The Recollections of an Eighteenth-Century Gentleman of the Craft October 24th 1782 Feast of Saint Felix of Thibuica Weather: Autumnal: greyish, coldish, dampish Outlook: Unclear I bend my neck as a sacrifice for you, who abideth for ever...

Saint Felix was as faithful as his name implies, having chosen to be beheaded, during the persecution of the Christians under Diocletian, rather than surrender the Holy Scriptures that were in his care for incineration. The annals of history afford numerous examples of such sacrifice, where individuals have laid down their lives to keep that which they deem sacred from the hands of the profane. I am sure that we can all think of at least one… Is Lightfoote's name about to be added to that illustrious roll? We shall see.
    I attended a Lodge meeting recently, having partaken, rather freely, I admit, of Casbon's Cleansing Ale with a light luncheon at The Antlers Club (jugged hare, cold capon, pork pies, gooseberries & custard, Cheshire cheese), and enjoyed a glass or two of fine Hollands gin, together with some quite exquisite smoked eels, with my doctor in the afternoon. I arrived at the Yorick Tavern a little early, suffering from a bout of flatulence that was positively escharotic, to employ a medical term. What can have brought this on I cannot imagine but something had to be done before the meeting commenced. A Brother was to be raised to the Sublime Degree and I didn't want the sepulchral silence of the ceremony's central section interrupted by an unexpected eruption on my part. It took three large brandies to quell the storm, I fear.
    A digression: I knew a boy at school who could produce, a posteriori, as it were, Handel's celebrated Largo from Xerxes, which must have required quite exceptional muscular control. His name? Ramsbottom. I jest not.
    The lodge was opened in due form, etc., etc. Brother Secretary read the minutes of our last meeting, interspersed with what, for our Brother Secretary, passes for humorous comment. We then proceeded to the main business of the evening and the candidate (a weaver from Whitechapel) was brought forward to face the customary magisterial inquisition. He answered the usual questions accurately, if mechanically, whereupon the Worshipful Master enquired if any brother wished to put others to him. Lightfoote has long been of the opinion that no question emanating from the Master's chair may be deemed rhetorical and so I stood, saluted, and requested that the candidate be asked to name the capital of Pomerania. The Master obliged, but the candidate - up to this point, more of a brainy-breeches than master Ramsbottom - was unable to. I was requested, therefore, to supply the answer. I replied that, had I known it, I wouldn't have had to ask, would I?
    Is that unreasonable?
    Our Brother Secretary was able to inform us, with great satisfaction, that the city in question was Stettin. Somehow, I know not why, I found this anti-climactic.
    Later, at dinner, I was asked - by Brother Secretary (who else?) - what Pomerania and its capital had to do with Freemasonry. "Nought!" I replied, "for had it had Ought it would have had to wait until the Master rose to enquire after such intelligence." So pleased was Lightfoote with this witty riposte that the bowels overcame the brandy and the point was underlined with an emphatic exhalement.
    This seemingly trivial incident has set me to thinking. When the Master enquires of his Lodge whether any member has ought to propose for the good of the Craft in general or of his Lodge in particular, has one ever heard anyone do so? As with the candidate's interrogation, this is surely not merely a rhehearsed and/or rhetorical exercise. It is, surely, an invitation to the Lodge assembled to initiate(!) a discourse. It occurs to me that what may be the most important part of our assemblies has been allowed, by apathy, to atrophy, to employ another medical expression.
    At the Stonic's next meeting, Lightfoote intends to suggest, at the Master’s rising, that the membership of the Craft in general and of his Lodge in particular be reduced by half, on the grounds that there are too many Masons who don't seem to give a tinker's cuss about what they're doing and their presence discourages the participation of those that might. We are becoming obsessed with quantity and ignoring quality in our membership and this, in time, will surely bring the Craft into disrepute. Mark my words.
    Master Ramsbottom, incidentally, is now a solicitor - and doubtless as full of wind as he ever was!