The Recollections of an Eighteenth-Century Gentleman of the Craft April 14th. 1781 Feast of Saint Caradoc Weather: Bright and Breezy Outlook: Promising Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.

Caradoc! There indeed is a name with which to conjure images of a glorious past. I spent some of the happiest years of my boyhood in the county of Shropshire- Floreat Salopia! - and many of those were spent in careless play upon the slopes of that great Caer that bears the name of another Caradoc: a legendary chieftain who, the story goes, resisted the onslaught of the mighty legions of Rome.
    The saint's life also was not without incident. He was employed, as a lad, as a harper, in the service of Rhys ap Tewdyr, but blotted his copybook indelibly by managing to lose his master's greyhounds. How a harp player came to be put in charge of hunting dogs I have yet to discover. I can only surmise that the prince was short of staff. Caradoc shortened his own staff by breaking off the head of his lance (Why would a minstrel boy have a lance? Perhaps his father wouldn't give him his sword to gird on. Who knows?). Anyway, he used this abbreviated armament as a walking stick as he journeyed to Llandaff, where he entered the service of the bishop. History records that, later in life, he was harassed by Vikings. He was buried in the cathedral at St. David's and part of his shrine survives there to this day.
    One wonders what ever became of the Vikings, none of whom seem ever to have done a day's work in their lives. History records that they lived by pillaging the property of others. One suspects, therefore, that the descendents of Harald Bluetooth and Eirik Bloodaxe now form the backbone of the legal profession and the revenue service.
    No matter. A serious upset has occurred. Our Junior Deacon, George Guthfrith, whose name, now that I write it, looks distinctly Viking, is, or rather was, an ostler at an 'ostelry in 'oxton. The name of this establishment is the Nag's Head which is, in view of what follows, ironical. Some weeks ago, at about three o'clock in the morning, Guthfrith was rudely awaken assaulted, had his arm broke, was rendered unconscious, and all the horses in the stable were stolen. The animals' owners were, understandably, furious, and claimed compensation from the inn-keeper, many a Welsh Cob being promoted to Arab thoroughbred in the process, no doubt. Tidy sums were paid in settlement. The inn-keeper then took it upon himself to prosecute Brother Guthfrith for negligence and malfeasance. A case was brought before the bench and, to cut a long and lamentable story short, Brother Guthfrith lost: his job, his lodgings, his all.
    Now it is proposed, and seconded, in open lodge assembled, that he lose his membership of the Craft as well, having, according to Brother Secretary, brought the Institution into disrepute. Before this proposition was put to the vote, Lightfoote rose to his brother's defence, he not being present to defend himself.
    Lightfoote began by reminding his brethren that to fall foul of the law is not a crime. If it were, which of us should 'scape whipping? I myself, I confessed, had been guilty, in my distant youth, of purloining fruit to sustain me as I ranged the Marches. I had been pursued on occasion, but never caught and never convicted; nonetheless I was, and remain, guilty. Like Eve herself, I had stolen the apple! I was guilty of the original sin! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa! Should Brother Lightfoote not therefore be excluded along with Brother Guthfrith? The former had been convicted having done no wrong whilst the latter had done wrong but had escaped conviction. Which of us deserved the Lodge's censure more? Lightfoote was warming to his theme.
    I then reminded Brother Secretary that he had, more than once, been so inebriate at the cessation of festivities that it had taken the combined efforts of three, five, seven or more brethren to bear him home. Further, they had been constrained to assist him in the urgent matter of passing water in a public place. Brother Secretary, the while, keeping up a loud and spirited rendition of the Sailors' Song from Purcell's celebrated Dido and Aeneas with lyricks of his own invention that I shall not here record. Not only was Brother Secretary guilty of drunkenness, disorderliness and indecency, but half the lodge were accessories, before, during and after the fact!
    Turning to Worshipful Brother Treasurer, I recalled him telling me, with great amusement, that he had succeed in exchanging fifty Portuguese Moidores, at a rate of a pound and seven shillings, at Casbon's Bank in Cannon Street, knowing full well that they had been minted in Manchester. The fruits of this transaction, deposited with Berry Bros. in St. James's, had resulted in the halving of our dining by the provision of wines of the most exquisite vintages and was largely responsible for Brother Secretary's nocturnal emissions, both audible and aquatic, aforementioned.
    Members of the lodge might not be aware of it, but they had all, every one of them, benefited from the proceeds of criminal activity! The fact that they were ignorant of their guilt did not render them guiltless. Lightfoote therefore proposed that every member of the Lodge should be excluded from membership of the Lodge, with but one exception: Brother Guthfrith, who is our sole abstainer. I did not get a seconder.
    A vote was taken on Brother Guthfrith's exclusion and was rejected unanimously, its proposer and seconder both voting against it. The Lodge was closed in peace and harmony at ten minutes past seven. The brethren repaired to the festive board and the labours of the evening were not considered concluded until the Secretary sang. Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Remember our old Brother Viking?
He wasn't to everyone's liking,
But, when he was bored,
He set forth from his fjord
And created an image quite striking!