DATE: October 8th 1787, Feast of Saint Pelagia WEATHER: Bright but cold OUTLOOK: Improving

Pelagia was a very bad girl who became a very good boy. Following a moment of divine rapture she abandoned being a painted harlot and became a plain hermit. Dwelling, dressed as a man, on the Mount of Olives, she/he became known as Pelagius, not to be confused with the well-known heretic who upset the Roman Church hugely and was therefore probably not all bad. His heresy, coincidentally, was the suggestion that humanity was not all bad. He is not to be confused with Pope Pelagius, of whom more at a later date, perhaps.
    Though the weather is sunny, confusion reigns. The Stonic Lodge is to perform a Third Degree ceremony. A number of Brethren have cited divers reasons for their inability to attend, some of which I find questionable. One informs us that he must attend his daughter’s wedding in Austria.
    How likely is that, I ask. Another is travelling to Prague to attend the first performance of a new opera by W.A.Mozart, entitled Don Giovanni. I’m not especially fond of modern music, especially this imported stuff. What’s wrong with Purcell? That’s what Lightfoote wants to know – but a lot of people seem to like it.
    I am informed that this latest offering is based on the story of the legendary womanizer Don Juan and ends with the old roué being cast into the fiery abyss by the devil himself. It doesn’t sound awfully jolly, does it?
    Stonic Lodge meetings, on the other hand, are just about the limit as far as jollity goes. For the performance of a Third Degree, of course, jollity must give way to solemnity; the jocose to the morose; levity to gravitas. The subject that we are dealing with is, after all, grave. Having agreed, in the Master’s absence, to perform the ceremony, I had gone to considerable trouble to perfect my performance of the ritual, and I believe that the minutes of the meeting will – if they are accurate – record that both Lightfoote and the candidate rose to the occasion as required! At the conclusion of the evening’s labours I felt both entitled to, and in need of, refreshment and made my way to the Yorick Tavern with eye resting on the prospect of debauchery.
    The festive timbers fairly shivered beneath their burden. Brother Skinner, our new-made Master Mason, is a Sporting Gentleman and, this being the bird blasting season, had seen fit to provide us with a delightful selection of recently deceased avifauna. A phalanx of pheasant and grouse was supported by legions of well-shot woodcock, partridge, snipe – ranged in Linnaean symmetry before us, demanding justice for their untimely demise. We fell to the task with a will.
    Brother Skinner’s talents range far beyond the destructive, or rather, with hindsight, one might say that he is capable of being creative in a destructive way, or vice versa. In fine, Skinner has a penchant for mixing drinks. I have always been wary of combining the grape with the grain (or anything else) but refusal seemed churlish. He had taken it upon himself to concoct a recipe especially for the occasion and, in reflection of his recent experience, proposed to name the mixture ‘Hidden Mystery.’ I am of the opinion that ‘Heavy Maul’ would be more apposite by far. It consists, I have been informed subsequently, of port, brandy, oloroso, gin and ginger. The flavour is not easy to describe. One must try to imagine a mixture of port, brandy, oloroso, gin and ginger. Initially, I was unconvinced, resistant, even, but after a couple of bumpers of the stuff I found that I rather warmed to it, and gorging on game birds is thirsty work.
    It was late when I got home but it mattered not as Mrs. L. had left that morning to spend the weekend with some friends in Sussex, by the sea. I made my way to the bed chamber, undressed and performed my ablutions without mishap and was almost disappointed that my wife was not present to witness this, it not being the case usually after Lodge meetings. I took to my bed, read a few pages of More’s Utopia, which never fails to relax me, and went to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream. I dreamed.
    There came a knocking at my chamber door. The sound was strangely muffled, as if coming from a great distance, from the beyond… It was eerily familiar too, for I recognized the rhythm of the knocks and it did not bode well. I rose to answer, and as I did so the fire, which had burned low, suddenly burst into leaping life. The room was filled with dancing shadows; the door swung open to reveal a terrible figure, cloaked in black and wreathed in smoke.
    The stench of sulphur filled the air. He stood before the flames and beckoned me to join him. I saw the grave gape before me, took a step, trod in the chamber pot and hit my head on the blanket chest as I went down. I awoke and lost consciousness simultaneously. I had been near to death, only in a dream – but in that sleep of death such dreams may come!
    There came a knocking at my chamber door. Unable to get up, I invited the knocker to enter. It was, of all people, Skinner. He lives far out of town, near Putney, and I had, apparently, offered him accommodation for the night. I had no recollection of this but his presence in my house at eight o’clock in the morning seemed to lend credence to his narrative. He had come to bid me farewell and to thank me for my hospitality. I had to prevail upon him to raise me, as I had him on the previous evening, whereupon I got back into bed – and stayed there.