erected even before the day of reunification in 1920).Translated into Danish conditions, studies of the culture of remembrance and memorials have focused on the wars of 1848-50 and 1864, the Reunion in 1920, the Occupation in 1940-45 and, more generally, on conflicts in the borderland bet­ween Denmark and Germany.In relation to the total number of memorials and public meeting places in Denmark, archaeological memorials of archaeology are few in number, around 1 % of the total. However, they prompt crucial questions concerning the use of the past, on canon and oblivion.“Canon” means rule, and canonical texts are the supposed genuine texts in the Bible. The concept of canon became a topic in the 1990s when Harold Bloom, in “The Western Canon”, identified a number of books as being canonical. In Denmark, canon has been a great issue in recent years with the appearance of the “Danish Literary Canon” in 2004, and the “Cultural Canon” and the “History Canon”, both in 2006. The latter includes the Ertebølle culture, the sun chariot and the Jelling stone. The political context for the creation of canon lists is the so-called “cultural conflict” and the debate concerning immigration and “foreigners”.Canon and canonization means a struggle against relativism and oblivion. Canon means that something ought to be remembered while something else is allowed to be forgotten. Canon lists are constructed when works and values are perceived as being threatened by oblivion. Without ephemerality and oblivion there is no need for canon lists. Canon and oblivion are linked.Memorials mean canonization of certain individuals, collectives, events and places, while others are allowed to be forgotten. Consequently, archaeological memorials constitute part of the canonization of a few finds and find sites. According to Pierre Nora’s thesis, memorials are established when the places are in danger of being forgotten.Whether one likes canon lists or not, they are a fact. There has always been a process of prioritisation, leading to some finds being preserved and others discarded, some being exhibited and others ending up in the stores.Canonization is expressed in the classical “Seven Wonders of the World”, the “Seven New Wonders of the World” and the World Heritage list. A find may be declared as treasure trove, as being of “unique national significance” or be honoured by the publication of a monograph or by being given its own museum.In practice, the same few finds occur in different contexts. There seems to be a consensus within the subject of canonization of valuing what is well preserved, unique, made of precious metals, bears images and is monumental. A top-ten canon list of prehistoric finds from Denmark according to this consensus would probably include the following finds: The sun chariot from Trundholm, the girl from Egtved, the Dejbjerg carts, the Gundestrup cauldron, Tollund man, the golden horns from Gallehus, the Mammen or Bjerringhøj grave, the Ladby ship and the Skuldelev ships.Just as the past may be used in many different ways, there are many forms of memorial related to monuments from the past or to archaeological excavations. Memorials were constructed in the 18th and 19th centuries at locations where members of the royal family had conducted archaeology. As with most other memorials from that time, the prince is at the centre, while antiquity and archaeology create a brilliant background, for example at Jægerpris (fig. 2). Memorials celebrating King Frederik VII were created at the Dæmpegård dolmen and at the ruin of Asserbo castle. A memorial celebrating Count Frederik Sehested was erected at Møllegårdsmarken (fig. 3). Later there were also memorials celebrating the architect C.M. Smith at the ruin of Kalø Castle and Svend Dyhre Rasmussen and Axel Steensberg, respectively the finder and the excavator of the medieval village at Borup Ris.Several memorials were erected in the decades around 1900 to commemorate important events or persons in Danish history, for example by Thor Lange. The memorials were often located at sites and monuments that had recently been excavated, for example at Fjenneslev (fig. 4).A large number of memorials commemorate abandoned churches, monasteries, castles or barrows that have now disappeared, for example at the monument (fig. 5) near Bjerringhøj.Memorials were erected in the first half of the 20th century near large prehistoric monuments which also functioned as public meeting places, for example at Glavendrup, Gudbjerglund and Hohøj. Prehistoric monuments, especially dolmens, were also used as models when new memorials were created during the 19th and 20th centuries.Finally, sculptures were produced at the end of the 19th century sculptures where the motif was a famous archaeological find – the golden horns, the girl from Egtved, the sun chariot and the woman from Skrydstrup.In the following, this article will focus on a category of memorials raised to commemorate an archaeological find. In Denmark, 24 archaeological find sites have been marked by a total of 26 monuments (fig. 6). This survey is based on excursions, scanning the literature, googling on the web and contact with colleagues. The monuments are presented chronological, i.e. by date of erection. 1-2) The golden horns from Gallehus: Found in 1639 and 1734; two monu­ments in 1907. 3) The Snoldelev runic stone: Found in c. 1780; monument in 1915. 4) The sun chariot from Trundholm bog: Found in 1902; monument in 1925; renewed in 1962 and moved in 2002. 5) The grave mound from Egtved: Found in 1921; monument in 1930. 6) The Dejbjerg carts. Found in 1881-83; monument in 1933. 7) The Gundestrup cauldron: Found in 1891; wooden stake in 1934; replaced with a monument in 1935. 8) The Bregnebjerg burial ground: Found in 1932; miniature dolmen in 1934. 9) The Brangstrup gold hoard. Found in 1865; monument in 1935.10-11) Maglemose settlements in Mulle­rup bog: Found in 1900-02; two monuments in 1935 and 1936. 12) The Skarpsalling vessel from Oudrup Heath: Found in 1891; monument in 1936. 13) The Juellinge burial ground: Found in 1909; monument in 1937. 14) The Ladby ship: Found in 1935; monument probably in 1937. 15) The Hoby grave: Found in 1920; monument in 1939. 16) The Maltbæk lurs: Found in 1861 and 1863; monument in 1942. 17) Ginnerup settlement: First excavation in 1922; monument in 1945. 18) The golden boats from Nors: Found in 1885; monument in 1945. 19) The Sædinge runic stone: Found in 1854; monument in 1945. 20) The Nydam boat: Found in 1863; monument in 1947. 21) The aurochs from Vig: Found in 1904; monument in 1957. 22) Tollund Man: Found in 1950; wooden stake in 1968; renewed inscription in 2000. 23) The Veksø helmets: Found in 1942; monument in 1992. 24) The Bjæverskov coin hoard. Found in 1999; monument in 1999. 25) The Frydenhøj sword from Hvidovre: Found in 1929; monument in 2001; renewed in 2005. 26) The Bellinge key: Found in 1880; monument in 2003.Two monuments (fig. 7) raised in 1997 at Gallehus, where the golden horns were found, marked a new trend. From then onwards the find itself and its popular finders came into focus. At the same time the classical or old Norse style of the memorials was replaced by simple menhirs or boulders with an inscription and sometimes also an image of the find. One memorial was constructed as a miniature dolmen and a few took the form of a wooden stake.The finds marked by memorials represent a broader spectrum than the top-ten list. They represent all periods from the Stone Age to the Middle Ages over most of Denmark. Memorials were created throughout the 20th century; in greatest numbers in the 1930s and 1940s, but with none between 1968 and 1992.The inscriptions mention what was found and, in most cases, also when it happened. Sometimes the finder is named and, in a few instances, also the person on whose initiative the memorial was erected. The latter was usually a representative part of the political agency of the time. In the 18th and 19th centuries it was the royal family and the aristocracy. In the 20th century it was workers, teachers, doctors, priests, farmers and, in many cases, local historical societies who were responsible, as seen on the islands of Lolland and Falster, where ten memorials were erected between 1936 and 1951 to commemorate historical events, individuals, monuments or finds.The memorial from 2001 at the find site of the Frydenhøj sword in Hvidovre represents an innovation in the tradition of marking history in the landscape. The memorial is a monumental hybrid between signposting and public art (fig. 8). It formed part of a communication project called “History in the Street”, which involved telling the history of a Copenhagen suburb right there where it actually happened.The memorials marking archaeological finds relate to the nation and to nationalism in several ways. The monuments at Gallehus should, therefore, be seen in the context of a struggle concerning both the historical allegiance and future destiny of Schleswig or Southern Jutland. More generally, the national perspective occurs in inscriptions using concepts such as “the people”, “Denmark” and “the Danes”, even if these were irrelevant in prehistory, e.g. when the monument from 1930 at Egtved mentions “A young Danish girl” (fig. 9). This use of the past to legitimise the nation, belongs to the epoch of World War I, World War II and the 1930s. The influence of nationalism was often reflected in the ceremonies when the memorials were unveiled, with speeches, flags and songs.According to Marie Louise Stig Sørensen and Inge Adriansen, prehistoric objects that are applicable as national symbols, should satisfy three criteria. The should: 1) be unusual and remarkable by their technical and artistic quality; 2) have been produced locally, i.e. be Danish; 3) have been used in religious ceremonies or processions. The 26 archaeological finds marked with memorials only partly fit these criteria. The finds also include more ordinary finds: a burial ground, settlements, runic stones, a coin hoard, a sword and a key. Several of the finds were produced abroad: the Gundestrup cauldron, the Brangstrup jewellery and coins and the Hoby silver cups.It is tempting to interpret the Danish cultural canon as a new expression of a national use of the past in the present. Nostalgia, the use of the past and the creation of memorials are often explained as an expression of crisis in society. This seems reasonable for the many memorials from 1915-45 with inscriptions mentioning hope, consolation and darkness. However, why are there no memorials from the economic crisis years of the 1970s and 1980s? It seems as if the past is recalled, when the nation is under threat – in the 1930s and 40s from expansive Germany – and since the 1990s by increased immigration and globalisation.The memorials have in common local loss and local initiative. A treasure was found and a treasure was lost, often to the National Museum in Copenhagen. A treasure was won that contributed to the great narrative of the history of Denmark, but that treasure has also left its original context. The memorials commemorate the finds that have contributed to the narrative of the greatness, age and area of Denmark. The memorials connect the nation and the native place, the capital and the village in a community, where the past is a central concept. The find may also become a symbol of a region or community, for example the sun chariot for Trundholm community and the Gundestrup cauldron for Himmerland.It is almost always people who live near the find site who want to remember what has been found and where. The finds were commemorated by a memorial on average 60 years after their discovery. A longer period elapsed for the golden horns from Gallehus; shortest was at Bjæverskov where the coin hoard was found in March 1999 and a monument was erected in November of the same year.Memorials might seem an old-fashioned way of marking localities in a national topography, but new memorials are created in the same period as many new museums are established.A unique find has no prominent role in archaeological education, research or other work. However, in public opinion treasures and exotic finds are central. Folklore tells of people searching for treasures but always failing. Treasure hunting is restricted by taboos. In the world of archaeological finds there are no taboos. The treasure is found by accident and in spite of various hindrances the find is taken to a museum. The finder is often a worthy person – a child, a labourer or peasant. He or she is an innocent and ordinary person. A national symbol requires a worthy finder. And the find occurs as a miracle. At the find site a romantic relationship is established between the ancestors and their heirs who, by way of a miracle, find fragments of the glorious past of the nation. A paradigmatic example is the finding of the golden horns from Gallehus. Other examples extend from the discovery of the sun chariot in Trundholm bog to the Stone Age settlement at Mullerup bog.The article ends with a catalogue presenting the 24 archaeological find sites that have been marked with monuments in present-day Denmark.Jes WienbergHistorisk arkeologiInstitutionen för Arkeologi och ­Antikens historiaLunds Universitet

We here present the first integrative revision of the subgenus Quedius Stephens, 1829 sensu stricto where taxonomic decisions are based on morphology, genomic phylogeny (published elsewhere) and single locus DNA evidence. The subgenus is restricted to the Holarctic region and includes some of the largest, most robust members of the genus Quedius. For species delimitation, a total of 200 COI barcodes covering nearly all species within the subgenus were evaluated through phylogenetic, cluster and network analysis. Taxonomic, distributional and bionomic data, all hitherto published and new are synthesized and an identification key is constructed for all species. All 20 species of Quedius s. str. are divided into five species groups based on genomic phylogeny, morphology, distributional patterns and practical considerations. Overall, there was good congruence among various lines of evidence. As exceptions, high COI barcode variability was found within the wingless and patchily distributed Q. unicolor Kiesenwetter, 1847 and Q. sundukovi Smetana, 2003 (3 and 5 BOLD BINs, respectively) from the Q. molochinus-group without corresponding morphological or geographic patterns. On the contrary, in the Q. pallipes-group very little divergence in the COI barcode was found between clearly morphologically separated species. From the taxonomically challenging Nearctic Quedius molochinoides-group, Quedius altanai Hansen & Brunke sp. nov. is described as new species from the central and southern Rockies, rendering Q. lanei Hatch, 1957 to be restricted to the eastern foothills of the Cascades, Sierra Nevada and Blue Mountains. In the case of Q. subunicolor and Q. altaicus, continuous morphological and COI variation firmly established the earlier suspected synonymy Quedius subunicolor Korge, 1961 = Quedius altaicus Korge, 1962 syn. nov. Other new synonyms established here are: Quedius pallipes Lucas, 1849 = Quedius simplicifrons Fairmaire, 1861 syn. nov. = Quedius levasseuri Coiffait, 1964 syn. nov.; Quedius hispanicus Bernhauer, 1898 stat. reinstituted = Quedius cobosi Coiffait, 1964 syn. nov.; Quedius fuliginosus (Gravenhorst, 1802) = Quedius latus Hochhuth, 1851 syn. nov. = Quedius viduus Sawada, 1965, syn. nov. Quedius gracilis Stephens, 1832 syn. rev. is moved from synonymy with Q. fuliginosus and placed into synonymy with Q. curtipennis Bernhauer, 1908, the younger being the valid name due to prevailing usage in accordance with the ICZN Article 23.9; Quedius hammianus Sharp, 1911 syn. revid., Q. secundus Last, 1952 syn. revid., and Q. rufulus Blümml, 1898 syn. revid., are moved from synonymy with Q. simplicifrons and placed into synonymy with Q. hispanicus Bernhauer, 1898; Quedius sardous Gridelli, 1924 syn. revid., and Q. leonhardi Bernhauer, 1914 syn. revid., are moved from synonymy with Q. molochinus (Gravenhorst, 1806) to synonymy with Q. pallipes. Human mediated dispersals, most likely through the historical transport of ship ballast, are noted as regular phenomenon for some members of the subgenus. Quedius fuliginosus, Q. curtipennis and Q. molochinus, introduced from the Palearctic to the Nearctic, are the most noticeable examples.

Literary critics have mainly read Herman Melville’s short story “I and My Chimney” (1856) as allegory. This article elaborates on the tradition of interpreting Melville’s text allegorically by relating it to Fredric Jameson’s post-structural reinterpretation of allegory. In doing so, it argues that the story is not a simple example of allegory but rather an auto-reflexive engagement with allegory that reflects the cultural and historical ambivalences of the time in which Melville was writing. The suggestion is that Melville deliberately used signifiers (or the lack thereof) of directionality and place to reframe the overt context of his allegory (Civil War divisions of North and South) through teasing reference to the contemporaneous emergence of Manifest Destiny as an East-West historical spatialization. To this extent, from a literary-historical perspective, Melville’s text presents as an enquiry into the relationship between the obvious allegorical elements of a text and the literal or material elements that may either support or, as in this case, problematize traditional allegorical modes. In some ways, Melville’s story faintly anticipates Jameson’s post-structural theory of allegory as produced over a century later. “I and My Chimney” may also be linked to later texts, such as Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, which shift the directionality of American Literary History, in a definite way, from a North-South to an East-West axis. Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books may also be mentioned here. While, in recent years, some literary critics have produced readings of Melville’s story that depart from the traditional emphasis on its allegorical nature, this article claims to be the first to engage with “I and My Chimney” from within an allegorical perspective also informed by post-structural thinking. To do this, it focuses on the setting or directionality of the story, and on the orientating details of the titular chimney.Written and published shortly before the outbreak of the American Civil War (1861-1865), which pitted North against South, Melville’s story is told in the first person by a narrator with overweening affection for the chimney he sees as an image of himself: “I and my chimney, two gray-headed old smokers, reside in the country. We are, I may say, old settlers here; particularly my old chimney, which settles more and more every day” (327). Within the merged identity of narrator and chimney, however, the latter takes precedence, almost completely, over the former: “though I always say, I and my chimney, as Cardinal Wolsey used to say, I and my King, yet this egotistic way of speaking, wherein I take precedence of my chimney, is hardly borne out by the facts; in everything, except the above phrase, my chimney taking precedence of me” (327). Immediately, this sentence underscores a disjunction between words (“the above phrase”) and material circumstances (“the facts”) that will become crucial in my later consideration of Melville’s story as post-structural allegory.Detailed architectural and architectonic descriptions manifesting the chimney as “the one great domineering object” of the narrator’s house characterize the opening pages of the story (328). Intermingled with these descriptions, the narrator recounts the various interpersonal and business-related stratagems he has been forced to adopt in order to protect his chimney from the “Northern influences” that would threaten it. Numbered in this company are his mortgagee, the narrator’s own wife and daughters, and Mr. Hiram Scribe—“a rough sort of architect” (341). The key subplot implicated with the narrator’s fears for his chimney concerns its provenance. The narrator’s “late kinsman, Captain Julian Dacres” built the house, along with its stupendous chimney, and upon his death a rumour developed concerning supposed “concealed treasure” in the chimney (346). Once the architect Scribe insinuates, in correspondence to the chimney’s alter ego (the narrator), “that there is architectural cause to conjecture that somewhere concealed in your chimney is a reserved space, hermetically closed, in short, a secret chamber, or rather closet” the narrator’s wife and daughter use Scribe’s suggestion of a possible connection to Dacres’s alleged hidden treasure to reiterate their calls for the chimney’s destruction (345):Although they had never before dreamed of such a revelation as Mr. Scribe’s, yet upon the first suggestion they instinctively saw the extreme likelihood of it. In corroboration, they cited first my kinsman, and second, my chimney; alleging that the profound mystery involving the former, and the equally profound masonry involving the latter, though both acknowledged facts, were alike preposterous on any other supposition than the secret closet. (347)To protect his chimney, the narrator bribes Mr. Scribe, inviting him to produce a “‘little certificate—something, say, like a steam-boat certificate, certifying that you, a competent surveyor, have surveyed my chimney, and found no reason to believe any unsoundness; in short, any—any secret closet in it’” (351). Having enticed Scribe to scribe words against himself, the narrator concludes his tale triumphantly: “I am simply standing guard over my mossy old chimney; for it is resolved between me and my chimney, that I and my chimney will never surrender” (354).Despite its inherent interest, literary critics have largely overlooked “I and My Chimney”. Katja Kanzler observes that “together with much of [Melville’s] other short fiction, and his uncollected magazine pieces in particular, it has never really come out of the shadow of the more epic texts long considered his masterpieces” (583). To the extent that critics have engaged the story, they have mainly read it as traditional allegory (Chatfield; Emery; Sealts; Sowder). Further, the allegorical trend in the reception of Melville’s text clusters within the period from the early 1940s to the early 1980s. More recently, other critics have explored new ways of reading Melville’s story, but none, to my knowledge, have re-investigated its dominant allegorical mode of reception in the light of the post-structural engagements with allegory captured succinctly in Fredric Jameson’s work (Allison; Kanzler; Wilson). This article acknowledges the perspicacity of the mid-twentieth-century tradition of the allegorical interpretation of Melville’s story, while nuancing its insights through greater attention to the spatialized materiality of the text, its “geomorphic” nature, and its broader historical contexts.E. Hale Chatfield argues that “I and My Chimney” evidences one broad allegorical polarity of “Aristocratic Tradition vs. Innovation and Destruction” (164). This umbrella category is parsed by Sealts as an individualized allegory of besieged patriarchal identity and by Sowder as a national-level allegory of anxieties linked to the antebellum North-South relationship. Chatfield’s opposition works equally well for an individual or for communities of individuals. Thus, in this view, even as it structures our reception of Melville’s story, allegory remains unproblematized in itself through its internal interlocking. In turn, “I and My Chimney” provides fertile soil for critics to harvest an allegorical crop. Its very title inveigles the reader towards an allegorical attitude: the upstanding “I” of the title is associated with the architecture of the chimney, itself also upstanding. What is of the chimney is also, allegorically, of the “I”, and the vertical chimney, like the letter “I”, argues, as it were, a north-south axis, being “swung vertical to hit the meridian moon,” as Melville writes on his story’s first page (327). The narrator, or “I”, is as north-south as is his narrated allegory.Herman Melville was a Northern resident with Southern predilections, at least to the extent that he co-opted “Southern-ness” to, in Katja Kanzler’s words, “articulate the anxiety of mid-nineteenth-century cultural elites about what they perceive as a cultural decline” (583). As Chatfield notes, the South stood for “Aristocratic Tradition”; the North, for “Innovation and Destruction” (164). Reflecting the conventional mid-twentieth-century view that “I and My Chimney” is a guileless allegory of North-South relations, William J. Sowder argues that itreveals allegorically an accurate history of Southern slavery from the latter part of the eighteenth century to the middle of the nineteenth—that critical period when the South spent most of its time and energy apologizing for the existence of slavery. It discloses the split which Northern liberals so ably effected between liberal and conservative forces in the South, and it lays bare the intransigence of the traditional South on the Negro question. Above everything, the story reveals that the South had little in common with the rest of the Union: the War between the States was inevitable. (129-30)Sowder goes into painstaking detail prosecuting his North-South allegorical reading of Melville’s text, to the extent of finding multiple correspondences between what is allegorizing and what is being allegorized within a single sentence. One example, with Sowder’s allegorical interpolations in square brackets, comes from a passage where Melville is writing about his narrator’s replaced “gable roof” (Melville 331): “‘it was replaced with a modern roof [the cotton gin], more fit for a railway woodhouse [an industrial society] than an old country gentleman’s abode’” (Sowder 137).Sowder’s argument is historically erudite, and utterly convincing overall, except in one crucial detail. That is, for a text supposedly so much about the South, and written so much from its perspective—Sowder labels the narrator a “bitter Old Southerner”—it is remarkable how the story is only very ambiguously set in the South (145). Sowder distances himself from an earlier generation of commentators who “generally assumed that the old man is Melville and that the country is the foothills of the Massachusetts Berkshires, where Melville lived from 1850 to 1863,” concluding, “in fact, I find it hard to picture the narrator as a Northerner at all: the country which he describes sounds too much like the Land of Cotton” (130).Quite obviously, the narrator of any literary text does not necessarily represent its author, and in the case of “I and My Chimney”, if the narrator is not inevitably coincident with the author, then it follows that the setting of the story is not necessarily coincident with “the foothills of the Massachusetts Berkshires.” That said, the position of critics prior to Sowder that the setting is Massachusetts, and by extension that the narrator is Melville (a Southern sympathizer displaced to the North), hints at an oversight in the traditional allegorical reading of Melville’s text—related to its spatializations—the implications of which Sowder misses.Think about it: “too much like the Land of Cotton” is an exceedingly odd phrase; “too much like” the South, but not conclusively like the South (Sowder 130)! A key characteristic of Melville’s story is the ambiguity of its setting and, by extension, of its directionality. For the text to operate (following Chatfield, Emery, Sealts and Sowder) as a straightforward allegory of the American North-South relationship, the terms “north” and “south” cannot afford to be problematized. Even so, whereas so much in the story reads as related to either the South or the North, as cultural locations, the notions of “south-ness” and “north-ness” themselves are made friable (in this article, the lower case broadly indicates the material domain, the upper case, the cultural). At its most fundamental allegorical level, the story undoes its own allegorical expressions; as I will be arguing, the materiality of its directionality deconstructs what everything else in the text strives (allegorically) to maintain.Remarkably, for a text purporting to allegorize the North as the South’s polar opposite, nowhere does the story definitively indicate where it is set. The absence of place names or other textual features which might place “I and My Chimney” in the South, is over-compensated for by an abundance of geographically distracting signifiers of “place-ness” that negatively emphasize the circumstance that the story is not set definitively where it is set suggestively. The narrator muses at one point that “in fact, I’ve often thought that the proper place for my old chimney is ivied old England” (332). Elsewhere, further destabilizing the geographical coordinates of the text, reference is made to “the garden of Versailles” (329). Again, the architect Hiram Scribe’s house is named New Petra. Rich as it is with cultural resonances, at base, Petra denominates a city in Jordan; New Petra, by contrast, is place-less.It would appear that something strange is going on with allegory in this deceptively straightforward allegory, and that this strangeness is linked to equally strange goings on with the geographical and directional relations of north and south, as sites of the historical and cultural American North and South that the story allegorizes so assiduously. As tensions between North and South would shortly lead to the Civil War, Melville writes an allegorical text clearly about these tensions, while simultaneously deconstructing the allegorical index of geographical north to cultural North and of geographical south to cultural South.Fredric Jameson’s work on allegory scaffolds the historically and materially nuanced reading I am proposing of “I and My Chimney”. Jameson writes:Our traditional conception of allegory—based, for instance, on stereotypes of Bunyan—is that of an elaborate set of figures and personifications to be read against some one-to-one table of equivalences: this is, so to speak, a one-dimensional view of this signifying process, which might only be set in motion and complexified were we willing to entertain the more alarming notion that such equivalences are themselves in constant change and transformation at each perpetual present of the text. (73)As American history undergoes transformation, Melville foreshadows Jameson’s transformation of allegory through his (Melville’s) own transformations of directionality and place. In a story about North and South, are we in the south or the north? Allegorical “equivalences are themselves in constant change and transformation at each perpetual present of the text” (Jameson 73). North-north equivalences falter; South-south equivalences falter.As noted above, the chimney of Melville’s story—“swung vertical to hit the meridian moon”—insists upon a north-south axis, much as, in an allegorical mode, the vertical “I” of the narrator structures a polarity of north and south (327). However, a closer reading shows that the chimney is no less complicit in the confusion of north and south than the environs of the house it occupies:In those houses which are strictly double houses—that is, where the hall is in the middle—the fire-places usually are on opposite sides; so that while one member of the household is warming himself at a fire built into a recess of the north wall, say another member, the former’s own brother, perhaps, may be holding his feet to the blaze before a hearth in the south wall—the two thus fairly sitting back to back. Is this well? (328)Here, Melville is directly allegorizing the “sulky” state of the American nation; the brothers are, as it were, North and South (328). However, just as the text’s signifiers of place problematize the notions of north and south (and thus the associated cultural resonances of capitalized North and South), this passage, in queering the axes of the chimneys, further upsets the primary allegory. The same chimney that structures Melville’s text along a north-south or up-down orientation, now defers to an east-west axis, for the back-to-back and (in cultural and allegorical terms) North-South brothers, sit at a 90-degree angle to their house’s chimneys, which thus logically manifest a cross-wise orientation of east-west (in cultural and allegorical terms, East-West). To this extent, there is something of an exquisite crossover and confusion of cultural North and South, as represented by the two brothers, and geographical/architectural/architectonic north and south (now vacillating between an east-west and a north-south orientation). The North-South cultural relationship of the brothers distorts the allegorical force of the narrator’s spine-like chimney (not to mention of the brother’s respective chimneys), thus enflaming Jameson’s allegorical equivalences. The promiscuous literality of the smokestack—Katja Kanzler notes the “astonishing materiality” of the chimney—subverts its main allegorical function; directionality both supports and disrupts allegory (591). Simply put, there is a disjunction between words and material circumstances; the “way of speaking… is hardly borne out by the facts” (Melville 327).The not unjustified critical focus on “I and My Chimney” as an allegory of North-South cultural (and shortly wartime) tensions, has not kept up with post-structural developments in allegorical theory as represented in Fredric Jameson’s work. In part, I suggest, this is because critics to date have missed the importance to Melville’s allegory of its extra-textual context. According to William J. Sowder, “Melville showed a lively interest in such contemporary social events as the gold rush, the French Revolution of 1848, and the activities of the English Chartists” (129). The pity is that readings of “I and My Chimney” have limited this “lively interest” to the Civil War. Melville’s attentiveness to “contemporary social events” should also encompass, I suggest, the East-West (east-west) dynamic of mid-nineteenth century American history, as much as the North-South (north-south) dynamic.The redialing of Melville’s allegory along another directional axis is thus accounted for. When “I and My Chimney” was published in 1856, there was, of course, at least one other major historical development in play besides the prospect of the Civil War, and the doctrine of Manifest Destiny ran, not to put it too finely, along an East-West (east-west) axis. Indeed, Manifest Destiny is at least as replete with a directional emphasis as the discourse of Civil War North-South opposition. As quoted in Frederick Merk’s Manifest Destiny and Mission in American History, Senator Daniel S. Dickinson states to the Senate, in 1848, “but the tide of emigration and the course of empire have since been westward” (Merk 29). Allied to this tradition, of course, is the well-known contemporaneous saying, “go West, young man, go West” (“Go West, Young Man”).To the extent that Melville’s text appears to anticipate Jameson’s post-structural theory of allegory, it may be linked, I suggest, to Melville’s sense of being at an intersection of American history. The meta-narrative of national history when “I and My Chimney” was produced had a spatial dimension to it: north-south directionality (culturally, North-South) was giving way to east-west directionality (culturally, East-West). Civil War would soon give way to Manifest Destiny; just as Melville’s texts themselves would, much later admittedly, give way to texts of Manifest Destiny in all its forms, including Jack Kerouac’s On the Road and Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series. Equivalently, as much as the narrator’s wife represents Northern “progress” she might also be taken to signify Western “ambition”.However, it is not only that “I and My Chimney” is a switching-point text of geo-history (mediating relations, most obviously, between the tendencies of Southern Exceptionalism and of Western National Ambition) but that it operates as a potentially generalizable test case of the limits of allegory by setting up an all-too-simple allegory of North-South/north-south relations which is subsequently subtly problematized along the lines of East-West/east-west directionality. As I have argued, Melville’s “experimental allegory” continually diverts words (that is, the symbols allegory relies upon) through the turbulence of material circumstances.North, or north, is simultaneously a cultural and a geographical or directional coordinate of Melville’s text, and the chimney of “I and My Chimney” is both a signifier of the difference between N/north and S/south and also a portal to a 360-degrees all-encompassing engagement of (allegorical) writing with history in all its (spatialized) manifestations.ReferencesAllison, J. “Conservative Architecture: Hawthorne in Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney.’” South Central Review 13.1 (1996): 17-25.Chatfield, E.H. “Levels of Meaning in Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney.’” American Imago 19.2 (1962): 163-69.Emery, A.M. “The Political Significance of Melville’s Chimney.” The New England Quarterly 55.2 (1982): 201-28.“Go West, Young Man.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia 29 Sep. 2017. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Go_West,_young_man>.Jameson, F. “Third-World Literature in the Era of Multinational Capitalism.” Social Text 15 (1986): 65-88.Kanzler, K. “Architecture, Writing, and Vulnerable Signification in Herman Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney.’” American Studies 54.4 (2009): 583-601.Kerouac, J. On the Road. London: Penguin Books, 1972.Melville, H. “I and My Chimney.” Great Short Works of Herman Melville. New York: Perennial-HarperCollins, 2004: 327-54.Merk, F. Manifest Destiny and Mission in American History: A Reinterpretation. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1963.Sealts, M.M. “Herman Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney.’” American Literature 13 (May 1941): 142-54.Sowder, W.J. “Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney:’ A Southern Exposure.” Mississippi Quarterly 16.3 (1963): 128-45.Wilder, L.I. Little House on the Prairie Series.Wilson, S. “Melville and the Architecture of Antebellum Masculinity.” American Literature 76.1 (2004): 59-87.

Introduction Cookbooks are an exceptional written record of what is largely an oral tradition. They have been described as “magician’s hats” due to their ability to reveal much more than they seem to contain (Wheaton, “Finding”). The first book printed in Germany was the Guttenberg Bible in 1456 but, by 1490, printing was introduced into almost every European country (Tierney). The spread of literacy between 1500 and 1800, and the rise in silent reading, helped to create a new private sphere into which the individual could retreat, seeking refuge from the community (Chartier). This new technology had its effects in the world of cookery as in so many spheres of culture (Mennell, All Manners). Trubek notes that cookbooks are the texts most often used by culinary historians, since they usually contain all the requisite materials for analysing a cuisine: ingredients, method, technique, and presentation. Printed cookbooks, beginning in the early modern period, provide culinary historians with sources of evidence of the culinary past. Historians have argued that social differences can be expressed by the way and type of food we consume. Cookbooks are now widely accepted as valid socio-cultural and historic documents (Folch, Sherman), and indeed the link between literacy levels and the protestant tradition has been expressed through the study of Danish cookbooks (Gold). From Apicius, Taillevent, La Varenne, and Menon to Bradley, Smith, Raffald, Acton, and Beeton, how can both manuscript and printed cookbooks be analysed as historic documents? What is the difference between a manuscript and a printed cookbook? Barbara Ketchum Wheaton, who has been studying cookbooks for over half a century and is honorary curator of the culinary collection in Harvard’s Schlesinger Library, has developed a methodology to read historic cookbooks using a structured approach. For a number of years she has been giving seminars to scholars from multidisciplinary fields on how to read historic cookbooks. This paper draws on the author’s experiences attending Wheaton’s seminar in Harvard, and on supervising the use of this methodology at both Masters and Doctoral level (Cashman; Mac Con Iomaire, and Cashman). Manuscripts versus Printed Cookbooks A fundamental difference exists between manuscript and printed cookbooks in their relationship with the public and private domain. Manuscript cookbooks are by their very essence intimate, relatively unedited and written with an eye to private circulation. Culinary manuscripts follow the diurnal and annual tasks of the household. They contain recipes for cures and restoratives, recipes for cleansing products for the house and the body, as well as the expected recipes for cooking and preserving all manners of food. Whether manuscript or printed cookbook, the recipes contained within often act as a reminder of how laborious the production of food could be in the pre-industrialised world (White). Printed cookbooks draw oxygen from the very fact of being public. They assume a “literate population with sufficient discretionary income to invest in texts that commodify knowledge” (Folch). This process of commoditisation brings knowledge from the private to the public sphere. There exists a subset of cookbooks that straddle this divide, for example, Mrs. Rundell’s A New System of Domestic Cookery (1806), which brought to the public domain her distillation of a lifetime of domestic experience. Originally intended for her daughters alone, Rundell’s book was reprinted regularly during the nineteenth century with the last edition printed in 1893, when Mrs. Beeton had been enormously popular for over thirty years (Mac Con Iomaire, and Cashman). Barbara Ketchum Wheaton’s Structured Approach Cookbooks can be rewarding, surprising and illuminating when read carefully with due effort in understanding them as cultural artefacts. However, Wheaton notes that: “One may read a single old cookbook and find it immensely entertaining. One may read two and begin to find intriguing similarities and differences. When the third cookbook is read, one’s mind begins to blur, and one begins to sense the need for some sort of method in approaching these documents” (“Finding”). Following decades of studying cookbooks from both sides of the Atlantic and writing a seminal text on the French at table from 1300-1789 (Wheaton, Savouring the Past), this combined experience negotiating cookbooks as historical documents was codified, and a structured approach gradually articulated and shared within a week long seminar format. In studying any cookbook, regardless of era or country of origin, the text is broken down into five different groupings, to wit: ingredients; equipment or facilities; the meal; the book as a whole; and, finally, the worldview. A particular strength of Wheaton’s seminars is the multidisciplinary nature of the approaches of students who attend, which throws the study of cookbooks open to wide ranging techniques. Students with a purely scientific training unearth interesting patterns by developing databases of the frequency of ingredients or techniques, and cross referencing them with other books from similar or different timelines or geographical regions. Patterns are displayed in graphs or charts. Linguists offer their own unique lens to study cookbooks, whereas anthropologists and historians ask what these objects can tell us about how our ancestors lived and drew meaning from life. This process is continuously refined, and each grouping is discussed below. Ingredients The geographic origins of the ingredients are of interest, as is the seasonality and the cost of the foodstuffs within the scope of each cookbook, as well as the sensory quality both separately and combined within different recipes. In the medieval period, the use of spices and large joints of butchers meat and game were symbols of wealth and status. However, when the discovery of sea routes to the New World and to the Far East made spices more available and affordable to the middle classes, the upper classes spurned them. Evidence from culinary manuscripts in Georgian Ireland, for example, suggests that galangal was more easily available in Dublin during the eighteenth century than in the mid-twentieth century. A new aesthetic, articulated by La Varenne in his Le Cuisinier Francois (1651), heralded that food should taste of itself, and so exotic ingredients such as cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger were replaced by the local bouquet garni, and stocks and sauces became the foundations of French haute cuisine (Mac Con Iomaire). Some combinations of flavours and ingredients were based on humoral physiology, a long held belief system based on the writings of Hippocrates and Galen, now discredited by modern scientific understanding. The four humors are blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm. It was believed that each of these humors would wax and wane in the body, depending on diet and activity. Galen (131-201 AD) believed that warm food produced yellow bile and that cold food produced phlegm. It is difficult to fathom some combinations of ingredients or the manner of service without comprehending the contemporary context within they were consumeSome ingredients found in Roman cookbooks, such as “garum” or “silphium” are no longer available. It is suggested that the nearest substitute for garum also known as “liquamen”—a fermented fish sauce—would be Naam Plaa, or Thai fish sauce (Grainger). Ingredients such as tea and white bread, moved from the prerogative of the wealthy over time to become the staple of the urban poor. These ingredients, therefore, symbolise radically differing contexts during the seventeenth century than in the early twentieth century. Indeed, there are other ingredients such as hominy (dried maize kernel treated with alkali) or grahams (crackers made from graham flour) found in American cookbooks that require translation to the unacquainted non-American reader. There has been a growing number of food encyclopaedias published in recent years that assist scholars in identifying such commodities (Smith, Katz, Davidson). The Cook’s Workplace, Techniques, and Equipment It is important to be aware of the type of kitchen equipment used, the management of heat and cold within the kitchen, and also the gradual spread of the industrial revolution into the domestic sphere. Visits to historic castles such as Hampton Court Palace where nowadays archaeologists re-enact life below stairs in Tudor times give a glimpse as to how difficult and labour intensive food production was. Meat was spit-roasted in front of huge fires by spit boys. Forcemeats and purees were manually pulped using mortar and pestles. Various technological developments including spit-dogs, and mechanised pulleys, replaced the spit boys, the most up to date being the mechanised rotisserie. The technological advancements of two hundred years can be seen in the Royal Pavilion in Brighton where Marie-Antoinin Carême worked for the Prince Regent in 1816 (Brighton Pavilion), but despite the gleaming copper pans and high ceilings for ventilation, the work was still back breaking. Carême died aged forty-nine, “burnt out by the flame of his genius and the fumes of his ovens” (Ackerman 90). Mennell points out that his fame outlived him, resting on his books: Le Pâtissier Royal Parisien (1815); Le Pâtissier Pittoresque (1815); Le Maître d’Hôtel Français (1822); Le Cuisinier Parisien (1828); and, finally, L’Art de la Cuisine Française au Dix-Neuvième Siècle (1833–5), which was finished posthumously by his student Pluméry (All Manners). Mennell suggests that these books embody the first paradigm of professional French cuisine (in Kuhn’s terminology), pointing out that “no previous work had so comprehensively codified the field nor established its dominance as a point of reference for the whole profession in the way that Carême did” (All Manners 149). The most dramatic technological changes came after the industrial revolution. Although there were built up ovens available in bakeries and in large Norman households, the period of general acceptance of new cooking equipment that enclosed fire (such as the Aga stove) is from c.1860 to 1910, with gas ovens following in c.1910 to the 1920s) and Electricity from c.1930. New food processing techniques dates are as follows: canning (1860s), cooling and freezing (1880s), freeze drying (1950s), and motorised delivery vans with cooking (1920s–1950s) (den Hartog). It must also be noted that the supply of fresh food, and fish particularly, radically improved following the birth, and expansion of, the railways. To understand the context of the cookbook, one needs to be aware of the limits of the technology available to the users of those cookbooks. For many lower to middle class families during the twentieth century, the first cookbook they would possess came with their gas or electrical oven. Meals One can follow cooked dishes from the kitchen to the eating place, observing food presentation, carving, sequencing, and serving of the meal and table etiquette. Meal times and structure changed over time. During the Middle Ages, people usually ate two meals a day: a substantial dinner around noon and a light supper in the evening (Adamson). Some of the most important factors to consider are the manner in which meals were served: either à la française or à la russe. One of the main changes that occurred during the nineteenth century was the slow but gradual transfer from service à la française to service à la russe. From medieval times to the middle of the nineteenth century the structure of a formal meal was not by “courses”—as the term is now understood—but by “services”. Each service could comprise of a choice of dishes—both sweet and savoury—from which each guest could select what appealed to him or her most (Davidson). The philosophy behind this form of service was the forementioned humoral physiology— where each diner chose food based on the four humours of blood, yellow bile, black bile, or phlegm. Also known as le grand couvert, the à la française method made it impossible for the diners to eat anything that was beyond arm’s length (Blake, and Crewe). Smooth service, however, was the key to an effective à la russe dinner since servants controlled the flow of food (Eatwell). The taste and temperature of food took centre stage with the à la russe dinner as each course came in sequence. Many historic cookbooks offer table plans illustrating the suggested arrangement of dishes on a table for the à la française style of service. Many of these dishes might be re-used in later meals, and some dishes such as hashes and rissoles often utilised left over components of previous meals. There is a whole genre of cookbooks informing the middle class cooks how to be frugal and also how to emulate haute cuisine using cheaper or ersatz ingredients. The number dining and the manner in which they dined also changed dramatically over time. From medieval to Tudor times, there might be hundreds dining in large banqueting halls. By the Elizabethan age, a small intimate room where master and family dined alone replaced the old dining hall where master, servants, guests, and travellers had previously dined together (Spencer). Dining tables remained portable until the 1780s when tables with removable leaves were devised. By this time, the bread trencher had been replaced by one made of wood, or plate of pewter or precious metal in wealthier houses. Hosts began providing knives and spoons for their guests by the seventeenth century, with forks also appearing but not fully accepted until the eighteenth century (Mason). These silver utensils were usually marked with the owner’s initials to prevent their theft (Flandrin). Cookbooks as Objects and the World of Publishing A thorough examination of the manuscript or printed cookbook can reveal their physical qualities, including indications of post-publication history, the recipes and other matter in them, as well as the language, organization, and other individual qualities. What can the quality of the paper tell us about the book? Is there a frontispiece? Is the book dedicated to an employer or a patron? Does the author note previous employment history in the introduction? In his Court Cookery, Robert Smith, for example, not only mentions a number of his previous employers, but also outlines that he was eight years working with Patrick Lamb in the Court of King William, before revealing that several dishes published in Lamb’s Royal Cookery (1710) “were never made or practis’d (sic) by him and others are extreme defective and imperfect and made up of dishes unknown to him; and several of them more calculated at the purses than the Gôut of the guests”. Both Lamb and Smith worked for the English monarchy, nobility, and gentry, but produced French cuisine. Not all Britons were enamoured with France, however, with, for example Hannah Glasse asserting “if gentlemen will have French cooks, they must pay for French tricks” (4), and “So much is the blind folly of this age, that they would rather be imposed on by a French Booby, than give encouragement to an good English cook” (ctd. in Trubek 60). Spencer contextualises Glasse’s culinary Francophobia, explaining that whilst she was writing the book, the Jacobite army were only a few days march from London, threatening to cut short the Hanoverian lineage. However, Lehmann points out that whilst Glasse was overtly hostile to French cuisine, she simultaneously plagiarised its receipts. Based on this trickling down of French influences, Mennell argues that “there is really no such thing as a pure-bred English cookery book” (All Manners 98), but that within the assimilation and simplification, a recognisable English style was discernable. Mennell also asserts that Glasse and her fellow women writers had an enormous role in the social history of cooking despite their lack of technical originality (“Plagiarism”). It is also important to consider the place of cookbooks within the history of publishing. Albala provides an overview of the immense outpouring of dietary literature from the printing presses from the 1470s. He divides the Renaissance into three periods: Period I Courtly Dietaries (1470–1530)—targeted at the courtiers with advice to those attending banquets with many courses and lots of wine; Period II The Galenic Revival (1530–1570)—with a deeper appreciation, and sometimes adulation, of Galen, and when scholarship took centre stage over practical use. Finally Period III The Breakdown of Orthodoxy (1570–1650)—when, due to the ambiguities and disagreements within and between authoritative texts, authors were freer to pick the ideas that best suited their own. Nutrition guides were consistent bestsellers, and ranged from small handbooks written in the vernacular for lay audiences, to massive Latin tomes intended for practicing physicians. Albala adds that “anyone with an interest in food appears to have felt qualified to pen his own nutritional guide” (1). Would we have heard about Mrs. Beeton if her husband had not been a publisher? How could a twenty-five year old amass such a wealth of experience in household management? What role has plagiarism played in the history of cookbooks? It is interesting to note that a well worn copy of her book (Beeton) was found in the studio of Francis Bacon and it is suggested that he drew inspiration for a number of his paintings from the colour plates of animal carcasses and butcher’s meat (Dawson). Analysing the post-publication usage of cookbooks is valuable to see the most popular recipes, the annotations left by the owner(s) or user(s), and also if any letters, handwritten recipes, or newspaper clippings are stored within the leaves of the cookbook. The Reader, the Cook, the Eater The physical and inner lives and needs and skills of the individuals who used cookbooks and who ate their meals merit consideration. Books by their nature imply literacy. Who is the book’s audience? Is it the cook or is it the lady of the house who will dictate instructions to the cook? Numeracy and measurement is also important. Where clocks or pocket watches were not widely available, authors such as seventeenth century recipe writer Sir Kenelm Digby would time his cooking by the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. Literacy amongst protestant women to enable them to read the Bible, also enabled them to read cookbooks (Gold). How did the reader or eater’s religion affect the food practices? Were there fast days? Were there substitute foods for fast days? What about special occasions? Do historic cookbooks only tell us about the food of the middle and upper classes? It is widely accepted today that certain cookbook authors appeal to confident cooks, while others appeal to competent cooks, and others still to more cautious cooks (Bilton). This has always been the case, as has the differentiation between the cookbook aimed at the professional cook rather than the amateur. Historically, male cookbook authors such as Patrick Lamb (1650–1709) and Robert Smith targeted the professional cook market and the nobility and gentry, whereas female authors such as Eliza Acton (1799–1859) and Isabella Beeton (1836–1865) often targeted the middle class market that aspired to emulate their superiors’ fashions in food and dining. How about Tavern or Restaurant cooks? When did they start to put pen to paper, and did what they wrote reflect the food they produced in public eateries? Conclusions This paper has offered an overview of Barbara Ketchum Wheaton’s methodology for reading historic cookbooks using a structured approach. It has highlighted some of the questions scholars and researchers might ask when faced with an old cookbook, regardless of era or geographical location. By systematically examining the book under the headings of ingredients; the cook’s workplace, techniques and equipment; the meals; cookbooks as objects and the world of publishing; and reader, cook and eater, the scholar can perform magic and extract much more from the cookbook than seems to be there on first appearance. References Ackerman, Roy. The Chef's Apprentice. London: Headline, 1988. Adamson, Melitta Weiss. Food in Medieval Times. Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood P, 2004. Albala, Ken. Eating Right in the Renaissance. Ed. Darra Goldstein. Berkeley: U of California P, 2002. Beeton, Isabella. Beeton's Book of Household Management. London: S. Beeton, 1861. 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