Journal articles on the topic 'Names, Gaelic'

The main goal of the paper is to study Celtic (especially Goidelic) words denoting ‘road’, to collect ranked synonyms, to give motivated etymologies, to exercise a diachronic and comparative study of the use of the names of the ‘road’ in Old, Middle and Modern Irish and in Scottish Gaelic (including comparative data from Continental Celtic and Insular Brittonic languages) and to reveal and describe supposed Goidelic innovations (slige, belach, bóthar). The final aim is to introduce Goidelic data into the described scheme of semantic shift.

AbstractThis article examines a letter from Cavan's political elite to the lord deputy and council in July 1629 in protest against the imposition of charges relating to the Graces. The letter, with its graphic description of a county gripped by famine, tells us much about conditions on the ground at this time. What is most interesting about this petition, however, are the more than one hundred signatures appended to it. The names include a mix of both Gaelic Irish and British settlers and indicate a plantation county whose two communities were prepared to work with each other, on this occasion at least, in order to achieve a common goal.

AbstractThe aim of this article is to illustrate the fluid nature of family language policy (FLP) and how the realities of any one FLP are re-negotiated by caregivers and children in tandem. In particular, the paper will focus on the affective dimensions of FLP and will demonstrate how the same reality – in this case, a grandmother’s use of a child-centred discourse style as a means to encouraging her grandchildren to use their minority language, Scottish Gaelic – can play out differently among siblings. Using a longitudinal perspective, the paper begins by examining a recorded interaction between a grandmother, Nana,All names are pseudonyms.and her granddaughter Maggie (3;4) and will discuss how Nana’s high use of questions andlaissez-faireattitude to Maggie’s use of English contribute to the child-centred nature of the interaction, and in turn, to Maggie’s playful use of Gaelic. The paper then examines an interaction recorded five years later in which Nana interacts with Maggie’s brother Jacob (4;0) in the same affective style; however, unlike Maggie, Jacob evidences overtly negative affective stances towards his minority language. The paper concludes by discussing these observations in light of the reflexive nature of FLP in terms of emotional affect, linguistic input, and language shift.

This account of Iona has long been known only under the claim, made in 1883, that it was translated from Irish. It is here shown to have been printed in English in Edinburgh in 1774. The account provides important testimony to the experience of a Scottish visitor before the famous visits by Joseph Banks, Thomas Pennant, and Samuel Johnson opened up Iona and Staffa as popular destinations. Its valuable evidence on the state of the antiquities in 1771 is drawn out by comparison with the nearest available witnesses. This account is unusual in the richness of its Gaelic material, both sayings and stories associated with St Columba and also names of local features pointed out to visitors in Iona. One poem cited by the visitor is found in Irish manuscripts from the sixteenth century, raising the question whether his reportage was backed up by written texts. This account more than any other gives a glimpse of Catholic tradition with roots in Irish hagiography. The writer's circumstances are nowhere made explicit, but there are signs that his knowledge of Columban stories in Gaelic was not acquired in the context of a brief visit. In the local setting, however, what was told to visitors was also adapted to their expectations, so that, over the following twenty years we have an instructive example of an early transition from vernacular, and largely oral, transmission to a polite written circulation of selected stories retold by visitors. This in turn has its effect on the antiquities, which in some cases were actually replenished. Detectable changes in what was pointed out and said to visitors show that what visitors received as ancient tradition was already in the 1770s capable of new and creative responses to their expectations based on their awareness of what earlier visitors had seen. This account is the most important key to understanding Iona in the years before the regular stream of visitors began.

Present-day historians of English are widely agreed that, throughout its recorded history, the English language has absorbed linguistic influences from other languages, most notably Latin, Scandinavian, and French. What may give rise to differing views is the nature and extent of these influences, not the existence of them. Against the backdrop of this unanimity, it seems remarkable that there is one group of languages for which no such consensus exists, despite a close coexistence between English and these languages in the British Isles spanning more than one and a half millennia. This group is, of course, the Insular Celtic languages, comprising the Brittonic subgroup of Welsh and Cornish and the Goidelic one comprising Irish, Manx, and Scottish Gaelic. The standard wisdom, repeated in textbooks on the history of English such as Baugh and Cable (1993), Pyles & Algeo (1993), and Strang (1970), holds that contact influences from Celtic have always been minimal and are mainly limited to Celtic-origin place names and river names and a mere handful of other words. Thus, Baugh & Cable (1993: 85) state that ‘outside of place-names the influence of Celtic upon the English language is almost negligible’; in a similar vein, Strang (1970) writes that ‘the extensive influence of Celtic can only be traced in place-names’ (1970: 391).

AbstractJohn Lightfoot's account of lichens in Flora Scotica was the first Scottish lichen Flora and as such it was novel in several respects: 1) it was published in English; 2) it drew on the knowledge and expertise of several key local collectors and treated lichens from alpine areas for the first time; 3) it made lichens accessible in providing Linnaean binomials, colloquial English, and frequently also Gaelic names, together with lively descriptions, details of ecology, and medicinal or traditional uses when these were known. Of the 117 taxa listed, 109 were classified in the genus Lichen, five in Byssus, two in Mucor and one in Fucus. Nineteen taxa were newly described, of which five are still in current use. John Lightfoot's life, work and botanical friendships are also briefly discussed.

The well known lexicon, prepared by Hesychios of Alexandria (5th or 6th cent. AD), contains a number of glosses which are defined as “Celtic” or as “Galatian”. However, most Hesychian glosses appears with no ethnic designation. Some of them can be convincingly treated as Celtic (especially Galatian) terms. There is also the case which is connected with the following gloss: mátan · hē lynx. énioi dè matakòs è matakón “mátan [means] she-lynx. Some [call lynx] matakós or matakón.” These three names for ‘lynx’ seem to possess exact and convincing equivalents only in the Celtic Insular languages. Celtic *mat- ‘a kind of predator’ (1. lynx, 2. bear, 3. fox), *matākós m. ‘id.’ (1. lynx, 3. fox). 1. Continental Celtic mátan gl. hē lynx; also matakòs and matakón ‘lynx’ (Hesych.); 2. OIr. math (gen. sg. matho) m. (u-stem) ‘bear’ (< Celt. Goid. *matu-); see Gaul., OBritt. PN Matugenus m. Hisp.-Celt. PN Matugenus, Matucenus, OIr. PN Mathgen, OW. PN Madyein (< Celt. *Matu-genos, liter. ‘son of bear’); Scottish Gaelic mathan m. ‘bear’ (< Celt. Goid. *mat-agnos), also Sc. Gael. mathghamhuin ‘bear’, Early Ir. mathgaman ‘id.’; 3. OW. madawg, W. madog m. ‘fox’ (< Celt. Britt. *matākos); see Gaulish PN Matacus, Old Brittonic PN Matucus, Old Welsh PN Matauc, Matoc, Breton PN Matoc, later Matec; W. madyn m. ‘fox’, maden f. ‘a small she-fox, vixen’ (< Celt. Britt. *matinos m. vs. *matinā f.); see also Gaul. PN Matinus m., Matina f. I discuss the Celtic origin of the Hesychian gloss, the etymology of the Celtic words, as well as the problems of the original meaning.

From the start of the Gaelic Revival in the 1890s to the present day, various Russian authors have appeared in Irish in translation, from Tolstoy, Chekhov and Pushkin in the early days to Kharms and Pelevin in more recent times. Although it is unlikely that many of those who have translated into Irish were doing so from the original Russian, this was indeed the case in several instances. The aim of this paper is to thus take a look at several of these translations from Russian in more detail, namely some of those done by Liam Ó Rinn, Maighréad Nic Mhaicín, an tAthair Gearóid Ó Nualláin and, in more modern times, by the author of this paper, and to examine the translators’ approach to the texts, in order to see how they made use of them to present their Irish-language reader with diverse cultural, linguistic or literary information. From the point of view of culture, this paper will also look at how they set about the task of rewriting Russian names and nouns in their Irish texts, looking at whether they relied on English forms, or attempted to rewrite them in Irish according to its strict orthographic rules. This is in contrast to the English – and other – translations of the same eras, which tended to ignore such opportunities to expand their readers’ knowledge of Russia and the Russians and about which, in relation to one recent translation, one reviewer said it was “a missed opportunity”.

Following the extirpation of the red squirrel from much of Scotland by the end of the eighteenth century, nineteenth-century naturalists strived to find evidence of its native Scottish status. As medieval accounts and Gaelic place names proved ambiguous, the true extent of the squirrel's former habitat was a matter of some debate. While numerous reintroductions of the species were made from the late eighteenth century, general enthusiasm for the return of the squirrel quickly turned to dismay, ultimately followed by persecution. If the squirrel originally represented a symbolic mission to rediscover a lost species, the physical animal itself fell below expectations. It became publically perceived as both economically and ecologically destructive. The squirrel was despised by foresters and landowners for damaging trees, while naturalists condemned the species for the destruction of bird's eggs and nests. This article will investigate naturalists' quests to rediscover the red squirrel, before examining changing attitudes to the species upon its reintroduction and gradual proliferation. The narrative will emerge through the works and correspondence of Scottish naturalist John Alexander Harvie-Brown (1844–1916) and The new statistical account of Scotland (1834–1845). The argument will be made that the red squirrel as an object of antiquarian curiosity initially made the species endearing to natural historians, as part of a wider fascination with extinct British fauna. However, the clash between naturalists’ established ornithological interests did little to endear the species to that community, leaving the red squirrel open to a policy of general persecution on economic grounds.

The end of the XIX – beginning of the XX centuries is the efflorescence period of national culture in Ireland. In historiography, this time was named the Irish Renaissance. Its bright representatives and organizations promoted national ideas, tried to restrain verbal aggression from the English language, to revive self-consciousness of their compatriots, developed sports, literature, theater, musical culture, and opposed the British way of life.
 
 The Irish Renaissance was not homogeneous. Some of its representatives tried to be politically neutral, tried to show their non-involvement in the existing political situation. The other held positions of active cultural nationalism. They believed that the Irish should revive their culture, cultivate their national identity, using a solid language base. They promoted the advantages of the Gaelic lifestyle as opposed to the English one. Still others proceeded from realistic attitudes, they saw narrow-mindedness of the Irish society, they were not afraid to point out its vices, and convinced in the need to include their homeland in the cultural space of the West. In addition to the multiplicity of options, the Irish Renaissance was an elitist phenomenon, since most of the society lived in poverty, did not have the opportunity to get a good education, and cared more about «daily bread». The most vivid appeals to the spiritual Revival of the nation were made in the theater and literature, the flourishing of which is associated with the names of W.B. Yeats, Lady Augusta Gregory, D. Joyce, D.M. Sing and others. To a large extent, the Irish Renaissance was a kind of reaction to modernism. It is quite possible to say that in Ireland there was a strong confrontation between the archaic and the modern. The important features of cultural Irish Renaissance were its anti-British orientation, the desire to emphasize national identity. The Hiberno-English version of English had similarities to Irish in some grammatical idioms, the inhabitants of the Emerald Isle, perhaps subconsciously, used the grammatical structures of their native language when speaking English. This linguistic tradition also influenced the Irish literature, which differed in various ways from the English literature.

Since D. B. Quinn's The Elizabethans and the Irish, the history of early modern Ireland has been the subject of a wide range of studies, but only recently has women's role in that history received attention. Similarly, Nicholas Canny's article on “Edmund Spenser and the Development of an Anglo-Irish Identity” initiated a debate about whether sixteenth-century tracts on Ireland express a unified colonialist ideology, but only recently has the construction of sexuality in these texts come under scrutiny. It is not surprising that those who study the history of women in early modern Ireland do not often turn to the English tracts for evidence, except with great caution and reservation. So much related in these documents is indebted to the stereotypes of a colonialist discourse, initiated by Giraldus Cambrensis in the twelfth century, rather than to observation or encounter. Recent work on the history of women in early modern Ireland presents us with a sense of what is not being represented in the English settlers' descriptions. Such aspects of women's lives in Gaelic Ireland as their right to hold and acquire their own land and to keep their own names while married are not referred to in these tracts. These tracts do not yield transparent information about actual Irish women of the period, although there are fascinating references to their activities. Spenser writes that Irish women had “the trust and care of all things both at home and in the fields.” And at least one woman, the foster mother of Murrogh O'Brien, is said to have drunk the blood of her child's head as she grieved when he had been drawn and quartered by the English. The character of these texts as colonialist discourse makes the representation of women as a symbolic category or “gender” the more useful focus rather than some unmediated sense of “women.”

This comparative study examines the treatment of named vernacular poets from the Gaelic and Anglo-Saxon worlds in the subsequent literary cultural histories of their traditions. Both societies developed sophisticated bilingual intellectual cultures. After a brief survey of historical poets and anonymous secular texts from both vernacular literatures, this essay examines two accounts that involve vernacular poets from Latin texts written by clerics. Muirchú maccu Machtheni wrote Vita Sancti Patricii (ca. 690) and briefly mentioned the presence of the poets Dubthach maccu Lugair and Fiacc Finn Sléibte at the pagan court of Lóegaire mac Néill in Tara in the fifth century. Bede devoted a full chapter of his Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum (ca. 731) to the poet Cædmon at the monastery of Whitby sometime in the second half of the seventh century. The presence of these three vernacular poets in the works of two clerics suggests their perceived potential contributions to the Church. But their treatment in later cultural history differs markedly between the self-referential Gaelic world and more reticent Anglo-Saxons. In the Gaelic tradition Dubthach and Fiacc are recorded in law tracts, hagiography, martyrologies, genealogies, prose narratives, and poems. In the Anglo-Saxon tradition Cædmon does not exist outside of Bede's account. It is suggested that the legally recognized social rank, formal training, and professional status of poets in Gaelic society helps explain the discrepancy in subsequent cultural acknowledgement.

Objectively evaluating representative papers in a specific scientific research field is of great significance to the development of academia and scientific research institutions. Representative papers on achievements in scientific research can reflect the academic level and research characteristics of researchers and research institutions. The existing research methods are mainly based on external feature indicators and citation analysis methods, and the method of combining artificial intelligence is in its infancy. From the perspective of scientific research institutions, this paper proposes a graph autoencoder framework based on heterogeneous networks for the measurement of paper impact, named GAEPIM. Specifically, we propose two versions of GAEPIM based on a graph convolutional network and graph transformer network. The models rank papers in a specific research field and find the most representative papers and their scientific institutions. The proposed framework constructs a heterogeneous network of papers, institutions, and venues and simultaneously analyzes the semantic information of papers and the heterogeneous network structural information. Finally, based on the complex network information diffusion model, the proposed method performs better than several widely used baseline methods.

In 1760 James Macpherson published the first volume of a series of epic poems which he claimed to have translated into English from ancient Scottish-Gaelic sources. The poems, which purported to have been composed by a third-century bard named Ossian, quickly achieved wide international acclaim. They invited comparisons with major works of the epic tradition, including Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, and effected a profound influence on the emergent Romantic period in literature and the arts. However, the work also provoked one of the most famous literary controversies of all time, coloring the reception of the poetry to this day. The authenticity of the poems was questioned by some scholars, while others protested that they misappropriated material from Irish mythological sources. Recent years have seen a growing critical interest in Ossian, initiated by revisionist and counter-revisionist scholarship and by the two-hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of the first collected edition of the poems in 1765. Here, we investigate Ossian from a networks-science point of view. We compare the connectivity structures underlying the societies described in the Ossianic narratives with those of ancient Greek and Irish sources. Despite attempts, from the outset, to position Ossian alongside the Homeric epics and to distance it from Irish sources, our results indicate significant network-structural differences between Macpherson’s text and those of Homer. They also show a strong similarity between Ossianic networks and those of the narratives known as Acallam na Senórach (Colloquy of the Ancients) from the Fenian Cycle of Irish mythology.

The Diptera genus-group names of Camillo Rondani are reviewed and annotated. A total of 601 nomenclaturally available genus-group names in 82 families of Diptera are listed alphabetically. For each name the following are given: author, year and page of original publication, originally included species [and first included species if none were originally included], type species and method of fixation, current status of the name, family placement, and a list of any emendations of it that have been found in the literature. Remarks are given to clarify nomenclatural or taxonomic information. In addition, an index is provided to all the species-group names of Diptera proposed by Rondani (1,236, of which 1,183 are available) with bibliographic reference to each original citation. Appended to this study is a full bibliography of Rondani’s works and a list with explanations for all new synonymies arising from revised emendations. Corrected or clarified type-species and/or corrected or clarified type-species designations are given for the following genus-group names: Anoplomerus Rondani, 1856 [Dolichopodidae]; Biomya Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Bremia Rondani, 1861 [Cecidomyiidae]; Deximorpha Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Elasmocera Rondani, 1845 [Asilidae]; Enteromyza Rondani, 1857 [Oestridae]; Exogaster Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Istocheta Rondani, 1859 [Tachinidae]; Istoglossa Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Lejogaster Rondani, 1857 [Syrphidae]; Lignodesia Rondani, 1868 [Phaeomyiidae]; Medorilla Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Meroplius Rondani, 1874 [Sepsidae]; Nodicornis Rondani, 1843 [Dolichopodidae]; Omalostoma Rondani, 1862 [Tachinidae]; Opegiocera Rondani, 1845 [Asilidae]; Petagnia Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Phaniosoma Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Proboscina Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Pyragrura Rondani, 1861 [Tachinidae]; Stemonocera Rondani, 1870 [Tephritidae]; Telejoneura Rondani, 1863 [Asilidae]; Tricoliga Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]. The following genus-group names previously treated as available were found to be unavailable: Bombyliosoma Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Bombyliidae]; Bombylosoma Marschall, 1873, n. stat. [Bombyliidae]; Brachynevra Agassiz, 1846, n. stat. [Cecidomyiidae]; Calliprobola Rondani, 1856, n. stat. [Syrphidae]; Camponeura Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Syrphidae]; Chlorosoma Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Stratiomyidae]; Engyzops Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Calliphoridae]; Exodonta Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Stratiomyidae]; Histochaeta Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Tachinidae]; Histoglossa Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Tachinidae]; Homalostoma Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Tachinidae]; Hoplacantha Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Stratiomyidae]; Hoplodonta Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Stratiomyidae]; Liota Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Syrphidae]; Lomatacantha Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Tachinidae]; Machaera Mik, 1890, n. stat. [Tachinidae]; Machaira Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889, n. stat. [Tachinidae]; Myiatropa Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Syrphidae]; Oplacantha Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Stratiomyidae]. Previous First Reviser actions for multiple original spellings missed by previous authors include: Genus-group names—Achanthipodus Rondani, 1856 [Dolichopodidae]; Argyrospila Rondani, 1856 [Bombyliidae]; Botria Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Chetoliga Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Chrysoclamys Rondani, 1856 [Syrphidae]; Cyrtophloeba Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Istocheta Rondani, 1859 [Tachinidae]; Macherea Rondani, 1859 [Tachinidae]; Macronychia Rondani, 1859 [Sarcophagidae]; Pachylomera Rondani, 1856 [Psilidae]; Peratochetus Rondani, 1856 [Clusiidae]; Phytophaga Rondani, 1840 [Cecidomyiidae]; Spylosia Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Thlipsogaster Rondani, 1863 [Bombyliidae]; Tricogena Rondani, 1856 [Rhinophoridae]; Tricoliga Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Viviania Rondani, 1861 [Tachinidae]. Species-group name—Sphixapata albifrons Rondani, 1859 [Sarcophagidae]. Acting as First Reviser, the following correct original spellings for multiple original spellings are selected by us: Bellardia Rondani, 1863 [Tabanidae]; Chetoptilia Rondani, 1862 [Tachinidae]; Chetylia Rondani, 1861 [Tachinidae]; Clytiomyia Rondani, 1862 [Tachinidae]; Cryptopalpus Rondani, 1850 [Tachinidae]; Diatomineura Rondani, 1863 [Tabanidae]; Enteromyza Rondani, 1857 [Oestridae]; Esenbeckia Rondani, 1863 [Tabanidae]; Hammomyia Rondani, 1877 [Anthomyiidae]; Hydrothaea Rondani, 1856 [Muscidae]; Hyrmophlaeba Rondani, 1863 [Nemestrinidae]; Limnomya Rondani, 1861 [Limoniidae]; Lyoneura Rondani, 1856 [Psychodidae]; Micetoica Rondani, 1861 [Anisopodidae]; Miennis Rondani, 1869 [Ulidiidae]; Mycetomiza Rondani, 1861 [Mycetophilidae]; Mycosia Rondani, 1861 [Mycetophilidae]; Mycozetaea Rondani, 1861 [Mycetophilidae]; Piotepalpus Rondani, 1856 [Mycetophilidae]; Prothechus Rondani, 1856 [Pipunculidae]; Spyloptera Rondani, 1856 [Limoniidae]; Teremya Rondani, 1875 [Lonchaeidae]; Thricogena Rondani, 1859 [Tachinidae]; Trichopalpus Rondani, 1856 [Scathophagidae]; Trichopeza Rondani, 1856 [Brachystomatidae]; Tricophthicus Rondani, 1861 [Muscidae]; Triphleba Rondani, 1856 [Phoridae]; Xiloteja Rondani, 1863 [Syrphidae]. The following names are new synonymies of their respective senior synonyms: Genus-group names—Acanthipodus Bigot, 1890 of Poecilobothrus Mik, 1878, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Acanthiptera Rondani, 1877 of Achanthiptera Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Achantiptera Schiner, 1864 of Achanthiptera Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Acydia Rondani, 1870 of Acidia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Acyura Rondani, 1863 of Aciura Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Agaromyia Marschall, 1873 of Agaromya Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Mycetophilidae]; Ammomyia Mik, 1883 of Leucophora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Anthomyiidae]; Anomoja Rondani, 1871 of Anomoia Walker, 1835, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Anthracomyia Rondani, 1868 of Morinia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Antracomya Lioy, 1864 of Morinia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Anthoeca Bezzi, 1906 of Solieria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1849, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Antomyza Rondani, 1866 of Anthomyza Fallén, 1810, n. syn. [Anthomyzidae]; Antracia Rondani, 1862 of Nyctia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Aporomyia Schiner, 1861 of Lypha Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Asphondilia Rondani, 1861 of Asphondylia Loew, 1850, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Asteja Rondani, 1856 of Asteia Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Asteiidae]; Astenia Rondani, 1856 of Blepharicera Macquart, 1843, n. syn. [Blephariceridae]; Astilium Costa, 1866 of Senobasis Macquart, 1838, n. syn. [Asilidae]; Ateleneura Agassiz, 1846 of Atelenevra Macquart, 1834, n. syn. [Pipunculidae]; Athomogaster Rondani, 1866 of Azelia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Axista Rondani, 1856 of Axysta Haliday, 1839, n. syn. [Ephydridae]; Bigonichaeta Schiner, 1864 of Triarthria Stephens, 1829, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Billea Rondani, 1862 of Billaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Biomyia Schiner, 1868 of Biomya Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Bombilius Dufour, 1833 of Bombylius Linnaeus, 1758, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Bombylosoma Loew, 1862 of Bombylisoma Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Brachipalpus Rondani, 1845 of Brachypalpus Macquart, 1834, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Brachipalpus Rondani, 1863 of Palpibracus Rondani, 1863, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Brachistoma Rondani, 1856 of Brachystoma Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Brachystomatidae]; Brachychaeta Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889 of Brachicheta Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Brachyglossum Bigot, 1858 of Leopoldius Rondani, 1843, n. syn. [Conopidae]; Brachyneura Oken, 1844 of Brachineura Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Caelomya Rondani, 1866 of Fannia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Fanniidae]; Caelomyia Rondani, 1877 of Fannia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Fanniidae]; Caenosia Westwood, 1840 of Coenosia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Campilomiza Rondani, 1840 of Campylomyza Meigen, 1818, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Campylochaeta Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Campylocheta Rondani, 1859, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Caricoea Rondani, 1856 of Coenosia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Carpomyia Loew, 1862 of Carpomya Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Cassidemya Rondani, 1861 of Cassidaemyia Macquart, 1835, n. syn. [Rhinophoridae]; Ceratoxia Costa, 1866 of Otites Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Ulidiidae]; Ceratoxys Rondani, 1861 of Otites Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Ulidiidae]; Chaetogena Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Chetogena Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Chamemyia Rondani, 1875 of Chamaemyia Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Chamaemyiidae]; Chaetoptilia Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Chetoptilia Rondani, 1862, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Chatolyga Bigot, 1892 of Carcelia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Chersodromya Rondani, 1856 of Chersodromia Haliday, 1851, n. syn. [Hybotidae]; Chetilya Rondani, 1861 of Chetina Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Chilopogon Bezzi, 1902 of Dasypogon Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Asilidae]; Chiromya Agassiz, 1846 of Chyromya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Chyromyidae]; Chlorisoma Rondani, 1861 of Microchrysa Loew, 1855, n. syn. [Stratiomyidae]; Chorthophila Rondani, 1856 of Phorbia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Anthomyiidae]; Chortofila Rondani, 1843 of Phorbia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Anthomyiidae]; Chriorhyna Rondani, 1845 of Criorhina Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Chrisogaster Rondani, 1868 of Chrysogaster Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Chryorhina Rondani, 1856 of Criorhina Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Chryorhyna Rondani, 1857 of Criorhina Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Chrysoclamys Rondani, 1856 of Ferdinandea Rondani, 1844, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Chrysomya Rondani, 1856 of Microchrysa Loew, 1855, n. syn. [Stratiomyidae]; Chrysopila Rondani, 1844 of Chrysopilus Macquart, 1826, n. syn. [Rhagionidae]; Chyrosia Rondani, 1866 of Chirosia Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Anthomyiidae]; Clytiomyia Rondani, 1862 of Clytiomya Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Conopoejus Bigot, 1892 of Conops Linnaeus, 1758, n. syn. [Conopidae]; Criorhyna Rondani, 1865 of Criorhina Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Criptopalpus Rondani, 1863 of Cryptopalpus Rondani, 1850, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Crysogaster Rondani, 1865 of Chrysogaster Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Crysops Rondani, 1844 of Chrysops Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tabanidae]; Cyrthoneura Rondani, 1863 of Graphomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Cyrthoplaeba Rondani, 1857 of Cyrtophloeba Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Cyrthosia Rondani, 1863 of Cyrtosia Perris, 1839, n. syn. [Mythicomyiidae]; Cystogaster Walker, 1856 of Cistogaster Latreille, 1829, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Cyterea Rondani, 1856 of Cytherea Fabricius, 1794, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Dactyliscus Bigot, 1857 of Habropogon Loew, 1847, n. syn. [Asilidae]; Dasiphora Rondani, 1856 of Dasyphora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Dasipogon Dufour, 1833 of Dasypogon Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Asilidae]; Dasyneura Oken, 1844 of Dasineura Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Dexiomorpha Mik, 1887 of Estheria Robineau-Desvoidy, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Dichaetophora Becker, 1905 of Dichetophora Rondani, 1868, n. syn. [Sciomyzidae]; Dicheta Rondani, 1856 of Dichaeta Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Ephydridae]; Dictia Rondani, 1856 of Dictya Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Sciomyzidae]; Dionea Rondani, 1861 of Dionaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Ditricha Rondani, 1871 of Dithryca Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Dolicopeza Rondani, 1856 of Dolichopeza Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Tipulidae]; Doricera Rondani, 1856 of Dorycera Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Ulidiidae]; Drimeia Rondani, 1877 of Drymeia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Drimeja Rondani, 1856 of Drymeia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Driomyza Rondani, 1844 of Dryomyza Fallén, 1820, n. syn. [Dryomyzidae]; Driope Rondani, 1868 of Dryope Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Dryomyzidae]; Dryomiza Rondani, 1869 of Dryomyza Fallén, 1820, n. syn. [Dryomyzidae]; Dynera Rondani, 1861 of Dinera Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Dytricha Rondani, 1870 of Dithryca Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Elachysoma Rye, 1881 of Elachisoma Rondani, 1880, n. syn. [Sphaeroceridae]; Elaeophila Marschall, 1873 of Eloeophila Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Limoniidae]; Emerodromya Rondani, 1856 of Hemerodromia Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Empididae]; Engyzops Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Eggisops Rondani, 1862, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Entomybia Rondani, 1879 of Braula Nitzsch, 1818, n. syn. [Braulidae]; Epidesmya Rondani, 1861 of Acidia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Erinnia Rondani, 1856 of Erynnia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Eristalomyia Kittel & Kreichbaumer, 1872 of Eristalomya Rondani, 1857, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Esteria Rondani, 1862 of Estheria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Exatoma Rondani, 1856 of Hexatoma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tabanidae]; Exochila Mik, 1885 of Hammerschmidtia Schummel, 1834, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Fisceria Rondani, 1856 of Fischeria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Gedia Rondani, 1856 of Gaedia Meigen, 1838, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Gimnocheta Rondani, 1859 of Gymnocheta Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Gimnosoma Rondani, 1862 of Gymnosoma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Gonirhinchus Lioy, 1864 of Myopa Fabricius, 1775, n. syn. [Conopidae]; Gonirhynchus Marschall, 1873 of Myopa Fabricius, 1775, n. syn. [Conopidae]; Gononeura Oldenberg, 1904 of Gonioneura Rondani, 1880, n. syn. [Sphaeroceridae]; Graphomia Rondani, 1862 of Graphomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Gymnopha Rondani, 1856 of Mosillus Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Ephydridae]; Hammobates Rondani, 1857 of Tachytrechus Haliday, 1851, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Harrysia Rondani, 1865 of Lydina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Hemathobia Rondani, 1862 of Haematobia Le Peletier & Serville, 1828, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Hemerodromya Rondani, 1856 of Hemerodromia Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Empididae]; Heryngia Rondani, 1857 of Heringia Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Hidropota Lioy, 1864 of Hydrellia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Ephydridae]; Hipostena Rondani, 1861 of Phyllomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Hirmophloeba Marschall, 1873 of Hyrmophlaeba Rondani, 1863, n. syn. [Nemestrinidae]; Histricia Rondani, 1863 of Hystricia Macquart, 1843, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Hoemotobia Rondani, 1856 of Haematobia Le Peletier & Serville, 1828, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Homalomya Rondani, 1866 of Fannia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Fanniidae]; Homalostoma Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Billaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Hoplisa Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889 of Oplisa Rondani, 1862, n. syn. [Rhinophoridae]; Hydrothaea Rondani, 1856 of Hydrotaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Hylara Rondani, 1856 of Hilara Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Empididae]; Hyrmoneura Rondani, 1863 of Hirmoneura Meigen, 1820, n. syn. [Nemestrinidae]; Ilisomyia Osten Sacken, 1869 of Ormosia Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Limoniidae]; Istochaeta Marschall, 1873 of Istocheta Rondani, 1859, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Lamnea Rondani, 1861 of Erioptera Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Limoniidae]; Lasiophthicus Rondani, 1856 of Scaeva Fabricius, 1805, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Lestremya Rondani, 1856 of Lestremia Macquart, 1826, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Lidella De Galdo, 1856 of Lydella Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Lomacantha Lioy, 1864 of Lomachantha Rondani, 1859, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Lomachanta Schiner, 1864 of Lomachantha Rondani, 1859, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Loncoptera Rondani, 1856 of Lonchoptera Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Lonchopteridae]; Lymnophora Blanchard, 1845 of Limnophora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Macherium Rondani, 1856 of Machaerium Haliday, 1832, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Macrochaetum Bezzi, 1894 of Elachiptera Macquart, 1825, n. syn. [Chloropidae]; Macrochoetum Bezzi, 1892 of Elachiptera Macquart, 1825, n. syn. [Chloropidae]; Macroneura Rondani, 1856 of Diadocidia Ruthe, 1831, n. syn. [Diadocidiidae]; Marshamya Rondani, 1850 of Linnaemya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Marsilia Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Tricoliga Rondani, 1859, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Megachetum Rondani, 1856 of Dasyna Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Psilidae]; Megaloglossa Bezzi, 1907 of Platystoma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Platystomatidae]; Megera Rondani, 1859 of Senotainia Macquart, 1846, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Melanomyia Rondani, 1868 of Melanomya Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Melizoneura Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Melisoneura Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Mesomelaena Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Mesomelena Rondani, 1859, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Micetina Rondani, 1861 of Mycetophila Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Mycetophilidae]; Micetobia Rondani, 1861 of Mycetobia Meigen, 1818, n. syn. [Anisopodidae]; Micromyia Oken, 1844 of Micromya Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Miennis Rondani, 1869 of Myennis Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Ulidiidae]; Miopina Rondani, 1866 of Myopina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Anthomyiidae]; Morjnia Rondani, 1862 of Morinia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Morphomyia Rondani, 1862 of Stomina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Myatropa Rondani, 1857 of Myathropa Rondani, 1845, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Mycetomiza Rondani, 1861 of Mycosia Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Mycetophilidae]; Myiantha Rondani, 1877 of Fannia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Fanniidae]; Myiathropa Rondani, 1868 of Myathropa Rondani, 1845, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Myiocera Rondani, 1868 of Dinera Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Myiolepta Rondani, 1868 of Myolepta Newman, 1838, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Myiospila Rondani, 1868 of Myospila Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Myltogramma Rondani, 1868 of Miltogramma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Myntho Rondani, 1845 of Mintho Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Myospyla Rondani, 1862 of Myospila Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Napoea Rondani, 1856 of Parydra Stenhammar, 1844, n. syn. [Ephydridae]; Neera Rondani, 1861 of Neaera Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Nemestrina Blanchard, 1845 of Nemestrinus Latreille, 1802, n. syn. [Nemestrinidae]; Nemorea Macquart, 1834 of Nemoraea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Nevrolyga Agassiz, 1846 of Neurolyga Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Nictia Rondani, 1862 of Nyctia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Noteromyia Marschall, 1873 of Camilla Haliday, 1838, n. syn. [Camillidae]; Ociptera Rondani, 1862 of Cylindromyia Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Onodonta Rondani, 1866 of Hydrotaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Opegiocera Rondani, 1845 of Ancylorhynchus Berthold, 1827, n. syn. [Asilidae]; Ophira Rondani, 1844 of Hydrotaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Ornithoeca Kirby, 1880 of Ornithoica Rondani, 1878, n. syn. [Hippoboscidae]; Ornithomyia Macquart, 1835 of Ornithomya Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Hippoboscidae]; Orthochile Blanchard, 1845 of Ortochile Latreille, 1809, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Oxicera Rondani, 1856 of Oxycera Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Stratiomyidae]; Oxina Rondani, 1856 of Oxyna Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Ozyrhinchus Rondani, 1861 of Ozirhincus Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Oxyrhyncus Rondani, 1856 of Ozirhincus Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Pachigaster Rondani, 1856 of Pachygaster Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Stratiomyidae]; Pachimeria Rondani, 1856 of Pachymeria Stephens, 1829, n. syn. [Empididae]; Pachipalpus Rondani, 1856 of Cordyla Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Mycetophilidae]; Pachirhyna Rondani, 1845 of Nephrotoma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tipulidae]; Pachirina Rondani, 1840 of Nephrotoma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tipulidae]; Pachistomus Rondani, 1856 of Xylophagus Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Xylophagidae]; Pangonia Macquart, 1834 of Pangonius Latreille, 1802, n. syn. [Tabanidae]; Pentetria Rondani, 1856 of Penthetria Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Bibionidae]; Perichaeta Herting, 1984 of Policheta Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Perichoeta Bezzi, 1894 of Policheta Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Phalacromyia Costa, 1866 of Copestylum Macquart, 1846, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Phicodromia Rondani, 1866 of Malacomyia Westwood, 1840, n. syn. [Coelopidae]; Phillophaga Lioy, 1864 of Asphondylia Loew, 1850, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Phito Rondani, 1861 of Phyto Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Rhinophoridae]; Phitomyptera Lioy, 1864 of Phytomyptera Rondani, 1845, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Phitophaga Lioy, 1864 of Cecidomyia Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Phloebotomus Rondani, 1856 of Phlebotomus Rondani & Berté, 1840, n. syn. [Psychodidae]; Phorichaeta Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889 of Periscepsia Gistel, 1848, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Phrino Rondani, 1861 of Phryno Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Phrixe Rondani, 1862 of Phryxe Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Phthyria Rondani, 1856 of Phthiria Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Phtyria Rondani, 1863 of Phthiria Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Phyllodromya Rondani, 1856 of Phyllodromia Zetterstedt, 1837, n. syn. [Empididae]; Phytofaga Rondani, 1843 of Cecidomyia Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Phytomyzoptera Bezzi, 1906 of Phytomyptera Rondani, 1845, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Platiparea Rondani, 1870 of Platyparea Loew, 1862, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Platistoma Lioy, 1864 of Platystoma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Platystomatidae]; Platychyra Rondani, 1859 of Panzeria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Platynochetus Rondani, 1845 of Platynochaetus Wiedemann, 1830, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Polychaeta Schiner, 1868 of Policheta Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Polycheta Schiner, 1861 of Policheta Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Porrhocondyla Agassiz, 1846 of Porricondyla Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Porrycondyla Walker, 1874 of Porricondyla Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Prosopaea Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889 of Prosopea Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Psicoda Rondani, 1840 of Psychoda Latreille, 1797, n. syn. [Psychodidae]; Psylopus Rondani, 1850 of Sciapus Zeller, 1842, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Pteropectria Rondani, 1869 of Herina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Ulidiidae]; Pterospylus Bigot, 1857 of Syneches Walker, 1852, n. syn. [Hybotidae]; Pticoptera Rondani, 1856 of Ptychoptera Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Ptychopteridae]; Ptilocheta Rondani, 1857 of Zeuxia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Ptilochoeta Bezzi, 1894 of Zeuxia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Ptylocera Rondani, 1861 of Zeuxia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Ptylops Rondani, 1859 of Macquartia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Pyragrura Rondani, 1861 of Labigastera Macquart, 1834, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Pyrrhosia Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Leskia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Ragio Scopoli, 1777 of Rhagio Fabricius, 1775, n. syn. [Rhagionidae]; Raimondia Rondani, 1879 of Raymondia Frauenfeld, 1855, n. syn. [Hippoboscidae]; Ramphina Rondani, 1856 of Rhamphina Macquart, 1835, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Ramphomya Rondani, 1845 of Rhamphomyia Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Empididae]; Raphium Latreille, 1829 of Rhaphium Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Rhynchomyia Macquart, 1835 of Rhyncomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Rhiniidae]; Rhyncosia Rondani, 1861 of Aphria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Rhynophora Rondani, 1861 of Rhinophora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Rhinophoridae]; Riphus Rondani, 1845 of Rhyphus Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Anisopodidae]; Ripidia Rondani, 1856 of Rhipidia Meigen, 1818, n. syn. [Limoniidae]; Sarcopaga Rondani, 1856 of Sarcophaga Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Scatomiza Rondani, 1866 of Scathophaga Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Scathophagidae]; Schaenomyza Rondani, 1866 of Schoenomyza Haliday, 1833, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Sciomiza Rondani, 1856 of Sciomyza Fallén, 1820, n. syn. [Sciomyzidae]; Sciopila Rondani, 1856 of Sciophila Meigen, 1818, n. syn. [Mycetophilidae]; Serromya Rondani, 1856 of Serromyia Meigen, 1818, n. syn. [Ceratopogonidae]; Seseromyia Costa, 1866 of Cosmina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Rhiniidae]; Sibistroma Rondani, 1856 of Sybistroma Meigen, 1824, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Simplecta Rondani, 1856 of Symplecta Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Limoniidae]; Sinapha Rondani, 1856 of Synapha Meigen, 1818, n. syn. [Mycetophilidae]; Siritta Rondani, 1844 of Syritta Le Peletier & Serville, 1828, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Somatolia Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Lydina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Somomia Rondani, 1862 of Calliphora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Somomyia Rondani, 1868 of Calliphora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Sphixaea Rondani, 1856 of Milesia Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Sphyxaea Rondani, 1856 of Milesia Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Sphyxapata Bigot, 1881 of Senotainia Macquart, 1846, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Sphyximorpha Rondani, 1856 of Sphiximorpha Rondani, 1850, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Spilomya Rondani, 1857 of Spilomyia Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Spiximorpha Rondani, 1857 of Sphiximorpha Rondani, 1850, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Spixosoma Rondani, 1857 of Conops Linnaeus, 1758, n. syn. [Conopidae]; Spylographa Rondani, 1871 of Trypeta Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Stenopterix Millet de la Turtaudière, 1849 of Craterina Olfers, 1816, n. syn. [Hippoboscidae]; Stomorhyna Rondani, 1862 of Stomorhina Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Rhiniidae]; Stomoxis Latreille, 1797 of Stomoxys Geoffroy, 1762, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Syphona Rondani, 1844 of Siphona Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Tachidromya Rondani, 1856 of Tachydromia Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Hybotidae]; Tachipeza Rondani, 1856 of Tachypeza Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Hybotidae]; Tanipeza Rondani, 1850 of Tanypeza Fallén, 1820, n. syn. [Tanypezidae]; Teicomyza Rondani, 1856 of Teichomyza Macquart, 1835, n. syn. [Ephydridae]; Telaira Rondani, 1862 of Thelaira Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Teremya Rondani, 1875 of Lonchaea Fallén, 1820, n. syn. [Lonchaeidae]; Thecomya Rondani, 1848 of Thecomyia Perty, 1833, n. syn. [Sciomyzidae]; Thlypsigaster Marschall, 1873 of Amictus Wiedemann, 1817, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Thlypsomyza Rondani, 1863 of Amictus Wiedemann, 1817, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Thrichogena Bezzi, 1894 of Loewia Egger, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Thricogena Rondani, 1859 of Loewia Egger, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Thricophticus Rondani, 1866 of Thricops Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Thriptocheta Lioy, 1864 of Campichoeta Macquart, 1835, n. syn. [Diastatidae]; Thryptochoeta Bezzi, 1891 of Campichoeta Macquart, 1835, n. syn. [Diastatidae]; Thyreodonta Marschall, 1873 of Stratiomys Geoffroy, 1762, n. syn. [Stratiomyidae]; Toxopora Rondani, 1856 of Toxophora Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Tricholiga Rondani, 1873 of Tricoliga Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Trichophticus Rondani, 1871 of Thricops Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Tricocera Rondani, 1856 of Trichocera Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Trichoceridae]; Tricolyga Schiner, 1861 of Tricoliga Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Trigliphus Rondani, 1856 of Triglyphus Loew, 1840, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Tripeta Rondani, 1856 of Trypeta Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Triphera Rondani, 1861 of Tryphera Meigen, 1838, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Triptocera Lioy, 1864 of Actia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Tryptocera Macquart, 1844 of Actia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Uromya Rondani, 1856 of Phania Meigen, 1824, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Winthemya Rondani, 1859 of Winthemia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Xiloteja Rondani, 1863 of Myolepta Newman, 1838, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Xylomyia Marschall, 1873 of Xylomya Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Xylomyidae]; Xyloteja Rondani, 1856 of Myolepta Newman, 1838, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Xyphidicera Rondani, 1845 of Xiphidicera Macquart, 1834, n. syn. [Hybotidae]; Xyphocera Rondani, 1845 of Ancylorhynchus Berthold, 1827, n. syn. [Asilidae]; Zigoneura Rondani, 1840 of Zygoneura Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Sciaridae]; Zophomya Rondani, 1859 of Zophomyia Macquart, 1835, n. syn. [Tachinidae]. Species-group name—Psalida leucostoma Rondani, 1856 of Ocyptera simplex Fallén, 1815, n. syn. [Tachinidae]. Mycosia Rondani, 1861 is treated here as nomen dubium [Mycetophilidae]; Habropogon heteroneurus Timon-David, 1951 is resurrected from junior synonymy with Asilus striatus Fabricius, 1794, new stat. [Asilidae]. Reversal of precedence is invoked for three cases of subjective synonymy to promote stability in nomenclature: Macquartia monticola Egger, 1856, nomen protectum and Proboscina longipes Rondani, 1856, nomen oblitum [in Tachinidae]; Loewia Egger, 1856, nomen protectum and Thrychogena Rondani, 1856, nomen oblitum [in Tachinidae]; Zygomyia Winnertz, 1863, nomen protectum and Bolithomyza Rondani, 1856, nomen oblitum [in Mycetophilidae].

AbstractA high-quality, barley gene reference transcript dataset (BaRTv1.0), was used to quantify gene and transcript abundances from 22 RNA-seq experiments, covering 843 separate samples. Using the abundance data we developed a Barley Expression Database (EORNA*) to underpin a visualisation tool that displays comparative gene and transcript abundance data on demand as transcripts per million (TPM) across all samples and all the genes. EORNA provides gene and transcript models for all of the transcripts contained in BaRTV1.0, and these can be conveniently identified through either BaRT or HORVU gene names, or by direct BLAST of query sequences. Browsing the quantification data reveals cultivar, tissue and condition specific gene expression and shows changes in the proportions of individual transcripts that have arisen via alternative splicing. TPM values can be easily extracted to allow users to determine the statistical significance of observed transcript abundance variation among samples or perform meta analyses on multiple RNA-seq experiments. * Eòrna is the Scottish Gaelic word for Barley.

Brian Friel chooses the fictional time of his play Translations as nineteenth century, 1833, when the hedge schools in which instruction was in Gaelic were replaced by the new national schools in which lessons were to be taught in English. Another important event taking place in this time was the ordnance survey through which Irish place names were replaced with English ones. As a result of these two pivotal events in Irish history, Irish language and, accordingly, Irish culture were eroded and became Anglicized. This play has been studied and discussed from a varying perspectives such as postcolonial, political, or a national perspective. However, Friel bases his play on the above mentioned two events and claims that the play is only about language. As a result, examining this play through the lens of Bakhtin's concepts of unitary language and heteroglossia, focusing on the language and its relationship to Bakhtin's terms of heteroglossia and monoglossia, will aid in observing the effects of two pivotal events in Irish history on Irish language, culture, and people.

AbstractObjectivesIncreasing evidence has supported the mutual relationship between suicidal motivations and personality pathology, especially in adolescence. Distinctive aspects of personality functioning can explain the tendency to resort to suicidal ideation and behaviours, which, in turn, may play a specific role in exacerbating severe impairments in self‐regulation mechanisms that underlie personality pathology.DesignThis study illustrates, through two clinical cases, the clinical utility of using the Psychodynamic Diagnostic Manual – Second Edition (PDM‐2) to better understand distinct pathways of suicidal processes.MethodsTwo adolescents, named Luis and Gael, who attempted suicide multiple times were assessed using the Psychodiagnostic Chart Adolescent (PDC‐A) of the PDM‐2 to evaluate their mental functioning, emerging personality styles or syndromes, and symptom patterns. They were interviewed using the Motivational Interview for Suicidality in Adolescence (MIS‐A) to identify the motivations underpinning their suicidal behaviour.ResultsThe results showed that Luis presented a narcissistic personality characterized by the need to deny his vulnerabilities through suicidal fantasies as a form of escape, while Gael presented a borderline personality characterized by the use of suicide attempts to express her inner and unspeakable pain.ConclusionThe study seems to support the reciprocal interconnections between personality functioning and suicidal motivations that should be better identified to plan tailored and more effective interventions.

At the start of the twentieth century, many young Australian artists travelled abroad to expand their art education and to gain exposure to the modern art movements of Europe. Most of these artists were active members of artist associations such as the Victorian Artists Society or the New South Wales Society of Artists. Male artists from Victoria were generally also members of the Melbourne Savage Club, a club with a strong association with the arts.This paper investigates the dual function of the club, as a space where the artists felt “at home” in the familiar environment that the club offered whilst they were abroad and, at the same time, a meeting space where they could engage in a stimulating artistic environment and gain introductions to leading figures in the art world. For those artists who chose England, London’s arts clubs played a large role, for it was in these establishments that they discussed, exhibited, shared, and met with their English counterparts. The club environment in London would have a significant impact on male Australian artists, as it offered a space where they were integrated into the English art world, which enhanced their experience whilst abroad.Artists were seldom members of Australia’s early gentlemen’s clubs, however, in the late nineteenth century Melbourne, artists formed less formal social groupings with exotic names such as the Prehistoric Order of Cannibals, the Buonarotti Club, and the Ishmael Club (Mead). Melbourne artists congregated in these clubs until the Melbourne Savage Club, modelled on the London Savage Club (1857)—a club whose membership was restricted to practitioners in the performing and visual arts—opened its doors in 1894.The Melbourne Savage Club had its origins in the Metropolitan Music Club, established in the late 1880s by a group of professional and amateur musicians and music lovers. The club initially admitted musicians and people from the dramatic professions free-of-charge, however, author Randolph Bedford (1868–1941) and artist Alf Vincent (1874–1915) were not content to be treated on a different basis to the musicians and actors, and two months after Vincent joined the club, at a Special General Meeting, the club resolved to vary Rule 6, “to admit landscape or portrait painters and sculptors without entrance fee” (Melbourne Savage Club). At another Special General Meeting, a year later, the rule was altered to admit “recognised members of the musical, dramatic and artistic professions and sculptors without payment of entrance fee” (Melbourne Savage Club).This resulted in an immediate influx of prominent Victorian male artists (Williams) and the Melbourne Savage Club became their place of choice to gather and enjoy the fellowship the club offered and to share ideas in a convivial atmosphere. When the opportunity arose for them to travel to London in the early twentieth century, they met in London’s famous art clubs. Membership of the Melbourne Savage Club not only conferred rights to visit reciprocal clubs whilst in London, but also facilitated introductions to potential patrons. The London clubs were the venue of choice for visiting artists to meet their fellow artist expatriates and to share experiences and, importantly, to meet with their British counterparts, exhibit their works, and establish valuable contacts.The London Savage Club attracted many Australian expatriates. Not only is it the grandfather of London’s bohemian clubs but also it was the model for arts clubs the world over. Founded in 1857, the qualification for admission was (and still is) to be, “a working man in literature or art, and a good fellow” (Halliday vii). If a candidate met these requirements, he would be cordially received “come whence he may.” This was embodied in the club’s first rules which required applicants for membership to be from a restricted range of pursuits relating to the arts thought to be commensurate with its bohemian ideals, namely art, literature, drama, or music.The second London arts club that attracted expatriate Australian artists was the New English Arts Club, founded in 1886 by young English artists returning from studying art in Paris. Members of The New English Arts Club were influenced by the Impressionist style as opposed to the academic art shown at the Royal Academy. As a meeting place for Australia’s expatriate artists, the New English Arts Club had a particular influence, as it exposed them to significant early Modern artist members such as John Singer Sargent (1856–1925), Walter Sickert (1860–1942), William Orpen (1878–1931) and Augustus John (1878–1961) (Corbett and Perry; Thornton; Melbourne Savage Club).The third, and arguably the most popular with the expatriate Australian artists’ club, was the Chelsea Arts Club, a bohemian club formed in 1891 by local working artists looking for a place to go to “meet, talk, eat and drink” (Cross).Apart from the American-born founding member, James McNeill Whistler (1834–1903), amongst the biggest Chelsea names at the time of the influx of travelling young Australian artists were modernists Sir William Orpen, Augustus John, and John Sargent. The opportunity to mix with these leading British contemporary artists was irresistible to these antipodean artists (55).When Melbourne artist, Miles Evergood (1871–1939) arrived in London from America in 1910, he had been an active exhibiting member of the Salmagundi Club, a New York artists’ club. Almost immediately he joined the New English Arts Club and the Chelsea Arts Club. Hammer tells of him associating with “writer Israel Zangwill, sculptor Jacob Epstein, and anti-academic artists including Walter Sickert, Augustus John, John Lavery, John Singer Sargent and C.R.W. Nevison, who challenged art values in Britain at the beginning of the century” (Hammer 41).Arthur Streeton (1867–1943) used the Chelsea Arts Club as his postal address, as did many expatriate artists. The Melbourne Savage Club archives contain letters and greetings, with news from abroad, written from artist members back to their “Brother Savages” (Various).In late 1902, Streeton wrote to fellow artist and Savage Club member Tom Roberts (1856–1931) from London:I belong to the Chelsea Arts Club now, & meet the artists – MacKennel says it’s about the most artistic club (speaking in the real sense) in England. … They all seem to be here – McKennal, Longstaff, Mahony, Fullwood, Norman, Minns, Fox, Plataganet Tudor St. George Tucker, Quinn, Coates, Bunny, Alston, K, Sonny Pole, other minor lights and your old friend and admirer Smike – within 100 yards of here – there must be 30 different studios. (Streeton 94)Whilst some of the artists whom Streeton mentioned were studying at either the Royal Academy or the Slade School, it was the clubs like the Chelsea Arts Club where they were most likely to encounter fellow Australian artists. Tom Roberts was obviously attentive to Streeton’s enthusiastic account and, when he returned to London the following year to work on his commission for The Big Picture of the 1901 opening of the first Commonwealth Parliament, he soon joined. Roberts, through his expansive personality, became particularly active in London’s Australian expatriate artistic community and later became Vice-President of the Chelsea Arts Club. Along with Streeton and Roberts, other visiting Melbourne Savage Club artists joined the Chelsea Arts Club. They included, John Longstaff (1861–1941), James Quinn (1869–1951), George Coates (1869–1930), and Will Dyson (1880–1938), along with Sydney artists Henry Fullwood (1863–1930), George Lambert (1873–1930), and Will Ashton (1881–1963) (Croll 95). Smith describes the exodus to London and Paris: “It was the Chelsea Arts Club that the Heidelberg School established its last and least distinguished camp” (Smith, Smith and Heathcote 152).Streeton, who retained his Chelsea Arts Club membership when he returned for a while to Australia, wrote to Roberts in 1907, “I miss Chelsea & the Club-boys” (Streeton 107). In relation to Frederick McCubbin’s pending visit he wrote: “Prof McCubbin left here a week ago by German ‘Prinz Heinrich.’ … You’ll introduce him at the Chelsea Club and I hope they make him an Hon. Member, etc” (Streeton et al. 85). McCubbin wrote, after an evening at the Chelsea Arts Club, following a visit to the Royal Academy: “Tonight, I am dining with Australian artists in Soho, and shall be there to greet my old friends. How glad I am! Longstaff will be there, and Frank Stuart, Roberts, Fullwood, Pontin, Coates, Quinn, and Tucker’s brother, and many others from all around” (MacDonald, McCubbin and McCubbin 75). Impressed by the work of Turner he wrote to his wife Annie, following avisit to the Tate Gallery:I went yesterday with Fullwood and G. Coates and Tom Roberts for a ramble … to the Tate Gallery – a beautiful freestone building facing the river through a portico into the gallery where the lately found turners are exhibited – these are not like the greater number of pictures in the National Gallery – they represent his different periods, but are mostly in his latest style, when he had realised the quality of light (McCubbin).Clearly Turner’s paintings had a profound impression on him. In the same letter he wrote:they are mostly unfinished but they are divine – such dreams of colour – a dozen of them are like pearls … mist and cloud and sea and land, drenched in light … They glow with tender brilliancy that radiates from these canvases – how he loved the dazzling brilliancy of morning or evening – these gems with their opal colour – you feel how he gloried in these tender visions of light and air. He worked from darkness into light.The Chelsea Arts Club also served as a venue for artists to entertain and host distinguished visitors from home. These guests included; Melbourne Savage Club artist member Alf Vincent (Joske 112), National Gallery of Victoria (NGV) Trustee and popular patron of the arts, Professor Baldwin Spencer (1860–1929), Professor Frederick S. Delmer (1864–1931) and conductor George Marshall-Hall (1862–1915) (Mulvaney and Calaby 329; Streeton 111).Artist Miles Evergood arrived in London in 1910, and visited the Chelsea Arts Club. He mentions expatriate Australian artists gathering at the Club, including Will Dyson, Fred Leist (1873–1945), David Davies (1864–1939), Will Ashton (1881–1963), and Henry Fullwood (Hammer 41).Most of the Melbourne Savage Club artist members were active in the London Savage Club. On one occasion, in November 1908, Roberts, with fellow artist MacKennal in the Chair, attended the Australian Artists’ Dinner held there. This event attracted twenty-five expatriate Australian artists, all residing in London at the time (McQueen 532).These London arts clubs had a significant influence on the expatriate Australian artists for they became the “glue” that held them together whilst abroad. Although some artists travelled abroad specifically to take up places at the Royal Academy School or the Slade School, only a minority of artists arriving in London from Australia and other British colonies were offered positions at these prestigious schools. Many artists travelled to “try their luck.” The arts clubs of London, whilst similarly discerning in their membership criteria, generally offered a visiting “brother-of-the-brush” a warm welcome as a professional courtesy. They featured the familiar rollicking all-male “Smoke Nights” a feature of the Melbourne Savage Club. With a greater “artist” membership than the clubs in Australia, expatriate artists were not only able to catch up with their friends from Australia, but also they could associate with England’s finest and most progressive artists in a familiar congenial environment. The clubs were a “home away from home” and described by Underhill as, “an artistic Earl’s Court” (Underhill 99). Most importantly, the clubs were a centre for discourse, arguably even more so than were the teaching academies. Britain’s leading modernist artists were members of the Chelsea Arts Club and the New English Arts Club and mixed freely with the visiting Australian artists.Many Australian artists, such as Miles Evergood and George Bell (1878–1966), held anti-academic views similar to English club members and embraced the new artistic trends, which they would bring back to Australia. Streeton had no illusions about the relative worth of the famed institutions and the exhibitions held by clubs such as the New English. Writing to Roberts before he joins him in London, he describes the Royal Academy as having, “an inartistic atmosphere” and claims he “hasn’t the least desire to go again” (Streeton 77). His preference lay with a concurrent “International Exhibition”, which featured works by Rodin, Whistler, Condor, Degas, and others who were setting the pace rather than merely continuing the academic traditions.Architect Hardy Wilson (1881–1955) served as secretary of The Chelsea Arts Club. When he returned to Australia he brought back with him a number of British works by Streeton and Lambert for an exhibition at the Guild Hall Melbourne (Underhill 92). Artists and Bohemians, a history of the Chelsea Arts Club, makes special reference of its world-wide contacts and singles out many of its prominent Australian members for specific mention including; Sir John William (Will) Ashton OBE, later Director of the Art Gallery of New South Wales, and Will Dyson, whose illustrious career as an Australian war artist was described in some detail. Dyson’s popularity led to his later appointment as Chairman of the Chelsea Arts Club where he initiated an ambitious rebuilding program, improving staff accommodation, refurbishing the members’ areas, and adding five bedrooms for visiting members (Bross 87-90).Whilst the influence of travel abroad on Australian artists has been noted, the importance of the London Clubs has not been fully explored. These clubs offered artists a space where they felt “at home” and a familiar environment whilst they were abroad. The clubs functioned as a meeting space where they could engage in a stimulating artistic environment and gain introductions to leading figures in the art world. For those artists who chose England, London’s arts clubs played a large role, for it was in these establishments that they discussed, exhibited, shared, and met with their English counterparts. The club environment in London had a significant impact on male Australian artists as it offered a space where they were integrated into the English art world which enhanced their experience whilst abroad and influenced the direction of their art.ReferencesCorbett, David Peters, and Lara Perry, eds. English Art, 1860–1914: Modern Artists and Identity. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000.Croll, Robert Henderson. Tom Roberts: Father of Australian Landscape Painting. Melbourne: Robertson & Mullens, 1935.Cross, Tom. Artists and Bohemians: 100 Years with the Chelsea Arts Club. 1992. 1st ed. London: Quiller Press, 1992.Gray, Anne, and National Gallery of Australia. McCubbin: Last Impressions 1907–17. 1st ed. Parkes, A.C.T.: National Gallery of Australia, 2009.Halliday, Andrew, ed. The Savage Papers. 1867. 1st ed. London: Tinsley Brothers, 1867.Hammer, Gael. Miles Evergood: No End of Passion. Willoughby, NSW: Phillip Mathews, 2013.Joske, Prue. Debonair Jack: A Biography of Sir John Longstaff. 1st ed. Melbourne: Claremont Publishing, 1994.MacDonald, James S., Frederick McCubbin, and Alexander McCubbin. The Art of F. McCubbin. Melbourne: Lothian Book Publishing, 1916.McCaughy, Patrick. Strange Country: Why Australian Painting Matters. Ed. Paige Amor. The Miegunyah Press, 2014.McCubbin, Frederick. Papers, Ca. 1900–Ca. 1915. Melbourne.McQueen, Humphrey. Tom Roberts. Sydney: Macmillan, 1996.Mead, Stephen. "Bohemia in Melbourne: An Investigation of the Writer Marcus Clarke and Four Artistic Clubs during the Late 1860s – 1901.” PhD thesis. Melbourne: University of Melbourne, 2009.Melbourne Savage Club. Secretary. Minute Book: Melbourne Savage Club. Club Minutes (General Committee). Melbourne: Savage Archives.Mulvaney, Derek John, and J.H. Calaby. So Much That Is New: Baldwin Spencer, 1860–1929, a Biography. Carlton, Vic.: Melbourne University Press, 1985.Smith, Bernard, Terry Smith, and Christopher Heathcote. Australian Painting, 1788–2000. 4th ed. South Melbourne, Vic.: Oxford University Press, 2001.Streeton, Arthur, et al. Smike to Bulldog: Letters from Sir Arthur Streeton to Tom Roberts. Sydney: Ure Smith, 1946.Streeton, Arthur, ed. Letters from Smike: The Letters of Arthur Streeton, 1890–1943. Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1989.Thornton, Alfred, and New English Art Club. Fifty Years of the New English Art Club, 1886–1935. London: New English Art Club, Curwen Press 1935.Underhill, Nancy D.H. Making Australian Art 1916–49: Sydney Ure Smith Patron and Publisher. South Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1991.Various. Melbourne Savage Club Correspondence Book: 1902–1916. Melbourne: Melbourne Savage Club.Williams, Graeme Henry. "A Socio-Cultural Reading: The Melbourne Savage Club through Its Collections." Masters of Arts thesis. Melbourne: Deakin University, 2013.


 
 
 All critics declare not only their judgment of the work but also their claim to the right to talk about it and judge it. In short, they take part in a struggle for the monopoly of legitimate discourse about the work of art, and consequently in the production of the value of the work of art. (Pierre Bourdieu 36).
 
 
 As it becomes blindingly obvious that ‘cultural production’, including the cinema, now underpins an economy every bit as brutal in its nascent state as the Industrial Revolution was for its victims 200 years ago, both critique and cinephilia seem faded and useless to me. (Meaghan Morris 700).
 
 
 The music’s loud, the lights are low. I’m at a party and somebody’s shouting at me. “How many films do you see every week?” “Do you really get in for free?” “So what should I see next Saturday night?” These are the questions that shape the small talk of my life. After seven years of reviewing movies you’d think I’d have ready answers and sparkling rehearsed tip-offs to scatter at the slightest quiver of interest. And yet I feel anxious when I’m asked to predict some stranger’s enjoyment – their 15-odd bucks worth of dark velvet pleasure. Who am I to say what they’ll enjoy? Who am I to judge what’s worthwhile? 
 
 As editor of the film pages of The Big Issue magazine (Australian edition), I make such value judgments every day, sifting through hundreds of press releases, invitations and interview offers. I choose just three films and three DVDs to be reviewed each fortnight, and one film to form the subject of a feature article or interview. The film pages are a very small part of an independent magazine that exists to provide an income for the homeless and long-term unemployed people who sell it on the streets of Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane, Adelaide and Perth. And no, homeless people don’t go to the movies very often but our relatively educated and affluent city-dwelling readers do. 
 
 The letters page of the magazine suggests that readers’ favourite pages are the Vendor Portraits – the extraordinary and sobering photographs and life stories of the people who are out there on the streets selling the magazine. Yet the editorial policy is to maintain a certain lightness of touch amidst the serious business. Thus, the entertainment pages (music, books, film, TV and humour) have no specific social justice agenda. But if there’s a new Australian film out there that deals with the topic of homelessness, it seems imperative to at least consider the story.
 
 Rather than offering in-depth analysis of particular films and the ways I go about judging them, the following diary excerpts instead offer a sketch of the practical process of editorial decision-making. Why review this film and not that one? Why interview this actor or that film director? And how do these choices fit within the broad goals of a social justice publication? Created randomly, from a quick scan of the last twelve months, the diary is a scribbled attempt to justify, or in Bourdieu’s terms, “legitimate” the critical role I play, and to try and explain how that role can never be fully defined by an aesthetic that is divorced from social and political realities. 
 
 August 2004
 
 My editor calls me and asks if I’ve seen Tom White, the new low-budget Australian film by Alkinos Tsilimidos. I have, and I hated it. Starring Colin Friels, the film follows the journey of a middle-aged middle-class man who walks out of his life and onto the streets. It’s a grimy, frustrating film, supported by only the barest bones of narrative. I was bored and infuriated by the central character, and I know it’s the kind of under-developed story that’s keeping Australian audiences away from our own films. And yet … it’s a local film that actually dares to tackle issues of homelessness and mental illness, and it’s a story that presents a truth about homelessness that’s borne out by many of our vendors: that any one of us could, except by the grace of God or luck, find ourselves sleeping rough.
 
 My editor wants me to interview Colin Friels, who will appear on the cover of the magazine. I don’t want to touch the film, and I prefer interviewing people whose work genuinely interests and excites me. But there are other factors to be considered. The film’s exhibitor, Palace Films, is offering to hold charity screenings for our benefit, and they are regular advertising supporters of The Big Issue. My editor, a passionate and informed film lover himself, understands the quandary. We are in no way beholden to Palace, he assures me, and we can tread the fine line with this film, using it to highlight the important issues at hand, without necessarily recommending the film to audiences. It’s tricky and uncomfortable; a simple example of the way in which political and aesthetic values do not always dance so gracefully together. Nevertheless, I find a way to write the story without dishonesty.
 
 September 2004
 
 There’s no denying the pleasure of writing (or reading) a scathing film review that leaves you in stitches of laughter over the dismembered corpse of a bad movie. But when space is limited, I’d rather choose the best three films every fortnight for review and recommendation. In an ideal world I’d attend every preview and take my pick. They’d be an excitingly diverse mix. Say, one provocative documentary (maybe Mike Moore or Errol Morris), one big-budget event movie (from the likes of Scorsese or Tarantino), and one local or art-house gem. In the real world, it’s a scramble for deadlines. Time is short and some of the best films only screen in one or two states, making it impossible for us to cover them for our national audience. Nevertheless, we do our best to keep the mix as interesting and timely as possible. For our second edition this month I review the brilliant documentary Metallica: Some Kind of Monster (Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky), while I send other reviewers to rate Spielberg’s The Terminal (only one and a half stars out of five), and Cate Shortland’s captivating debut Australian feature Somersault (four stars).
 
 For the DVD review page we look at a boxed set of The Adventures of Tintin, together with the strange sombre drama House of Sand and Fog (Vadim Perelman), and the gripping documentary One Day in September (Kevin MacDonald) about the terrorist attacks at the 1972 Munich Olympic Games. As editor, I try to match up films with the writers who’ll best appreciate them. With a 200-word limit we know that we’re humble ‘reviewers’ rather than lofty ‘critics’, and that we can only offer the briefest subjective response to a work. Yet the goal remains to be entertaining and fair, and to try and evaluate films on their own terms. Is this particular movie an original and effective example of the schlocky teen horror thriller? If so, let’s give it the thumbs up. Is this ‘worthy’ anti-globalisation documentary just a boring preachy sermon with bad hand-held camera work? Then we say so.
 
 For our film feature article this edition, I write up an interview with Italian director Luigi Falorni, whose simple little film The Weeping Camel has been reducing audiences to tears. It’s a strange quiet film, a ‘narrative documentary’ set in the Gobi desert, about a mother camel that refuses to give milk to her newborn baby. There’s nothing political or radical about it. It’s just beautiful and interesting and odd. And that’s enough to make it worthy of attention. 
 
 November 2004
 
 When we choose to do a ‘celebrity’ cover, we find pretty people with serious minds and interesting causes. This month two gorgeous film stars, Natalie Portman and Gael Garcia Bernal find their way onto our covers. Portman’s promoting the quirky coming of age film, Garden State (Zach Braff), but the story we run focuses mainly on her status as ambassador for the Foundation of International Community Assistance (FINCA), which offers loans to deprived women to help them start their own businesses. Gabriel Garcia Bernal, the Mexican star of Walter Salle’s The Motorcycle Diaries appears on our cover and talks about his role as the young Che Guevara, the ultimate idealist and symbol of rebellion. We hope this appeals to those radicals who are prepared to stop in the street, speak to a homeless person, and shell out four dollars for an independent magazine – and also to all those shallow people who want to see more pictures of the hot-eyed Latin lad. 
 
 April 2005
 
 Three Dollars is Robert Connelly’s adaptation of Elliot Perlman’s best-selling novel about economic rationalism and its effect on an average Australian family. I loved the book, and the film isn’t bad either, despite some unevenness in the script and performances. I interview Frances O’Connor, who plays opposite David Wenham as his depressed underemployed wife. O’Connor makes a beautiful cover-girl, and talks about the seemingly universal experience of depression. We run the interview alongside one with Connelly, who knows just how to pitch his film to an audience interested in homelessness. He gives great quotes about John Howard’s heartless Australia, and the way we’ve become an economy rather than a society. It’s almost too easy.
 
 In the reviews section of the magazine we pan two other Australian films, Paul Cox’s Human Touch, and the Jimeoin comedy-vehicle The Extra. I’d rather ignore bad Australian films and focus on good films from elsewhere, or big-budget stinkers that need to be brought down a peg. But I’d lined up reviews for these local ones, expecting them to be good, and so we run with the negativity. Some films are practically critic-proof, but small niche films, like most Australian titles, aren’t among these Teflon giants. As Joel Pearlman, Managing Director of Roadshow Films has said, “There are certain types of films that are somewhat critic-proof. They’ve either got a built-in audience, are part of a successful franchise, like The Matrix or Bond films, or have a popular star. It’s films without the multimillion-dollar ad campaigns and the big names where critics are far more influential” ( Pearlman in Bolles 19). Sometimes I’m glad that I’m just a small fish in the film critic pond, and that my bad reviews can’t really destroy someone’s livelihood. It’s well known that a caning from reviewers like David Stratton and Margaret Pomeranz (ABC, At the Movies), or the Melbourne Age’s Jim Schembri can practically destroy the prospects of a small local film, and I’m not sure I have the bravery or conviction of the value of my own tastes to bear such responsibility. Admittedly, that’s just gutless tender-heartedness for, as reviewers, our responsibility is to the audience not to the filmmaker. But when you’ve met with cash-strapped filmmakers, and heard their stories and their struggles, it’s sometimes hard to put personal compassion aside and see the film as the punter will. But you must. 
 
 August 2005
 
 It’s a busy time with the Melbourne International Film Festival just finishing up. Hordes of film directors accompany their films to the festival, promoting them here ahead of a later national release schedule, and making themselves available for rare face-to face interviews. This year I find a bunch of goodies that seem like they were tailor-made for our readership. There are winning local films like Sarah Watt’s life-affirming debut Look Both Ways; and Rowan Woods’ gritty addiction-drama Little Fish. There’s my personal favourite, Bahman Ghobadi’s stunning and devastating Kurdish/Iranian feature Turtles Can Fly; and Avi Lewis’s inspiring documentary The Take, about Argentine factory workers who unite to revive their bankrupt workplaces.
 
 It’s when I see films like this, and get to talk to the people who bring them into existence, that I realize how much I value writing about films for a publication that doesn’t exist just to make a profit or fill space between advertisements. As the great American critic Jonathan Rosenbaum has eloquently argued, most of the worldwide media coverage concerning film is merely a variation on the ‘corporate stories’ that film studios feed us as part of their advertising. To be able to provide some small resistance to that juggernaut is a wonderful privilege.
 
 I love to be lost in the dark, studying films frame by frame, and with reference only to some magical internal universe of ‘cinema’ and its endless references to itself. But as the real world outside falls apart, such airless cinephilia feels just plain wrong. As a writer whose subject is films, what I’m compelled to do is to come out of the cinema and try to use my words to convey the best of what I’ve seen to my friends and readers, pointing them towards small treasures they may have overlooked amidst the hype. So maybe I’m not a ‘pure’ critic, and maybe there’s no shame in that. The films I’ll gravitate towards share an almost indefinable quality – to use Jauss’s phrase, they reconstruct and expand my “horizon of expectation” (28). Sometimes these films are overtly committed to a cause, but often they’re just beautiful and strange and fresh. Always they expand me, open me, make me feel that there’s more to the world than expected, and make me want more too – more information, more freedom, more compassion, more equality, more beauty. And, after all these years in the dark, I still want more films like that.
 
 Endnotes
 
 As of August 2005, the role of DVD editor of The Big Issue has been filled by Anthony Morris.
 
 According the latest Morgan Poll, readers of The Big Issue are likely to be young (18-39), urban, educated, and affluent professionals. Current readership is estimated at 144,000 fortnightly and growing.
 
 References
 
 Bolles, Scott. “The Critics.” Sunday Life. The Age 10 Jul. 2005: 19. Bourdieu, Pierre. The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature. Ed. Randal Johnson. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1993. Jauss, Hans Robert. Toward an Aesthetic of Reception. Trans. Timothy Bahti. Minnesota: U of Minnesota P, 1982. Morris, Meaghan. “On Going to Bed Early: Once Upon a Time in America.” Meanjin 4 (1998): 700. Rosenbaum, Jonathan. “Junket Bonds.” Chicago Reader Movie Review (2000). 2 Sept. 2005 http://www.chicagoreader.com/movies/archives/2000/1000/00117.html>. The Big Issue Australia. http://www.bigissue.org.au/> 10 Oct. 2005.
 
 
 
 
 Citation reference for this article
 
 MLA Style
 Siemienowicz, Rochelle. "Diary of a Film Reviewer: Intimate Reflections on Writing about the Screen for a Popular Audience." M/C Journal 8.5 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0510/01-siemienowicz.php>. APA Style
 Siemienowicz, R. (Oct. 2005) "Diary of a Film Reviewer: Intimate Reflections on Writing about the Screen for a Popular Audience," M/C Journal, 8(5). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0510/01-siemienowicz.php>. 

The traditional German tale of the Pied Piper of Hamelin inhabits an ambiguous narrative borderland, a liminal space between fact and fiction, fantasy and horror, concrete details and elusive mystery. In his study of the Pied Piper in Tradition and Innovation in Folk Literature, Wolfgang Mieder describes how manuscripts and other evidence appear to confirm the historical base of the story. Precise details from a fifteenth-century manuscript, based on earlier sources, specify that in 1284 on the 26th of June, the feast-day of Saints John and Paul, 130 children from Hamelin were led away by a piper clothed in many colours to the Koppen Hill, and there vanished (Mieder 48). Later manuscripts add details familiar today, such as a plague of rats and a broken bargain with burghers as a motive for the Piper’s actions, while in the seventeenth century the first English-language version advances what might also be the first attempt at a “rational” explanation for the children’s disappearance, claiming that they were taken to Transylvania. The uncommon pairing of such precise factual detail with enigmatic mystery has encouraged many theories. These have ranged from references to the Children’s Crusade, or other religious fervours, to the devastation caused by the Black Death, from the colonisation of Romania by young German migrants to a murderous rampage by a paedophile. Fictional interpretations of the story have multiplied, with the classic versions of the Brothers Grimm and Robert Browning being most widely known, but with contemporary creators exploring the theme too. This includes interpretations in Hamelin itself. On 26 June 2015, in Hamelin Museum, I watched a wordless five-minute play, entirely performed not by humans but by animatronic stylised figures built out of scrap iron, against a montage of multilingual, confused voices and eerie music, with the vanished children represented by a long line of small empty shirts floating by. The uncanny, liminal nature of the story was perfectly captured. Australia is a world away from German fairy tale mysteries, historically, geographically, and culturally. Yet, as Lisa M. Fiander has persuasively argued, contemporary Australian fiction has been more influenced by fairy tales than might be assumed, and in this essay it is proposed that major motifs from the Pied Piper appear in several Australian novels, transformed not only by distance of setting and time from that of the original narrative, but also by elements specific to the Australian imaginative space. These motifs are lost children, the enigmatic figure of the Piper himself, and the power of a very particular place (as Hamelin and its Koppen Hill are particularised in the original tale). Three major Australian novels will be examined in this essay: Joan Lindsay’s Picnic at Hanging Rock (1967), Christopher Koch’s The Doubleman (1985), and Ursula Dubosarsky’s The Golden Day (2011). Dubosarsky’s novel was written for children; both Koch’s and Lindsay’s novels were published as adult fiction. In each of these works of fiction, the original tale’s motifs have been developed and transformed to express unique evocations of the Pied Piper theme. As noted by Fiander, fiction writers are “most likely to draw upon fairy tales when they are framing, in writing, a subject that generates anxiety in their culture” (158). Her analysis is about anxieties of place within Australian fiction, but this insight could be usefully extended to the motifs which I have identified as inherent in the Pied Piper story. Prominent among these is the lost children motif, whose importance in the Australian imagination has been well-established by scholars such as Peter Pierce. Pierce’s The Country of Lost Children: An Australian Anxiety explores this preoccupation from the earliest beginnings of European settlement, through analysis of fiction, newspaper reports, paintings, and films. As Pierce observed in a later interview in the Sydney Morning Herald (Knox), over time the focus changed from rural children and the nineteenth-century fear of the vast impersonal nature of the bush, where children of colonists could easily get lost, to urban children and the contemporary fear of human predators.In each of the three novels under examination in this essay, lost children—whether literal or metaphorical—feature prominently. Writer Carmel Bird, whose fiction has also frequently centred on the theme of the lost child, observes in “Dreaming the Place” that the lost child, the stolen child – this must be a narrative that is lodged in the heart and imagination, nightmare and dream, of all human beings. In Australia the nightmare became reality. The child is the future, and if the child goes, there can be no future. The true stories and the folk tales on this theme are mirror images of each other. (7) The motif of lost children—and of children in danger—is not unique to the Pied Piper. Other fairy tales, such as Hansel and Gretel and Little Red Riding Hood, contain it, and it is those antecedents which Bird cites in her essay. But within the Pied Piper story it has three features which distinguish it from other traditional tales. First, unlike in the classic versions of Hansel and Gretel or Red Riding Hood, the children do not return. Neither are there bodies to find. The children have vanished into thin air, never to be seen again. Second, it is not only parents who have lost them, but an entire community whose future has been snatched away: a community once safe, ordered, even complacent, traumatised by loss. The lack of hope, of a happy ending for anyone, is striking. And thirdly, the children are not lost or abandoned or even, strictly speaking, stolen: they are lured away, semi-willingly, by the central yet curiously marginal figure of the Piper himself. In the original story there is no mention of motive and no indication of malice on the part of the Piper. There is only his inexplicable presence, a figure out of fairy folklore appearing in the midst of concrete historical dates and numbers. Clearly, he links to the liminal, complex world of the fairies, found in folklore around the world—beings from a world close to the human one, yet alien. Whimsical and unpredictable by human standards, such beings are nevertheless bound by mysteriously arbitrary rules and taboos, and haunt the borders of the human world, disturbing its rational edges and transforming lives forever. It is this sense of disturbance, that enchanting yet frightening sudden shifting of the border of reality and of the comforting order of things, the essence of transformation itself, which can also be seen at the core of the three novels under examination in this essay, with the Piper represented in each of them but in different ways. The third motif within the Pied Piper is a focus on place as a source of uncanny power, a theme which particularly resonates within an Australian context. Fiander argues that if contemporary British fiction writers use fairy tale to explore questions of community and alienation, and Canadian fiction writers use it to explore questions of identity, then Australian writers use it to explore the unease of place. She writes of the enduring legacy of Australia’s history “as a settler colony which invests the landscape with strangeness for many protagonists” (157). Furthermore, she suggests that “when Australian fiction writers, using fairy tales, describe the landscape as divorced from reality, they might be signalling anxiety about their own connection with the land which had already seen tens of thousands of years of occupation when Captain James Cook ‘found’ it in 1770” (160). I would argue, however, that in the case of the Pied Piper motifs, it is less clear that it is solely settler anxieties which are driving the depiction of the power of place in these three novels. There is no divorce from reality here, but rather an eruption of the metaphysical potency of place within the usual, “normal” order of reality. This follows the pattern of the original tale, where the Piper and all the children, except for one or two stragglers, disappear at Koppen Hill, vanishing literally into the hill itself. In traditional European folklore, hollow hills are associated with fairies and their uncanny power, but other places, especially those of water—springs, streams, even the sea—may also be associated with their liminal world (in the original tale, the River Weser is another important locus for power). In Joan Lindsay’s Picnic at Hanging Rock, it is another outcrop in the landscape which holds that power and claims the “lost children.” Inspired partly by a painting by nineteenth-century Australian artist William Ford, titled At the Hanging Rock (1875), depicting a group of elegant people picnicking in the bush, this influential novel, which inspired an equally successful film adaptation, revolves around an incident in 1900 when four girls from Appleyard College, an exclusive school in Victoria, disappear with one of their teachers whilst climbing Hanging Rock, where they have gone for a picnic. Only one of their number, a girl called Irma, is ever found, and she has no memory of how and why she found herself on the Rock, and what has happened to the others. This inexplicable event is the precursor to a string of tragedies which leads to the violent deaths of several people, and which transforms the sleepy and apparently content little community around Appleyard College into a centre of loss, horror, and scandal.Told in a way which makes it appear that the novelist is merely recounting a true story—Lindsay even tells readers in an author’s note that they must decide for themselves if it is fact or fiction—Picnic at Hanging Rock shares the disturbingly liminal fact-fiction territory of the Piper tale. Many readers did in fact believe that the novel was based on historical events and combed newspaper files, attempting to propound ingenious “rational” explanations for what happened on the Rock. Picnic at Hanging Rock has been the subject of many studies, with the novel being analysed through various prisms, including the Gothic, the pastoral, historiography, and philosophy. In “Fear and Loathing in the Australian Bush,” Kathleen Steele has depicted Picnic at Hanging Rock as embodying the idea that “Ordered ‘civilisation’ cannot overcome the gothic landscapes of settler imaginations: landscapes where time and people disappear” (44). She proposes that Lindsay intimates that the landscape swallows the “lost children” of the novel because there is a great absence in that place: that of Aboriginal people. In this reading of the novel, it is that absence which becomes, in a sense, a malevolent presence that will reach out beyond the initial disappearance of the three people on the Rock to destroy the bonds that held the settler community together. It is a powerfully-made argument, which has been taken up by other scholars and writers, including studies which link the theme of the novel with real-life lost-children cases such as that of Azaria Chamberlain, who disappeared near another “Rock” of great Indigenous metaphysical potency—Uluru, or Ayers Rock. However, to date there has been little exploration of the fairy tale quality of the novel, and none at all of the striking ways in which it evokes Pied Piper motifs, whilst transforming them to suit the exigencies of its particular narrative world. The motif of lost children disappearing from an ordered, safe, even complacent community into a place of mysterious power is extended into an exploration of the continued effects of those disappearances, depicting the disastrous impact on those left behind and the wider community in a way that the original tale does not. There is no literal Pied Piper figure in this novel, though various theories are evoked by characters as to who might have lured the girls and their teacher, and who might be responsible for the disappearances. Instead, there is a powerful atmosphere of inevitability and enchantment within the landscape itself which both illustrates the potency of place, and exemplifies the Piper’s hold on his followers. In Picnic at Hanging Rock, place and Piper are synonymous: the Piper has been transformed into the land itself. Yet this is not the “vast impersonal bush,” nor is it malevolent or vengeful. It is a living, seductive metaphysical presence: “Everything, if only you could see it clearly enough, is beautiful and complete . . .” (Lindsay 35). Just as in the original tale, the lost children follow the “Piper” willingly, without regret. Their disappearance is a happiness to them, in that moment, as it is for the lost children of Hamelin, and quite unlike how it must be for those torn apart by that loss—the community around Appleyard, the townspeople of Hamelin. Music, long associated with fairy “takings,” is also a subtle feature of the story. In the novel, just before the luring, Irma hears a sound like the beating of far-off drums. In the film, which more overtly evokes fairy tale elements than does the novel, it is noteworthy that the music at that point is based on traditional tunes for Pan-pipes, played by the great Romanian piper Gheorge Zamfir. The ending of the novel, with questions left unanswered, and lives blighted by the forever-inexplicable, may be seen as also following the trajectory of the original tale. Readers as much as the fictional characters are left with an enigma that continues to perplex and inspire. Picnic at Hanging Rock was one of the inspirations for another significant Australian fiction, this time a contemporary novel for children. Ursula Dubosarsky’s The Golden Day (2011) is an elegant and subtle short novel, set in Sydney at an exclusive girls’ school, in 1967. Like the earlier novel, The Golden Day is also partly inspired by visual art, in this case the Schoolgirl series of paintings by Charles Blackman. Combining a fairy tale atmosphere with historical details—the Vietnam War, the hanging of Ronald Ryan, the drowning of Harold Holt—the story is told through the eyes of several girls, especially one, known as Cubby. The Golden Day echoes the core narrative patterns of the earlier novel, but intriguingly transformed: a group of young girls goes with their teacher on an outing to a mysterious place (in this case, a cave on the beach—note the potent elements of rock and water, combined), and something inexplicable happens which results in a disappearance. Only this time, the girls are much younger than the characters of Lindsay’s novel, pre-pubertal in fact at eleven years old, and it is their teacher, a young, idealistic woman known only as Miss Renshaw, who disappears, apparently into thin air, with only an amber bead from her necklace ever found. But it is not only Miss Renshaw who vanishes: the other is a poet and gardener named Morgan who is also Miss Renshaw’s secret lover. Later, with the revelation of a dark past, he is suspected in absentia of being responsible for Miss Renshaw’s vanishment, with implications of rape and murder, though her body is never found. Morgan, who could partly figure as the Piper, is described early on in the novel as having “beautiful eyes, soft, brown, wet with tears, like a stuffed toy” (Dubosarsky 11). This disarming image may seem a world away from the ambiguously disturbing figure of the legendary Piper, yet not only does it fit with the children’s naïve perception of the world, it also echoes the fact that the children in the original story were not afraid of the Piper, but followed him willingly. However, that is complicated by the fact that Morgan does not lure the children; it is Miss Renshaw who follows him—and the children follow her, who could be seen as the other half of the Piper. The Golden Day similarly transforms the other Piper motifs in its own original way. The children are only literally lost for a short time, when their teacher vanishes and they are left to make their own way back from the cave; yet it could be argued that metaphorically, the girls are “lost” to childhood from that moment, in terms of never being able to go back to the state of innocence in which they were before that day. Their safe, ordered school community will never be the same again, haunted by the inexplicability of the events of that day. Meanwhile, the exploration of Australian place—the depiction of the Memorial Gardens where Miss Renshaw enjoins them to write poetry, the uncomfortable descent over rocks to the beach, and the fateful cave—is made through the eyes of children, not the adolescents and adults of Picnic at Hanging Rock. The girls are not yet in that liminal space which is adolescence and so their impressions of what the places represent are immediate, instinctive, yet confused. They don’t like the cave and can’t wait to get out of it, whereas the beach inspires them with a sense of freedom and the gardens with a sense of enchantment. But in each place, those feelings are mixed both with ordinary concerns and with seemingly random associations that are nevertheless potently evocative. For example, in the cave, Cubby senses a threateningly weightless atmosphere, a feeling of reality shifting, which she associates, apparently confusedly, with the hanging of Ronald Ryan, reported that very day. In this way, Dubosarsky subtly gestures towards the sinister inevitability of the following events, and creates a growing tension that will eventually fade but never fully dissipate. At the end, the novel takes an unexpected turn which is as destabilising as the ending of the Pied Piper story, and as open-ended in its transformative effects as the original tale: “And at that moment Cubby realised she was not going to turn into the person she had thought she would become. There was something inside her head now that would make her a different person, though she scarcely understood what it was” (Dubosarsky 148). The eruption of the uncanny into ordinary life will never leave her now, as it will never leave the other girls who followed Miss Renshaw and Morgan into the literally hollow hill of the cave and emerged alone into a transformed world. It isn’t just childhood that Cubby has lost but also any possibility of a comforting sense of the firm borders of reality. As in the Pied Piper, ambiguity and loss combine to create questions which cannot be logically answered, only dimly apprehended.Christopher Koch’s 1985 novel The Doubleman, winner of the Miles Franklin Award, also explores the power of place and the motif of lost children, but unlike the other two novels examined in this essay depicts an actual “incarnated” Piper motif in the mysteriously powerful figure of Clive Broderick, brilliant guitarist and charismatic teacher/guru, whose office, significantly, is situated in a subterranean space of knowledge—a basement room beneath a bookshop. Both central yet peripheral to the main action of the novel, touched with hints of the supernatural which never veer into overt fantasy, Broderick remains an enigma to the end. Set, like The Golden Day, in the 1960s, The Doubleman is narrated in the first person by Richard Miller, in adulthood a producer of a successful folk-rock group, the Rymers, but in childhood an imaginative, troubled polio survivor, with a crutch and a limp. It is noteworthy here that in the Grimms’ version of the Pied Piper, two children are left behind, despite following the Piper: one is blind, one is lame. And it is the lame boy who tells the townspeople what he glimpsed at Koppen Hill. In creating the character of Broderick, the author blends the traditional tropes of the Piper figure with Mephistophelian overtones and a strong influence from fairy lore, specifically the idea of the “doubleman,” here drawn from the writings of seventeenth-century Scottish pastor, the Reverend Robert Kirk of Aberfoyle. Kirk’s 1691 book The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies is the earliest known serious attempt at objective description of the fairy beliefs of Gaelic-speaking Highlanders. His own precisely dated life-story and ambiguous end—it is said he did not die but is forever a prisoner of the fairies—has eerie parallels to the Piper story. “And there is the uncanny, powerful and ambiguous fact of the matter. Here is a man, named, born, lived, who lived a fairy story, really lived it: and in the popular imagination, he lives still” (Masson).Both in his creative and his non-fiction work Koch frequently evoked what he called “the Otherland,” which he depicted as a liminal, ambiguous, destabilising but nevertheless very real and potent presence only thinly veiled by the everyday world. This Otherland is not the same in all his fictions, but is always part of an actual place, whether that be Java in The Year of Living Dangerously, Hobart and Sydney in The Doubleman, Tasmania, Vietnam and Cambodia in Highways to a War, and Ireland and Tasmania in Out of Ireland. It is this sense of the “Otherland” below the surface, a fairy tale, mythical realm beyond logic or explanation, which gives his work its distinctive and particular power. And in The Doubleman, this motif, set within a vividly evoked real world, complete with precise period detail, transforms the Piper figure into one which could easily appear in a Hobart lane, yet which loses none of its uncanny potency. As Noel Henricksen writes in his study of Koch’s work, Island and Otherland, “Behind the membrane of Hobart is Otherland, its manifestations a spectrum stretched between the mystical and the spiritually perverted” (213).This is Broderick’s first appearance, described through twelve-year-old Richard Miller’s eyes: Tall and thin in his long dark overcoat, he studied me for the whole way as he approached, his face absolutely serious . . . The man made me uneasy to a degree for which there seemed to be no explanation . . . I was troubled by the notion that he was no ordinary man going to work at all: that he was not like other people, and that his interest couldn’t be explained so simply. (Koch, Doubleman 3)That first encounter is followed by another, more disturbing still, when Broderick speaks to the boy, eyes fixed on him: “. . . hooded by drooping lids, they were entirely without sympathy, yet nevertheless interested, and formidably intelligent” (5).The sense of danger that Broderick evokes in the boy could be explained by a sinister hint of paedophilia. But though Broderick is a predator of sorts on young people, nothing is what it seems; no rational explanation encompasses the strange effect of his presence. It is not until Richard is a young man, in the company of his musical friend Brian Brady, that he comes across Broderick again. The two young men are looking in the window of a music shop, when Broderick appears beside them, and as Richard observes, just as in a fairy tale, “He didn’t seem to have changed or aged . . .” (44). But the shock of his sudden re-appearance is mixed with something else now, as Broderick engages Brady in conversation, ignoring Richard, “. . . as though I had failed some test, all that time ago, and the man had no further use for me” (45).What happens next, as Broderick demonstrates his musical prowess, becomes Brady’s teacher, and introduces them to his disciple, young bass player Darcy Burr, will change the young men’s lives forever and set them on a path that leads both to great success and to living nightmare, even after Broderick’s apparent disappearance, for Burr will take on the Piper’s mantle. Koch’s depiction of the lost children motif is distinctively different to the other two novels examined in this essay. Their fate is not so much a mystery as a tragedy and a warning. The lost children of The Doubleman are also lost children of the sixties, bright, talented young people drawn through drugs, immersive music, and half-baked mysticism into darkness and horrifying violence. In his essay “California Dreaming,” published in the collection Crossing the Gap, Koch wrote about this subterranean aspect of the sixties, drawing a connection between it and such real-life sinister “Pipers” as Charles Manson (60). Broderick and Burr are not the same as the serial killer Manson, of course; but the spell they cast over the “lost children” who follow them is only different in degree, not in kind. In the end of the novel, the spell is broken and the world is again transformed. Yet fittingly it is a melancholy transformation: an end of childhood dreams of imaginative potential, as well as dangerous illusions: “And I knew now that it was all gone—like Harrigan Street, and Broderick, and the district of Second-Hand” (Koch, Doubleman 357). The power of place, the last of the Piper motifs, is also deeply embedded in The Doubleman. In fact, as with the idea of Otherland, place—or Island, as Henricksen evocatively puts it—is a recurring theme in Koch’s work. He identified primarily and specifically as a Tasmanian writer rather than as simply Australian, pointing out in an essay, “The Lost Hemisphere,” that because of its landscape and latitude, different to the mainland of Australia, Tasmania “genuinely belongs to a different region from the continent” (Crossing the Gap 92). In The Doubleman, Richard Miller imbues his familiar and deeply loved home landscape with great mystical power, a power which is both inherent within it as it is, but also expressive of the Otherland. In “A Tasmanian Tone,” another essay from Crossing the Gap, Koch describes that tone as springing “from a sense of waiting in the landscape: the tense yet serene expectancy of some nameless revelation” (118). But Koch could also write evocatively of landscapes other than Tasmanian ones. The unnerving climax of The Doubleman takes place in Sydney—significantly, as in The Golden Day, in a liminal, metaphysically charged place of rocks and water. That place, which is real, is called Point Piper. In conclusion, the original tale’s three main motifs—lost children, the enigma of the Piper, and the power of place—have been explored in distinctive ways in each of the three novels examined in this article. Contemporary Australia may be a world away from medieval Germany, but the uncanny liminality and capacious ambiguity of the Pied Piper tale has made it resonate potently within these major Australian fictions. Transformed and transformative within the Australian imagination, the theme of the Pied Piper threads like a faintly-heard snatch of unearthly music through the apparently mimetic realism of the novels, destabilising readers’ expectations and leaving them with subversively unanswered questions. ReferencesBird, Carmel. “Dreaming the Place: An Exploration of Antipodean Narratives.” Griffith Review 42 (2013). 1 May 2016 <https://griffithreview.com/articles/dreaming-the-place/>.Dubosarsky, Ursula. The Golden Day. Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2011.Fiander, Lisa M. “Writing in A Fairy Story Landscape: Fairy Tales and Contemporary Australian Fiction.” Journal of the Association for the Study of Australian Literature 2 (2003). 30 April 2016 <http://openjournals.library.usyd.edu.au/index.php/JASAL/index>.Henricksen, Noel. Island and Otherland: Christopher Koch and His Books. Melbourne: Educare, 2003.Knox, Malcolm. “A Country of Lost Children.” Sydney Morning Herald 15 Aug. 2009. 1 May 2016 <http://www.smh.com.au/national/a-country-of-lost-children-20090814-el8d.html>.Koch, Christopher. The Doubleman. 1985. Sydney: Minerva, 1996.Koch, Christopher. Crossing the Gap: Memories and Reflections. 1987. Sydney: Vintage, 2000. Lindsay, Joan. Picnic at Hanging Rock. 1967. Melbourne: Penguin, 1977.Masson, Sophie. “Captive in Fairyland: The Strange Case of Robert Kirk of Aberfoyle.” Nation and Federation in the Celtic World: Papers from the Fourth Australian Conference of Celtic Studies, University of Sydney, June–July 2001. Ed. Pamela O’Neil. Sydney: University of Sydney Celtic Studies Foundation, 2003. Mieder, Wolfgang. “The Pied Piper: Origin, History, and Survival of a Legend.” Tradition and Innovation in Folk Literature. 1987. London: Routledge Revivals, 2015.Pierce, Peter. The Country of Lost Children: An Australian Anxiety. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1999.Steele, Kathleen. “Fear and Loathing in the Australian Bush: Gothic Landscapes in Bush Studies and Picnic at Hanging Rock.” Colloquy 20 (2010): 33–56. 27 July 2016 <http://artsonline.monash.edu.au/wp-content/arts/files/colloquy/colloquy_issue_20_december_2010/steele.pdf>.