DATE: August 10th, 1787 Feast of Saint Lawrence WEATHER: Close OUTLOOK: Distant

Saint Laurence is the patron saint of cooks. This honour appears to have been bestowed on him because he was, according to tradition, martyred by being roasted on a gridiron. That claim is, however, highly suspect. Laurence was a Roman, and Romans were invariably put to death by the sword, indeed they often put themselves to death by the sword!
     Laurence’s gridiron appears to have been borrowed from Saint Vincent of Saragossa; the Spanish, as we know, being depressingly inventive when it comes to torture.
     By coincidence, Saint Vincent has been adopted in Burgundy as the patron saint of wine-makers due to his supposed ability to prevent frost from attacking their vines.
     Good food, good drink and good company: where would one be without them? Wales, presumably… I jest! My point is that one would not be at the festive board of a Masonic Lodge; certainly not one worthy of the name. The Stonic lodge is fifty years old this year, having been formed in 1737, the year of the initiation of the Prince of Wales! To mark this milestone, I have been commissioned to write a brief history which I intend to entitle pithily: Stonic Lodge - The First Fifty Years. A cursory glance through our minute books indicates that, by the time I complete this task, it will probably be time for someone to embark on Stonic Lodge – The First Hundred Years. Much of the material is missing and that which remains is largely indecipherable. I shall simply have to fill in the gaps as best I can, as did Geoffrey of Monmouth whose History Of The Kings Of Britain (1136) remains one of the few genuinely entertaining historical works ever produced. In more recent years, certainly when I was at school, imagination and creativity were violently suppressed by History masters and the effect of their cruel regime on published material has been lamentable, e.g. Edmund Burke.
     One interesting document that has come to light amidst the faded fragments of our mouldering minutiae, however, is the menu for the supper held after the Lodge’s consecration. This was held at the Yorick Tavern in Drury Lane, where the Lodge still dines, and we have three members still who were present on that occasion. Sadly, none of them has a clear recollection of the event, but a mere glance at the list of wines provided is probably all that is necessary to explain their collective amnesia. I wondered, briefly, if it would be wise to repeat such a Dionysian debauch, then I pulled myself together. What would our founders think of us were we not able to emulate their efforts? We should surely be endeavouring to exceed them.
     I arranged to meet with the landlord to discuss arrangements. Among the delicacies offered at that first, festive feast, were poached turbot, cold salmon, buttered lobsters, oysters, scallops, raw herrings flamed in gin (still the traditional entrée on installation night: guaranteed to sort the apprentices from the craftsmen!), capon, pheasant, guinea fowl, quails, snipe, woodcock, pigeon pie (a great favourite of mine), partridge, rack of Wicklow lamb, ribs of Scotch beef, a suckling pig, divers pies, puddings, collops and confections, jellies (we used to have a beautiful, copper jelly mould with the square and compasses on top but nobody knows what’s become of it. It’ll doubtless turn up somewhere, someday), sweetbreads, sweetmeats, sweets and – to cap it all – a boar’s head.
     The wines proved more of a problem. The vintages available in ’37 have long since disappeared down a thousand thirsty throats or are now so valuable that they have mutated from objects of instant gratification into long term investments.. I am told that some bottles from the end of the last century change hands for up to ten guineas and that their value will continue to rise – just so long as they’re never drunk. What’s the point of that? An undrinkable bottle of wine is worthless! It’s also very sad, but I digress…
     The day grew near. Many guests had been invited and there was an air of eager anticipation. I sent a boy with a note to tell our host that we would be dining no less than forty-seven.
     As I strode forth to make my way to the meeting the boy returned with a note informing me that there were sufficient victuals for a hundred, possibly a hundred and twenty, and that what had been ordered must be paid for. Suddenly I lost my appetite.
     Our Senior Warden appeared at my side. He’s an excellent fellow with a rather odd name, Brother Weighell (who pronounces himself Well, which I’m sure can’t be right. He claims it’s Cornish and who am I to argue?) is Something in The City. I’ve never really understood what these City types do, other than hang around coffee houses and conjure vast fortunes out of the aether, whence they usually disappear again after various bankers and brokers have taken ten per cent. Be that as it may, Brother Weighell is an hundred per cent mason: one to whom the burdened heart may pour forth its sorrow, and so I did. How was I going to justify to the members and their guests the waste of half our banquet? I suppose that I could make good the excess cost but it would be impossible to conceal such an act from Mrs. Lightfoote and her wrath would be awesome. Woe, woe and thrice woe…
     Weighell took this in his stride, quite literally. He bad me put my fears aside, say nothing and all would be well, then he marched off ahead, whistling like a link boy.
     I spent the meeting amid mirth and merriment, in a state of deep gloom. Whenever the Senior Warden caught my eye, however, he grinned broadly at me. We finally filed out to dinner. There was the feast laid out, filling the entire inn, the tables fairly groaning beneath its weight. The Worshipful Master articulated the thoughts of all, ‘We’ll never manage to eat all this, Lightfoote!’ Before I could frame a response, Brother Weighell’s voice rang out. ‘True, Worshipful Master, but Brother Lightfoote, ever mindful of the fact that Charity is that virtue closest to a Freemason’s heart, has arranged for appropriate assistance!’ He then signalled our Tyler, who obviously primed, to throw open the door and admit a stream of the parish’s widows, orphans, aged and infirm.
     There was a cheer from the brethren, who immediately proceeded to wait upon our unexpected guests who set to with a will.
     Weighell winked. Lightfoote was humbled, but happy. All’s Weighell that ends well, what?