Brother Lightfoote's Journal The Recollections of an Eighteenth-Century Gentleman of the Craft DATE: April 2nd 1784 Feast of Saint Mary of Egypt WEATHER: Wet OUTLOOK: Promising

I met a traveller from an antique land, who said:
    I’ve just seen some quite remarkable masonry!
    Our visitor’s remark was hardly surprising as we’d just come from the Installation meeting of the Stonic Lodge – an event at which some quite remarkable masonry is usually guaranteed – but, sadly, this was not what he was alluding to…
    The man had been recently in Egypt. Lightfoote’s heart grew heavy for he had met such men before. The prospect of being subjected to an agonizing account of grotesque gods and impenetrable inscriptions whilst trying to enjoy one’s dinner was deeply dispiriting. In other circumstances, he might have fallen back on a ploy which has served him well since schooldays, viz. feigning acute stomach cramps and retiring to the privvy. On this occasion however, seated at table in the Yorick Tavern, awaiting a supper of oysters, spring chicken, rack of lamb, roast beef and pease pudding, all washed down with fine claret and with Yardy’s ’59 to follow, Lightfoote was loath to leave the room.
    I decided to try to throw him off guard. ‘You know how they built all those pyramids, don’t you?’ I asked. He took the bait. ‘No. It is a great mystery.’ ‘It’s perfectly simple,’ said I, as Brother Steward charged my glass, ‘from the bottom up. Bottoms up!’ My wit was wasted. ‘Doubtless you are correct,’ he intoned, ‘but the more interesting question is why did they build them.’ I drained my glass, drew a deep breath, and gave with what I consider to be fine answer to foolish question: ‘To encourage tourism. Be honest, you wouldn’t have bothered to go to Egypt if it weren’t for the pyramids, would you? Who would? Quod Erat Defecatum!’ His brow furrowed; for a moment he looked like my Latin master. ‘I think not, Master Lightfoote...’ Now he sounded like my Latin master. It was all too, too much. Who had invited this person?
    ‘At the period when we deduce the pyramids to have been built, there were no tourists, as such,’ said he, as though speaking to a simpleton. I answered simply. ‘My point precisely, but now armies of people go there, don’t they?’ I was beginning to wonder if I had not, in truth, hit upon the answer to the riddle of the Sphinx. Against all expectations, Lightfoote was warming to his theme.
    ‘How do you know how old they are anyway? When was the first description of them given by a reliable witness, which is to say by an Englishman, eh?’ I sensed that I had him on the run and kept chasing.
    ‘I’ll wager, Brother, that the pyramids of Egypt are not more than fifty years old and probably built on a timber frame.’
    I could tell that he was outraged because he said ‘I’m outraged! The Egyptian pyramids are mentioned in Classical Greek texts!’ The man was gullible beyond belief, as most classicists are, in my experience. I spared not the rod of my derision. ‘So is the Cyclops, and the Minotaur, and the winged horse and, indeed, the wooden horse. I suppose you believe all those too, do you? I am sorry to be the one to have to disillusion you, Brother, but the Greeks are largely liars, except for the ones from Crete, who are all liars, and Homer who had a lyre to lie for him.’
    He’d turned pale. I pressed home my advantage. ‘Why has nobody ever been able to decipher the meaning of those infantile inscriptions of birds and fish and men with dog’s heads and so forth?’ He shook his head. ‘Because they’re meaningless! It’s all a hoax, a fraud, a catchpenny trick to bring in the crowds. You know that the origin of the term gypsy is Egyptian, don’t you? Cross their palm with silver and they’ll tell you anything you want to hear. How much did you pay for your trip, by the way?’
    In reply no word was heard. He was as soundly beaten as I once had been for making castra go like mensa. He turned to the Brother on his right and left me to savour my victory and pease pudding.
    Mind you, I have heard it said that elements of our ritual are Egyptian in origin. Having said that, I have heard also that they are rooted in the teachings of the mediaeval craft guilds (so why don’t we have Freeglovers, Freegoldsmiths, Freebutchers, Freebakers and Freecandlestickmakers?), the Knights Templar (hardly likely, but it sells books), and men with dog’s heads on top of a mountain in Mongolia. This last is the most appealing theory to me, but not as appealing as a bottle of Yardy’s ’59. Port renders me poetic…

    All those ancient Egyptian inscriptions
    Seem impervious quite to decryption;
    But like DaVinci’s Code,
    They’re just trying to unload
    An elaborate, second-hand fiction.

    Note: Saint Mary of Egypt was a prostitute who paid for her pilgrimage to the Holy Land by offering her services to the sailors on the ship. At Jerusalem, the sight of an icon of the Virgin caused her to change her ways. She took three loaves of bread and went to live in the desert and when her clothes wore out she grew her hair to cover her nakedness.
    It’s all true, y’ know.