Brother Lightfoote's Journal The Recollections of an Eighteenth-Century Gentleman of the Craft July 4th 1781 Feast of Saint Elizabeth of Portugal Weather: Hot Outlook: Getting hotter

Upon this day in 1187, a Crusader force, commanded (badly) by King Guy of Jerusalem, was utterly destroyed by a Saracen army, led (brilliantly) by Saladin, at the Horns of Hattin. This decisive battle led, ultimately, to the return of the Holy Land to the people who lived there.
    The Fourth of July is also, as every schoolboy knows, the date upon which the rebellious American colonists declared themselves independent of the British Motherland. One must be careful saying it these days, but I rather admire Brother Washington’s initiative in securing the government of that great territory for its citizens. Nobody likes being ruled by outsiders, as both the Arab and the American have proved.
    I have recently completed a pilgrimage, far out of the city, to Kingston upon Thames, to visit an ancient Freemason. Worshipful Brother Gore is an excellent example of the Craft’s ability to smooth and polish the rude matter of which man is made. There can have been few ashlars rougher than Bro. Gore’s - one who, to the untutored eye, might seem to consist solely of superfluous knobs and excrescences – and though he may never be perfect (which of us will?) he is greatly improved. He lives now, with his memories, in quiet seclusion in the Portsmouth Road, rarely leaving his Tameside Tomi except to snare wildfowl or to frighten children - but he keeps a most excellent and extensive cellar!
    It was due to the extent and excellence of that cellar that my return to town was delayed far beyond the time that I had intended. By the time my carriage was summoned the dawn chorus seemed deafening. My host, scarce able to stand, bad me fond, fraternal farewell and then tottered off, cackling, into the mist that the ascending sun was drawing up from the river. The last thing I heard, as the carriage clattered away, was a terrible splashing and squawking, indicating that, once again, Gore had got himself a goose.
    The noise put me in mind of the reception I would doubtless receive on arriving home, when further feathers were bound to fly, but that was still some way off and so I settled down to fortify myself with a few hours sleep.
    It is said that, with practice, a man may refresh himself with but a minute’s slumber, though I prefer about eight hours. E’en so, we couldn’t have gone above a mile when my eyes suddenly snapped open to see another pair staring fixedly into them. We had stopped by the market square where a wagon was unloading. A ragged, hooded individual, bearing a number of bulging bundles, had approached, unseen by the coachee, and was peering in at me. As I woke, he spoke, ‘Good morning, Brother!’ ‘Good morning,’ I replied, perplexed. ‘You’ll be going by Percy Street, I take it,’ he continued, smiling amiably. ‘That I will,’ said I, for it was the truth. ‘Then we can go together,’ quoth he, clambered in, closed the door, and at that the coach moved on.
    Having divested himself of his various burdens he extended his hand to me. Despite his wild appearance his speech and manners seemed impeccable and so I accepted his greeting and, to my astonishment, was rewarded with the grip of a Master Mason. ‘Good Lord!’ I exclaimed. ‘Call me Nick,’ he replied, with a twinkle in his eye. I introduced myself but he knew my name already, and my address, and my Lodge, though I couldn’t recall ever seeing the man before in my life. I loathe and detest those who, when faced with such a situation, attempt to bluff their way out of their embarrassment by fishing for clues as to their interlocutor’s identity. Lightfoote is made of sterner stuff! ‘Forgive me…’ I began, but got no further. ‘Be not embarrassed, my Brother,’ said my new travelling companion, ‘I didn’t expect you to recognise me!’ ‘Have we met before?’ I asked. ‘Our paths have crossed,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I’m sorry I woke you. I’ll sit quiet now and you go back to sleep – and don’t let what’s waiting at the end of your journey disturb you, let me worry about that…’
    I must have dozed off again almost immediately and the next I knew I was being shaken awake by the coachman, at my own front door and quite alone. ‘What became of Old Nick?’ I cried. The fellow claimed not to know who I was talking about and before I could press the matter my good lady wife appeared and I was forced to steel myself for the dread onslaught. Advancing, grin-faced, she threw her arms about my neck, but not to throttle - to caress! She kissed and hugged me for all she was worth, tears brimming in her eyes.
    The reason for this unexpectedly warm welcome was, I soon discovered, the fact that news had reached London the previous night of a terrible accident at Kingston. Some poor fellow had been run over by a wagon and crushed to death. It was generally assumed that he had been drunk and so my wife had assumed it was me. Can you believe that? Anyway, Brother Nick seemed to know that all would be well in the end, whoever he was.