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Brother Lightfoote's Journal The Recollections of an Eighteenth-Century Gentleman of the Craft
They were all right, of course,
and they were all wrong. The
first had got hold of one of
the legs, the second the trunk and
the third a tusk. They each had a
firm grip on a detail but no grasp
of the Grand Design whatsoever. I
know some Freemasons like that…
Saint Hilary had a very firm grasp
of the Grand Design. Though born of
pagan parents, patient scholarship led
him to be convinced that man was
obliged to put his knowledge of good
and evil to positive use, and if he did
so, he would be richly rewarded. I am
in agreement with Saint Hilary on this
point, though his name is remembered
now largely because his feast marks
the beginning of the Lenten term at
our great Universities as well as in the
Law Courts – virtue in step with vice,
as it were. Perhaps this is an example
of celestial irony; the worthy saint’s
name shares the same root as
hilarious, coming, as every schoolboy
knows, from the Greek hilaros,
meaning cheerful.
Reasons to be cheerful:A reason not to be cheerful, however, and a link to the ancient Sufis mentioned above, is that I have been the victim of a deception of elephantine proportions. Due to an unforeseen interruption to our succession – our Senior Warden is on active service in his Majesty’s navy – I have been asked to accept the office of Worshipful Master in the Stonic Lodge for the second time. I was first placed in the chair more years ago than I care to remember and I find myself looking forward to repeating the experience with great relish, if only because I feel that, second time round, I may actually get some of the ritual right! Being a Master is, perhaps appropriately, rather like being a schoolboy: one feels that, given another chance, one might make a far better showing. In Lightfoote’s case, it would be difficult to make a worse showing, but let that pass. I decided, full of boyish enthusiasm as we were in Advent, to purchase some fitting memorial to this happy event. I found what appeared to be just the thing – things, in fact – in a shop near to the top of Bond Street. Their speciality was pearls, but they had in their window a display of rather fine, carved ivory. I stepped off in the approved manner, entered the establishment and asked the gentleman (I use the term loosely) behind the counter, who was of Southern European appearance, if he might have such a thing as an ivory gavel. He looked me in the eye, leaned forward, and asked me if I was ‘... of the Brotherhood.’ Having been taught to be cautious, I simply smiled, whereupon he disappeared into the back of the shop returning, moments later, with a brass bound, mahogany case. He opened it to reveal a set of three, exquisitely carved gavels, nestling in faded blue velvet. I was informed that they were Chinese, of great antiquity and hand carved by master craftsmen. I asked the price. A figure was quoted which might have been an insurance valuation for the Crown Jewels, but the fellow went on to add, ‘in view of the “special circumstances,”’ that this might be reduced to a figure that was, by comparison, merely extortionate. Touched by this display of seasonal and fraternal goodwill, I accepted. Comes the night of my induction, I appoint and invest my officers without a slip. Flushed with success, at item eleven on the summons: ‘Any Other Business’ – I produce my surprise! Mighty is the approbation of my Brethren as the magnificent mallets are borne by the Deacons to the Senior and Junior Wardens. At the closing, I gave the customary signal – and the head of the gavel flew off and struck the Chaplain a violent blow on the forehead. I detected a ripple of mirth. The Wardens applied their gavels with circumspection. On examining the damaged article, Brother Butterworth, knacker and newly-invested Inner Guard, pronounced that ‘Horse bones always split like that, they’re very straight grained, d’you see? This was a right old nag and no mistake...’ I thanked him for his expert opinion, perhaps a little tersely. An excellent festive board began the job of cheering me; two bottles of Yardy’s ’59 completed the process. The following day, early, despite a slight headache, I was in Bond Street, bearing a brass bound, mahogany case. The shop was shuttered, the window empty. A passing constable informed me that the occupant had vacated the premises at short notice leaving no forwarding address. A happy ending: Brother Butterworth has a brother who’s a carpenter. By the next meeting, the equine had been mated to the dendrine: the horse’s heads had hickory handles – and they worked a treat. At ‘Any Other Business’ Brother Secretary (peace and blessings be upon him) announced, to warm applause, that my gift was valued by the Lodge not for its costliness or splendour but for the spirit in which it had been offered and that the gavels would be known, from that day forward until the ending of the world, as Lightfoote’s Lammers...
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