Homobonus is the patron saint of tailors. Sadly, my tailor passed away earlier this year. Like Homobonus, he was a good man, and he is sorely missed by all who knew him. Homobonus is also, by the by, the patron saint of the city of Cremona, where the violins come from, but no-one was ever fiddled by Bilgorri; let light perpetual shine upon him.
    Mrs. Lightfoote has been most disagreeable of late, I know not why, I find myself easy enough to agree with. She, on the other hand, finds nought but fault in me: if I stand, I should go, if I go I should stand. On Wednesday evening last I could stand no more of it and went – to an extraordinary meeting of the Stonic Lodge. When I say that this was an extraordinary meeting, I don’t mean that in the ordinary sense, for all our meetings are extraordinary: extraordinarily agreeable, unlike my spouse aforementioned. What I mean to say is that this was an extra meeting, summoned for a date upon which we do not, ordinarily, meet, which is once a month, on the ides, except when we don’t, as in March. Under ordinary circumstances I would be happy to attend a meeting weekly; with my wife disposed towards me as she is currently, nightly! I was, therefore, the first one down to the Yorick Tavern and had downed a quart before the Tyler arrived to prepare the upper room.

The official visit

Anyway, the reason for us meeting again, happily, a mere fortnight after parting, equally so, previously, was an Official Visit from an Officer of the Grand Lodge: a new experience for all of us, and one that I looked forward to with interest. The taproom gradually filled up with brethren and I, relishing release from the petticoated persecutor, the trumpet-tongued tormentor, to wit, the wife, gradually filled up with beer. I confess that, by the time we were called to order I was as full as a bull’s bundle and in the first stage of inebriation: Jocose.
    All went well to begin with, according to due form: we sang our opening air:

Gathered again are we, brethren of Stonic;
Firm and upstanding like columns Ionic;
Tuscan, Corinthian, Composite, Doric;
Strongly established on tenets historic.

The lodge was opened in due form and with antient ceremony at about ten past six precisely. The minutes of our last meeting were read, confirmed and approved and then there was a report and we were informed that our honoured (though uninvited) guest was without and demanded(!) admission. Lightfoote’s suspicion was aroused.

Proud as a peacock

In he marches, proud as a peacock and done up like a dandy, followed by a waddling retinue of jingling johnnies, straight up to the Master’s pedestal where he’s offered the gavel, which, happily, he declines. They all take their seats, he on the Master’s right hand, and we’re invited to salute him, repeatedly. He greets us well, as well he might, and we proceed to pass Brother Catchpole to the Second Degree, in the course of which I give my celebrated rendering of the explanation of the tracing board.
    We proceed, seamlessly, to the risings, the closing and the festive board: a magnificent haunch of beef accompanied by good ale and some excellent Burgundy, both of which Lightfoote partakes of liberally, wishing to prolong the pleasure of the present and blot out the dismal prospect of futurity, viz, return to Mrs. Lightfoote. The mixture of the grape and the grain advanced me, like Catchpole, to the second degree: Bellicose.
    We keep our speeches brief at Stonic: `talk short, drink deep’ is the motto, and so it was until our honoured guest got up on his hind legs. He proceeded to lecture us on our several failings, claiming that our demeanour was, in general, irreverent and our ritual, in particular, irregular. He made special mention of my contribution, claiming that my witty paraphrase of the tale of Jephtha and Ephraimites constituted an innovation in the ritual and suggested that I, and everyone else, might care to attend a Lodge of Instruction. At this point, Lightfoote, already feeling clamorous and turbulent, broke out into full-blown fury. I rose to respond, noting that the Worshipful Master looked a little pale. I reminded the Grand One that he was a guest and it wasn’t a guest’s place to tell his host how to behave; if he didn’t like us, he would have to lump us. Further, I reminded him of the address made to the brethren on installation night, which points out, quite unequivocally, that our end and aim is primarily to please ourselves, not the Grand Lodge, the Emperor of China, my wife, the landlord’s dog or anyone else!
    Like a cup of last night’s claret, it didn’t go down well. The Master’s face was by now white as a sheet and our Honoured Guest’s black with fury, symbolising, it occurred to me, the joys and sorrows of our chequered existence; I was moving, inexorably, from the bellicose to the morose: drunkenness in the third degree.
    Off went the Grand Officer, with his flashy flunkies in tow, leaving the world to darkness and to me. I begged the Master’s forgiveness, realising that I had severely damaged his chances of promotion. He, to my surprise and delight, refused to accept my apologies and called for a flagon of Rhenish. To general applause he reminded us that we were not all operative masons but rather free and accepted and that that surely meant that we were free to accept who and what we wanted. My sorrows were drowned! I passed, softly and silently, to the supreme degree: Comatose.
    I awoke in my own bed with the rays of that glorious luminary pouring in on me as the golden wine had poured the night before.
    Remarkably, I felt supremely well, fortune, apparently favouring the brave, but the best was yet to come: enter Mrs. Lightfoote. I fear the very worst, but all wifely concern she is, bearing bacon and eggs and a flagon of ale, stroking my hair, mopping my brow…
    It seems that the brethren who bore me home had informed her, in hushed tones of wonder and admiration, of how I had, single-handedly, fought off a band of brigands who were molesting a dear old lady. Was it so, she asked, was Lightfoote truly a hero? It was true, I confessed, simply, for women have no understanding of allegory.