(Nick: here’s a guest post [lightly edited to house style] from Melbourne-based Cipher Mysteries commenter Jo, introducing Hickey Taylor to the Somerton Man discussion. Over to you, Jo…)

Stuart Webb recently re-posted “the family photo” on Derek Abbott’s Facebook page, along with a query about one of the people on it: Hickey Taylor.  My first reaction was that “Hickey” and “Taylor” sounded like two old farmers from Camperdown (there are lots of Hickeys and Taylors there…) but commenter Poppins cleverly pointed out that Hickey Taylor was in fact a stage manager and occasional actor for J.C. Williamson’s. So… who was Hickey Taylor?

Henry Herbert “Hickey” Taylor, 1903-1962

Though born in Tasmania, Taylor’s electoral roll enrolment address across several decades is his parents’ home at 56 Surrey Road, South Yarra, right up to his death in 1962, when he was living with his widowed mother, Isabel. He spent long periods away from South Yarra with his work.

Taylor’s AusStage listing has him as being in Adelaide from the late 1940s to late 1950s – however, this was as an actor up until 1947, and then as a stage manager from 1949. If you dig through J.C. Williamson’s programs [he joined the company in 1925], you can also see that he spent long periods in Perth, e.g. as stage manager for “The Girl Friend”.

Perhaps most intriguingly, he was also the stage manager for the Adelaide run of “Under the Counter”(but not the Melbourne run), which ended on 30 November 1948. This, of course, places him in Adelaide at the time of Carl Webb’s death.

It seems that Hickey Taylor may also have been a drag performer, or to use the language of the 1940s, a female impersonator.  The Australian Queer Archives has an interview listing [p.66] (I haven’t yet managed to secure a listening appointment but have contacted them and am trying, hopefully with Poppins).

Taylor worked in his stage manager capacity with some of the most celebrated Southern Hemisphere female impersonators of the time  – e.g. Phil Jay and John Hunter of the Kiwi Revue shows.

As an aside, there have been books (and even Masters theses!) on the soldier female impersonators – theirs was a skilled and well regarded craft. They could also often be a tough bunch. Brent Coutts’ book “Crossing the Lines” is probably the most comprehensive review of the Kiwis.

I viewed Hickey Taylor’s probate document, as well as his hospital death report from the Alfred Hospital at the Public Records Office of Victoria. He died of heart complications – an unexpected death of septicaemia – in 1962.  (I’m still digesting the report and will send my photos to Nick.)  Dr Colin Ernest Seabridge, the Alfred Hospital’s Resident Medical Officer wrote “I find it impossible to state the cause of death.” There are a lot of similar words and phrases to Charlie Webb’s death and inquest documents.

Taylor was known to the hospital, he was “a depressive, with suicidal tendencies”.  He had been “under psychiatric treatment.”

He left his estate to his widowed mother and his brother and sister, this included two houses – 34 and 36 Fawkner Street, South Yarra (worth a small fortune now!)

Connections and Speculations

Was Hickey Taylor the source of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayam? (Commenter Em and I believe so!).  We know that it was printed by New Zealand company Whitcombe and Tombs and that an identical copy has never been found.  (Was it a limited army print run?)  I haven’t been able to find Taylor on any New Zealand Immigration and Passenger lists in the 1940s, so I would say if the Rubaiyat came via Hickey Taylor it might well have been via a Kiwi Revue member, such as renowned female impersonator Phil Jay, who played in the same cast as Taylor in “The Girlfriend“.

We know that Charlie was fond of solving Norman McCance’s newspaper bridge problems, but there’s also a picture in the Sydney Sun of Hickey Taylor playing bridge in 1937:

We can hypothesise about the relationship between the two men and also about Carl Webb’s manicure, careful shave, well-developed calf muscles and wedge shaped feet, noted at the time of his death. We could speculate whether this was the end of an affair, an assisted suicide or a case of moving a dying Charlie somewhere where he could be found without linking him to his theatre friends. Perhaps someone else deposited the suitcase at the station? If we think about the laws and climate of the time, an anonymous death makes a certain amount of sense: Victoria only removed the death penalty for sodomy in 1949. It was only between 1975 and 1997 that Australian states and territories gradually repealed their sodomy laws and began gay law reform.

It also appears that Carl may have told his family he was in Cottesloe, working as an electrician, as per the solicitor’s advertisement regarding Gladys May Scott’s will (posted on Derek Abbott’s Facebook page by Lachlan Kelly). Where was Carl between the end of 1946 and November 1948 and what was he doing?

The Tidying-Up-At-The-End Bit

I think the first Cipher Mysteries post I ever read was “On Carl Webb, Truth and Beauty” (5 August 2022) where Nick warned us against “The one true narrative”:

Maybe we can now each spin our own tidy yarn tying together personally preferred loose threads…But… by doing this, I think we’d be dancing around some sinkhole-sized gaps, not in our preferred story (which will always sound nice to our own ears), but in Carl Webb’s actual story.

What was the American connection? Had Webb travelled to America? Did Doff give Webb the Rubaiyat? Did Webb have a replacement partner lined up? Might he actually have been gay, and married Doff to hide his sexuality? What instruments did he make … Did he have a police record?

My own interest here was first sparked when Bromby Street was mentioned: I initially felt sure the Somerton Man case had something to do with signals intelligence (there were at least fourteen different signals intelligence related sites in the local area during World War II). But I think we should now add a relationship with Hickey Taylor to the list of possible narratives to consider. Might the story have more in common with that of poor Alan Turing, needlessly persecuted because of his sexual preference for men?

I suspect this one may have legs (with well-defined calf muscles?).

Finally: thank you John Sanders for initially pointing out that Gerald Keane had travelled to New Zealand – I think that put us on this track, and thank you also Poppins for finding Hickey Taylor.  Punters: keep the commentary “noice” or Aunty Jack will “rip your bloody arms off!” (Sorry Nick, Aunty Jack is an old Australian reference, from before my time here!) And thanks Nick for promoting my comment to a post; it gives a good opportunity for further sleuthing and mature reflection.

Much as I’ve enjoyed looking through old J. C. Williamson programmes and Melbourne bridge columns hunting for Gerald Keane and Carl Webb, I can’t help but wonder if it’s time for a new research angle.

I mean, tracking Dermott Derham ‘Derry’ George (of 13 Wandeen Road, S.E.6, mechanic in 1939 Victoria census) and his wife Rita Mabel (nee Dixon, married 1942 in Victoria, maybe at Hoffman’s Road, Keilor, home duties in 1946 Victoria census, died in Keilor in 1998), and I guess his brother Dermott James George and Olga Burge George (both at 13 Wandeen Road in 1939, and again in 1941) is all very well, but it’s not really much of anything. Oh, and driving in his 746 c.c. M.G.J. in 1935, and his M.G. J4 in 1937 and 1938 and 1938 again for the Light Car Club? Nope, not that gripped, sorry.

So what’s next?

Masonic Registers and Card Indexes, maybe?

This is what I’m thinking might possibly give us a lead on Gerald Keane and/or Carl Webb.

There’s a whole load of Australian Masonic Registers and Card Indexes 1830-1991 now being digitised and prepared for publication on familysearch.org, which is just the kind of thing I like to trawl through just in case. (But it’s not up yet.) Similarly, the Museum of Freemasonry in NSW also has digitised a lot of its Masonic records, though these are not yet available online. Still, you’d have thought the Adelaide Masonic Centre Museum at 254 North Terrace, Adelaide and its Grand Lodge Library (the J. R. Robertson Masonic Memorial Library) might have something like the card indexes each Lodge had, right?

Wrong! Because it turns out that tons (almost literally) of masonic registers and card indexes from South Australia have been lodged (if you’ll excuse the pun) in an Australian archive, including a downloadable finding aid listing all the individual documents – I know because I actually read it a few months back. But… I have since lost my copy of that file and now can’t find it again. Which is unbelievably annoying.

So, can anyone help me find this document again?

Royal Adelaide Hospital

Carl Webb was not a well man. At the time of his death, he had an enlarged spleen (which must surely have been hugely painful), and it appears (from his hair) that he had been exposed to dangerously high (and as yet unexplained) levels of lead some 2-3 weeks before his death. Moreover, it seems likely to me that what killed him was an overdose of heart medication (though whether that was self-inflicted, deliberate, or merely accidental is a quite separate issue).

TL;DR – Carl Webb was not, as the phrase goes, a happy bunny.

Hence, I’ve long wondered whether Webb might have been admitted to (and discharged) from a hospital in the month before his death – and given that he was found on Somerton Beach, I’ve specifically wondered about the Royal Adelaide Hospital.

Interestingly, the admissions register for the RAH have been digitised up to 1961, and are accessible up to 31st December 1936. These look like this:

Now, it’s not clear to me when (or to whom) the Admissions Register scans covering November 1948 will/are be accessible. There seems no obvious reason why film # 102936290 isn’t available online, but might it be accessible in person via an LDS Family History Centre? Perhaps someone here will know what the deal is (because I certainly don’t, alas).

Update!

Though Google wasn’t as helpful as normal, I eventually found a copy of the missing document in my mobile phone’s pdf cache. It was SRG 490, “Grand Lodge of Antient, Free & Accepted Masons of Australia”, held at the State Library of South Australia. More to follow when I’ve gone through it properly…

I’ve recently had some nice correspondence with Rafał Miazga, an independent Polish researcher who, having deftly avoided getting trapped by the perils of Voynich Manuscript research, instead travelled deep down the Rohonc Codex rabbit-hole. He has posted up a (substantial) paper on academia.edu outlining both his research and his interesting (yet tentative) conclusions, which I think are well worth reading. I also thought it would be worth using this post to summarise my very high-level view of the state of play of Rohonc Codex research, plus why I think Rafał’s paper is particularly interesting.

Kiraly and Tokai

After many years of only stumbling advances, Rohonc Codex research is now broadly dominated by the work of two researchers, Lev Kiraly and Gábor Tokai. Even though Kiraly and Tokai haven’t fully published their research, there seems little doubt (even from Benedek Lang) that they are heading in the right direction with the meaning they are extracting from sets of Rohonc Codex words.

And yet their results remain highly bemusing, incomplete, and unsatisfactory. For them, Rohonc Codex words have no obvious declination or conjugation (so are more like English than Latin), and largely lack structure (many passages are more like repetitive babble than structured text).

Overall, I think it’s fair to say that K & T are trying to solve the puzzle of the Rohonc Codex from the details upwards, i.e. as a pure linguistic / syntax / grammar puzzle. But right from the start, it seems to me that they’ve been tangled in ‘word weeds’: like the Voynich Manuscript, the Rohonc Codex presents many repetitive babble-like features (though admittedly not quite at the same level), and K & T seem to be perpetually stalled by these.

Ultimately, they need the Rohonc Codex’s text to be a pure language for their methodology to work, but looking in from the outside I find it hard not to conclude that the two don’t quite fit as well as they’d like. I’ve thought from pretty much Day One that they’re missing some kind of higher-level hypothesis: they know how it works, but they can’t quite say what it is. For them, the Rohonc Codex remains an isolate, i.e. “an individual socially withdrawn or removed from society” (Merriam-Webster), and so they struggle to draw parallels or connections with other languages, other historical artefacts, or other histories.

Enter Rafał Miazga

What Rafał Miazga did is compile his own transcription, and then draw his own low-level conclusions which were largely parallel to Kiraly and Tokai (though there are many overlaps, they’re far from identical). What they do seem to me to broadly share is that the Rohonc Codex is both a religious mess (i.e. one that doesn’t quite match ‘proper’ Bible stories) and a linguistic mess. On balance, I think it’s fair to say that Rafał’s word-level account of the Rohonc Codex isn’t at all far from what Kiraly and Tokai put forward.

But here’s the big difference: Rafał also has an idea of what he strongly suspects the Rohonc Codex is – which is (probably summarising too boldly and quickly) a book written down by a profoundly deaf monk in an idiosyncratic language. That is, the Rohonc Codex is (in some way) a sign-language transcription, with a large code-book (nomenclatura) of specific signs.

This is a very bold idea, and one that I think Rafał should be commended for, as well as encouraged to explore further. Well done Rafał, keep going!

Nick’s thoughts

In some ways, what Rafał has achieved could well be a kind of Rohonc Codex “plot point” (i.e. that pivots the narrative and spins the story off into a new direction), in that it suggests other histories to look at.

For example, monks who had taken a vow of silence (Trappist, but also Cistercian and Benedictine) had their own monastic sign languages. There are plenty of websites where these are mentioned or discussed: I believe that there is a decent (if dispersed) literature on these. There are even YouTube videos where monastic sign languages are mentioned:

The primary historical question for me is therefore whether there are any other examples of transcribed monastic sign languages mentioned in the literature. I’ve suggested this to Rafał and I’m sure he will be looking for these. There are certainly partial word-lists out there, but might there be other texts?

More generally, I suggested to Rafał that he might think about looking at the Protestant Reformation in Hungary. This was a hugely complicated time for Christianity, where Catholicism, Protestantism and Unitarianism were all prominent players, with many Diets trying to broker accommodations (both religious and political) between them. This tangled picture seems to me to be mirrored by the Rohonc Codex’s own tangled religious tropes: so perhaps its author was a profoundly deaf monk whose religious rug had been pulled from under him by the Protestant Reformation?

In many ways, what a hypothesis like Rafał’s offers isn’t necessarily complete answers, but rather a way of looking at historical sources with new eyes. With luck, this might prove to be the start of a fresh chapter for the Rohonc Codex. Fingers crossed!

Some Cipher Mysteries commenters have speculated that Gerald (Jerry) Keane’s job at J. C. Williamson’s might have connected him to the run of “Under The Counter” at Adelaide’s Theatre Royal in November 1948. But is there any actual evidence of this? Keane doesn’t appear in the UTC programme, so why should we think this is so?

From Chief Mechanist to Caretaker…

As commenter Poppins pointed out, Jerry Keane was the Chief Mechanist for J. C. Williamson’s 1937/1938 production of Victoria Regina. He was also the Chief Mechanist for the (Melbourne-based) Borovansky ballet when they went on tour in New Zealand in 1944: so I think we can reasonably presume that he was the Chief Mechanist on tour with the two production companies.

Yet at the time of his accidental death in 1960, Keane was working for J. C. Williamson’s “scenery store situated at 47 Richmond Terrace, RICHMOND as a caretaker and a storeman, and his duties were to see that the premises were secure at night and the Firedoor was closed at night” (as deposed by his fellow theatrical employee Edward James Morgan of 1 Kennedy Street, North Richmond). Which, given that he seems to have started as a caretaker in the Camperdown Mechanics Institute back in 1915, would seem to have Fate bringing him full circle back to where he began.

Maybe the Borovansky Ballet?

So, what was Keane’s job at J. C. Williamson’s in late 1948? We also now know that the Borovansky Ballet were popular with Australian audiences and continued touring for many years after: two productions from this time were Terra Australis (1946) and The Black Swan (1949). So it is entirely possible that he continued in his role as Chief Mechanist with the Borovansky Ballet throughout this period.

Interestingly, the NZ national library has a page listing all the ballet programmes it has for 1947, which (as you’d expect) has numerous performances by the Borovansky Ballet. This includes this lovely cover:

The NLA has plenty of photographs for the Borovansky Ballet, of which this one is my favourite (backstage for Swan Lake, 1947, taken by V. Gadsby):

However, the corresponding NZ page for 1948 has no performances at all by the Borovansky Ballet, but many performances by Ballet Rambert in association with J. C. Williamson’s (from May 1948 to June 1948). The NZ page for 1949 has none at all for either ballet company. Yet even though Ballet Rambert performed in Adelaide in November 1948 (i.e. immediately before “Under the Counter”), I saw no sign of Jerry Keane in the programme for their performance there.

Perhaps some intrepid soul will find something similar to J. C. Williamson’s Salary Book 1933-1943 (first mentioned here by one of the many ghosts of Steve Hurwood), but for 1947-1949?

Maybe “Under The Counter”?

It’s entirely possible that someone will find Jerry Keane mentioned in travel records relating to Cicely Courtneidge’s “Under The Counter” production as it finished its mammoth four-year tour in Adelaide in November 1948. So… what happened?

The performances prior to Adelaide had been in Perth, though some performances that were due to happen in Kalgoorlie after that were unfortunately cancelled “because of the coal strike“. I should perhaps note that the Perth “Workers Star” described the (admittedly fairly lightweight) show as “reactionary twaddle“:

CICELY Courtneidge’s show, Under the Counter, in Perth now, is a dirty piece of boosting for blackmarketeers, and squeezes in a few reactionary cracks at the British Labor Government and the Communists. Stooping to this kind of reactionary twaddle won’t get the big theatre magnates anywhere with Aussie audiences. They obviously found the show very boring, it hardly raised a laugh. The night the Star reviewer went His Majesty’s showed so many empty seats the box office must have made a loss on it.

The main body of the company travelled by train from Perth, arriving on Monday 15th November 1948, just a few hours before the performance. Cicely Courtneidge’s accompanist Robert Probst (who later got into hot water for disparaging the quality of Australian orchestras) flew to Adelaide on Saturday 13th November 1948 to rehearse on the Sunday. (Though Cicely Courtneidge herself may have flown on Friday 12th.)

Courtneidge went shopping on the 22nd to buy some pyjamas to take back for her husband (no, I’m not making it up), and after the show’s run had finished, went to stay at a bookmaker’s house on Palm Beach with her main man Thorley Walters. The Sydney Truth gleefully reported:

When Cicely Courtneidge and Thorley Walters left for home during the week, Palm Beach lost two of its most colorful visitors. Cicely used to prance into the surf in a bright yellow brassiere top with bright royal blue trunks and Thorley had a pair of orange trunks which used to glow in the dark. Cicely was forced to put splits in the sides of her shorts as her avoirdupois increased (she admitted putting on a stone and a half in Australia). As the sun sank to rest below the purple hills at Palm Beach Thorley’s trunks became more of an illuminated address and the sight of his luminous posterior bobbing about in the briny is some thing the locals won’t forget for a long time.

Courtneidge flew to Melbourne on 29th November 1948; and later, after a farewell party at Prince’s, she flew to Honolulu on 17th December 1948.

Thanks to Cipher Mysteries commenter Poppins, we now know that Carl Webb’s close relative Gerald Keane was known as Jerry Keane. This was from the souvenir programme for a J. C. Williamson production of “Victoria Regina” that ran from 1937 to 1938 (the file is dated October 1937, but the front cover has the hand-written note “Auckland NZ 1938”). Page 10 has a list of the “Heads of Stage Departments”, one of whom is:

So let’s have a look at Jerry Keane.

Gerald Thomas “Jerry” Keane

Gerald Thomas Keane was born in Ballarat East, Victoria in 1889: in 1915, he married Freda Grace Webb (1896-1964, sister of Carl Webb) in Victoria. There’s a 23 Jan 1915 news report of Gerald and “the Webb sisters” performing in a local concert. This was also the year he lost his job as caretaker of the Camperdown Mechanics Institute, as per this letter of 14 Aug 1915.

It seems that it wasn’t too long before he found employment with J. C. Williamson for, as commenter Francis pointed out, there’s an article from 20 Jul 1940 in the Camperdown Chronicle that says:

Mr. Gerald Keane, son of Mrs. Keane, of [130] Manifold street, who has been on the staff of J. C. Williamson for over twenty years was in Camperdown on Thursday, on a visit to his people. Mr. Keane has had an extended trip with the Russian ballet, visiting Adelaide, and then Brisbane.

Gerald and Freda had three children: Leo Vivian (born in Camperdown in 1915), John Russell (‘Jack’) (born in 1917), and Gwendoline Mary (born 1919). In 1943 (when his son Jack died), the family address was 194 Stewart st, East Brunswick, Victoria: before that, they lived at 226 Glenlyon Road (this was their address on Boxing Day 1940 when they were witnesses for Roy Webb’s Will). As commenter Jo pointed out, Carl Webb appears to have been living with the Keane family at that time (i.e. not long before Carl’s marriage to Dorothy).

In 1944, Gerald (“Jerry”) Keane was reported as winning £10 in a lotto in Launceston:

WHEN certain lottery prizes were announced in Launceston on Tuesday, two very excited people were prima ballerina, Dorothy Stevenson, of the visiting [Borovansky] ballet company, and Jerry Keane, chief mechanist accompanying the ballet. Hear that these two visitors collected £10 each.

The Borovansky ballet company was based in Melbourne, founded in 1939 by Edouard Borovansky and his tall wife Xenia as the “Academy of Russian Ballet above a shop in Elizabeth Street”, whose studios then (from 1940) provided the home for the Melbourne Ballet Club. According to this page:

The year 1944 brought two landmarks for Borovansky: he became a naturalised Australian, and J.C. Williamson’s backed an Australian tour that took his company from Melbourne to Adelaide, Hobart, Launceston, Sydney and Brisbane, and then to New Zealand. From then until 1961 – except for occasional unfortunate breaks – the Borovansky Ballet was a permanent and popular feature of J.C. Williamson’s programming […]

Over the years, highlights of the repertoire included Laurel Martyn’s Sigrid (first presented by Borovansky in 1940), Petrouchka (1951), the complete Sleeping Princess (1952), Massine’s Symphonie Fantastique (1954), Cranko’s Pineapple Poll (1954) and, from Lichine, a full-length Nutcracker (1955) and the specially-commissioned Corrida (1956). Borovansky himself explored Australian themes for three original ballets, Terra Australis (1946), The Black Swan (1949) and The Outlaw, a 1951 retelling of the Ned Kelly saga – proving that Borovansky had become, in his own words, ‘a dinkum bloody Aussie’.

[…] Borovansky’s papers and a striking self-portrait are held in the National Library of Australia.

(PS: ballerina Dorothy Stevenson was the daughter of the Bishop of Grafton. So don’t say I don’t spoil you for interesting historical facts.)

Gerald died in 1960 in Fitzroy, Victoria.

Chief Mechanist

In a touring company (usually ballet or opera, but sometimes musicals and larger productions), the Chief Mechanist (or Head Mechanist) typically reports to the Production Manager, and handles planning, logistics and staff rostering, to ensure that each night’s performance does exactly what it is says in the souvenir programme. Hence Jerry Keane “accompanying the ballet” company on tour as its Chief Mechanist makes perfect sense.

Compared to theatre productions, where Stage Assistants (and sometimes “Mechanical Staff”) typically report to a Stage Director, the role of a Mechanist would involve wrangling not just the stage but also (in modern productions) flying harnesses, animatronics, and all manner of special staging effects. You can therefore think of the Chief Mechanist was kind of a techno-magician behind the scenes, turning a performance into a memorable production.

If you’ve previously looked at the final page of the Voynich Manuscript (f116v), you probably know exactly what I’m talking about here: the strange marginalia / pen-trials / whatever that aren’t Voynichese, but aren’t obviously anything else either. The middle two lines of “michitonese” are interspersed with crosses, making them resemble a prayer or protective charm (when reading these out, you’re supposed to make the sign of the cross when you see a ‘+’). The two michitonese words I’m going to focus on today look like “ahia maria“, which is what “Saint Mary” would sound like in Greek. But is that what they really say?

Parsing the page

To my mind, the initial challenge is working out not how to read the page (Lord knows we don’t need yet more speculative michitonese decipherments), but rather how to parse the page. Knowing that crosses are a structural feature of prayers and charms is a helpful start, but I suspect that differences in inks and letter shapes are also key things to bear in mind.

I discussed this page in The Curse of The Voynich (2006), and proposed that what we are often seeing here is a page whose writing had faded so much by the time that a later (in fact, probably much later) owner looked at it that they felt compelled to emend it before it disappeared completely from sight.

Along those same line, I’ve previously wondered whether the first two words of the pair of lines (which have been immortalised as “michiton oladabas”) might originally have read “nichil obstat”, before fading almost to nothing and being emended into their current state. This isn’t just a matter of ink density, as some people have suggested: for example, the ‘l’ of oladabas looks like it was written by a 15th century quill pen but the ‘n’ of michiton looks to me like it was written by a 16th century metal nib. And if you compare all three ‘a’s of oladabas, you’ll struggle to work out which is original and which is emended. (For what it’s worth, I believe the middle ‘a’ is original and the other two are emendations.)

So broadly speaking, I feel that the first thing we have to do is parse “ahia maria”, i.e. try to work out which parts of it are original and which are likely later emendations.

Multispectral scans

Though we only have (frankly shocking) quality multispectral scans of f116v that were left on the Beinecke’s file server several years ago, these are vaguely helpful here. Here’s what I was able to salvage from “Voynich_116v_WBRBB47_108_F.jpg”:

Though this is hard to make out, it suggests that the final ‘a’ of (what looks like) “ahia” wasn’t emended, but the rest of the word was. The first “ma” of “ma+ria” also seem to have been worked on.

In general, it seems that we can probably trust that the “ma+ria” part was what was originally written, but we need a bit more insight before we can come to a conclusion about the “ahia” part.

The History of Hail Mary

Given the prayer-/charm-like context, it would seem very reasonable to hypothesise that the two words might originally have read Hail Mary (in some language). But when did people start saying Hail Mary?

The Greek form (which begins Θεοτόκε Παρθένε, χαῖρε, κεχαριτωμένη Μαρία, ὁ Κύριος μετὰ σοῦ. ) developed independently of the Latin form “Ave Maria, gratia plena“. The latter took shape around the turn of the first Millennium, with Thomas Aquinas noting that the biblical original (“Ave, gratia plena“, from the Gospel of Luke) had had the word “Maria” inserted. The Latin form first appeared in print in 1495 in Girolamo Savonarola’s “Esposizione sopra l’Ave Maria“.

In terms of what forms of Hail Mary we might reasonably be looking to find, then, the Greek version is distinctly unpromising, while the Latin is very much limited to Ave Maria.

Yet if you search for medieval Latin charms that mention Mary, you’ll find a good number that invoke her name (e.g. “+ sancta Maria peperit +” in CUL Additional 9308, folios 49r-50r, mentioned here, footnote 155), often when hoping to ensure a good outcome from childbirth.

Additionally, “Maria Maria” appears doubled in a particular branch of Gaudendum nobis est (see MSS A-GU 30, CH-EN 1003, CH-EN 102, and Stuttgart 95, mentioned here, Table 4-6, which are from Engelberg and Lambrecht). We’ll see why this is relevant in the next section…

The Other Maria(s)

We have to be careful that we don’t let people’s prior readings over-influence our attempt to make sense of the page. The “six + marix + morix +” text on the same line is visually suspicious to me, simply because both the marix and the morix look a lot like maria, which all matches up with the rest of the line:

That is, the line could easily, when taken as a whole, be saying something like “six + maria + maria + vix + ahia + ma+ria +”, i.e. very much less than you might at first think.

Multispectrally, the morix shows signs that its ‘o’ and ‘x’ were emended, but the rest left intact:

Of course, “six” isn’t actually a Latin word, so that too is an interpretative reading of the line. Moreover, its middle “i” is shaped completely unlike the ‘i’s in any of the Mari[ax] words, so was almost certainly emended. So: if some of the original text’s a’s were later misread (and emended) as ‘x’s, might this have originally been an abbreviation for “Sancta”, and so read more like “S[anct]a + Maria + Maria + vix + Ahia + Ma+ria +”?

And again, “vix” (= hardly, scarcely, barely, only just, with difficulty, reluctantly, etc) is perhaps not a Latin word you might expect to see in a charm or prayer: its middle “i” is shaped completely unlike the ‘i’s in any of the Mari[ax] words, so also looks like an emendation. So this too is a bit of an awkward fit.

Your thoughts, Nick?

Well, I wasn’t clear on this in 2006, and to be honest I’m not much further along in 2023. It seems to me that we’re looking at this page through the wrong kind of technical lens, because we’re not really able to answer even the simplest of questions about its codicology. Multispectral imaging was a bit of a bust for f116v, though to be fair this is exactly what a lot of the literature points out for studying pages with different ink layers (you really need Raman imaging to separate out different inks).

A different approach, which I’ve proposed for a while now, would be to map the surface of f116v to see if we can detect differences in the depth of pen indentations between different codicological layers, and then pick out the earliest layer for its meaning. And in fact, in a post on BBC Futures today, this is exactly what the Factum Foundation in Madrid has been doing with the Archiox Project for the Bodleian library.

Who knows what intrepid codicologists might find hidden in the surface of the Voynich Manuscript?

Like most people, I’ve read numerous articles about ChatGPT recently. Perhaps the most entertaining was where ChatGPT (sort of) played chess against the #1 chess engine Stockfish, with hilarious consequences (if you’re a chess player, that is).

However, few articles manage to get the point across that ChatGPT is not an all-knowing Oracle, but rather something that is trying to please you by providing answers that are as realistic-looking as it can make them (rather than actually realistic). It’s entertainment, people (and definitely not real).

Perhaps if I gave some examples you’ll see what I’m talking about…

“Did Filarete have his own herbal manuscript?”

I asked ChatGPT this question, because it was something which I already knew the answer to (and had blogged about back in 2008, and also since). The right answer is that Filarete did have his own herbal manuscript (it was mentioned in fol.78r of MS Ashburnham 198, “Sed et Antonius Averlinus Philaretus lingua vernacula scripsit eleganter“), but as far as I know, nobody knows if it or a copy of it still exists.

ChatGPT started safely and correctly:

There is no known herbal manuscript that can be definitively attributed to Filarete, the fifteenth-century Italian architect and writer. Filarete is best known for his architectural treatise, the “Treatise on Architecture,” which he wrote in the early 1460s.

ChatGPT

However, our chatty digital friend then went a bit off-piste:

However, there are some herbal manuscripts from the same general period that are associated with Filarete or have been attributed to him. For example, there is a manuscript in the Bibliotheca Augusta in Wolfenbüttel, Germany, that is sometimes referred to as the “Herbal of Filarete.” This manuscript contains descriptions and illustrations of various plants and their medicinal uses, but it is not clear whether Filarete was actually the author of the manuscript or was simply associated with it in some way.

ChatGPT

Interesting, I thought, even if I didn’t believe a word of it. It went on:

There are also other herbal manuscripts from the fifteenth century that are similar in style and content to the “Herbal of Filarete” and may have been produced by the same workshop or circle of artists and writers. These manuscripts are sometimes referred to as the “Herbarium of Apuleius” or the “Herbarium of Pseudo-Apuleius” and contain similar descriptions and illustrations of plants and their uses.

ChatGPT

“What is the shelfmark of that “Herbal of Filarete” you mentioned?”

I still didn’t believe a word, so asked it: “What is the shelfmark of that “Herbal of Filarete” you mentioned?” The response I got back was a little unexpected:

I apologize for the confusion in my previous response. Upon further research, I could not find any evidence of a manuscript called the “Herbal of Filarete” in the Bibliotheca Augusta in Wolfenbüttel, Germany.

I believe there may have been a misunderstanding or confusion with other sources. While there are many herbal manuscripts from the medieval period, there is no known herbal manuscript that can be definitively attributed to Filarete.

I apologize for any confusion or misinformation my previous response may have caused. If you have any further questions, please feel free to ask.

ChatGPT

It’s certainly true that the Bibliotheca Augusta in Wolfenbüttel has at least one Pseudo-Apuleius manuscript, so it looked like there was just some confusion going on. Gigantic input dataset aside, ChatGPT really isn’t anything like Google, so it would be grossly unfair to imagine that it is doing anything like the same thing when it tries to answer a query.

So I decided to take a different tack, to see if I could flush anything out about what was going on.

“Are there any herbal manuscripts associated with Filarete?”

Maybe there’s a herbal manuscript out there that’s loosely associated with Filarete or his coterie that I don’t know about, I thought. So I tried to poke the bear again (but in a slightly gentler way than before).

Can you guess how ChatGPT responded? I think you can. As before, the first paragraph was fairly solid:

To my knowledge, there are no herbal manuscripts that can be definitively attributed to Filarete, the fifteenth-century Italian architect and writer. Filarete is best known for his architectural treatise, the “Treatise on Architecture,” which he wrote in the early 1460s.

ChatGPT

But you might find the next paragraph eerily familiar:

While Filarete is not known to have authored any herbal manuscripts, there are some medieval manuscripts that contain descriptions and illustrations of plants and their medicinal uses that have been associated with him or with his circle of artists and writers. One example is a manuscript in the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana in Florence, Italy, that is sometimes referred to as the “Herbarium of Filarete.” This manuscript contains descriptions and illustrations of various plants and their medicinal uses, but it is not clear whether Filarete was actually the author of the manuscript or was simply associated with it in some way.

ChatGPT

Once again, this seems like an historical hallucination on ChatGPT’s part. The odd part is that it reprised the exact shape of its previous hallucinatory answer, but referring to a different top-end library. So, I again asked for the shelfmark of this imaginary manuscript…

“What is the shelfmark of that manuscript in Florence?”

That’s what I asked: and, sadly, you already know what ChatGPT’s reply is going to look like, because it’s basically the same as before:

I apologize for the error in my previous response. After further research, I have found that there is no known “Herbarium of Filarete” manuscript in the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana in Florence, Italy.

While Filarete is not known to have authored any herbal manuscripts, there are some medieval manuscripts that contain descriptions and illustrations of plants and their medicinal uses that have been associated with him or with his circle of artists and writers. One example is a manuscript known as the “Herbarium of Apuleius,” which is sometimes referred to as the “Herbal of Pseudo-Apuleius.” This manuscript is kept at the Bibliotheca Augusta in Wolfenbüttel, Germany, and has the shelfmark Codex Guelf. 82.7 Aug. 2°.

ChatGPT

What to make of this?

ChatGPT is undoubtedly a brilliant technical achievement. But as far as I can see, for now it’s just part of the entertainment industry.

Here, I do wonder whether the format of the question I asked kind of loosely defined the format of the answer ChatGPT inferred I was hoping to receive back: and that it then hallucinated enough additional stuff to complete the gaps in the answer format to provide a well-formed-looking answer. So maybe the whole point of ChatGPT is that the shape of the question defines the shape of the answer, even if there aren’t any actual facts inside the answer. Something to think about, anyway!

I had been looking, as you’d expect, for something completely different: but when I found out that “A Takapuna Scandal” starring Hector St Clair was available online, I thought I had to share the link with all you lovely people. Filmed around Auckland in 1927, it’s a mixture of meta-infused modernity, bad puns, and panto pratfalls. But no white ties, definitely no white ties!

Pretty much everyone and their dog now knows about the mysterious white tie (marked “J Keane” or “T Keane”, depending how you interpret the markings on it) found in the Somerton Man’s suitcase in Adelaide’s railway station. And everyone seems to have a theory about that same wretched tie (heaven knows I’ve posted more than enough times on this sorry subject myself).

But just to prove that, like Homer Simpson, I’ve learnt nothing from that whole experience, here’s yet another white tie theory to throw on the same miserable bonfire.

Does the white tie mean that Carl Webb (the Somerton Man) was… a fake Mason?

The Craft Baker

Even though his father, baker Richard August Webb, was a member of Malvern Lodge No. 121, nobody has yet found any evidence suggesting that Carl Webb himself was a Mason.

To be fair, Freemasonry was always (and indeed still is) an older man’s game: a quick glance at the adverts in modern glossy Freemason magazines will likely yield not lifestyle tips but “deathstyle” retirement home chic. So it should be no huge surprise if, as a younger man, Carl Webb had failed to follow his father’s floury footsteps into The Craft.

Of course, I’d like to look at the member list of Malvern Lodge No. 121 just as much as anyone else with half an interest in this whole cold case: but I have a hunch he wasn’t himself a properly paid up Mason.

The Keane Mason?

Were there other Masons in his family? Researchers commenting here have been getting a little excited of late by the connection between Carl Webb’s late brother Roy (d. 1943) and the Gavey family via Roy’s wife.

The Gaveys had some bad ‘uns, for sure: and they also had enduring links to the Masons. (I’ll leave disentangling the two as an exercise for the reader.)

But I wonder… might Carl Webb’s closest practical link to the Masons have actually been via the Keane family? He was certainly close to the Keanes: he was, as Jo pointed out, living with the Keanes prior to getting married. And it was Carl Webb’s family link to Gerald Thomas Keane that famously made the hair on Derek Abbott’s arms verticalise.

It’s therefore entirely possible that Carl Webb’s nephew John Russell Keane was the original owner of the mysterious white tie, even if it wasn’t in the list of possessions returned to his family after his untimely death during the War.

So… was this also a Masonic tie? This isn’t itself a new suggestion, but that’s actually only the first half of what I’m wondering here.

Out Of Sight, Out Of Pocket?

Anyway, if you recall Carl Webb’s timeline, he seems to have disappeared in late 1947, very possibly to become invisible to the wife he was separated from (and who had got a support order served on him at his job at Red Point Tool Co. in April 1947, of which he angrily wanted to avoid paying a penny).

Looking at the suitcase found after his death in December 1948, there’s no affluence to the rag-tag mix of clothes there. Whatever he was doing (and if that turns out to have involved interstate car smuggling, I suspect few would now raise so much as a jaded eyebrow), it doesn’t seem to have been paying well.

Hence, I suspect that during 1948, Carl Webb was both out of sight and out of pocket. And despite having lived in Melbourne all his life, he ended up dead on an Adelaide beach. (Though clothed, not the raw Prahranian.)

So I wonder: while travelling round Australia, doing whatever it was he was doing, might Carl Webb have been passing himself off as a Keane family Mason, visiting from a Melbourne lodge, to scam some Masonic hospitality?

Might he have been passing himself off as his late nephew Jack Russell?

Contract bridge was a fashionable game in the 1930s and 1940s; columns presenting bridge news and puzzles were popular recent additions to newspapers. What was appealing was that bridge problems had a human, social side that, say, chess problems lacked.

Bridge columnists ran puzzle competitions for readers not only to solve, but to compete against each other. These puzzles ranged from moderate to utterly fiendish, making use of crazy-sounding techniques like “suicide squeezes” and “triple coups” (I never once saw a single coup, never mind a triple one).

It is in this febrile atmosphere of competing Master Solvers and bridge columns that we find a series of mentions of (very probably) Carl Webb.

1937

We can see Carl Webb – without much doubt, I thinkwriting into Norman McCance’s bridge column on 24 April 1937 (and 17 April 1937, 10 April 1937, and 03 April 1937):

He also submitted a solution into a different bridge column in The Age on 24 April 1937: and indeed, by the time the results to the thirteenth bridge problem of that year came round (10 July 1937), he had sent in correct answers to a very respectable five of them.

1946

After a gap of nine years, we again see “C. Webb” submitting bridge puzzle solutions to Norman McCance’s bridge column in The Age.

He starts to submit correct answers at the start of a North (of the Yarra) vs South (of the Yarra) for the South team. His name appears three times, on 28 Mar 1946, 04 Apr 1946, and 11 Apr 1946, before disappearing again.

There are no more mentions of Webb in the bridge columns. 🙁

But then again…

So, for a long time I thought that was the end of the story. But today, I took a second look at all of Norman McCance’s bridge columns up until the end of 1948, just in case there was a Webb mention there that Trove’s OCR had mangled very slightly.

As it turned out, there wasn’t: but looked at in context, the fact that the three Webb mentions in 1946 were right at the start of a North-South competition struck me as quite interesting. Might Webb have previously been submitting entries under a pen-name?

There were certainly a few pen-names, such as “Euclid” and “Dummy”, most of which I was able to eliminate. But one particular pen-name jumped out – “Interested” of South Yarra. This person was one of the five winners (out of 169 entrants) of the competition that had only just finished: they then immediately disappeared, just as C. Webb appeared.

What I found intriguing was that, at the end of that competition, Norman McCance mentioned that “Interested” hadn’t included an address when submitting their puzzle solutions. Which does sound like a Somerton Man kind of thing.

So, perhaps Carl Webb was “Interested” of South Yarra? It’s not a bad hypothesis.

I’d also add that there’s no mention in McCance’s column (which often mentioned Victoria Bridge Union events) of Webb in any pair or team there. So it seems likely to me that he was more of a bridge puzzle solver than an active bridge player.

One last thing: considering the good bridge ‘strokes’ / validation Webb must have been getting from solving McCance’s conundrums, I don’t honestly believe he was anywhere near Melbourne after 11 March 1946.