DATE: March 7th 1786 Feast of Saints Perpetua and Felicitas WEATHER: Muggy OUTLOOK: Sultry

Perpetua and Felicitas, I read, were Carthaginian Christians persecuted by Septimius Severus (a good name for a persecutor) at the beginning of the third century. Perpetua had a little baby and Felicitas actually gave birth whilst they were imprisoned, awaiting the advent of the Games at which their deaths were to form part of the entertainment. During this period of anxious anticipation, Perpetua experienced many visions, the most striking of which was one in which she saw herself in the arena, before the baying mob, naked, transformed into a man! She/He then engaged in mortal combat with an Egyptian gladiator, emerging victorious.
     There has been of late yet another spate of masonic ‘exposures’ and ‘revelations’ each more lurid and less lucid than the last. The sillier these things are, the more popular they prove, or so it seems, and the worst sell so well that one is almost tempted to pen one of one’s own – under a nom-de-plume, of course. I fancy that I might style myself E. A. Prentice, or Clay Ground, or Ray Flickering. Who’d know? One would have to disguise one’s distinctive style and simply substitute secrets of one’s own devising. The possibilities would be limited only by one’s imagination; in Lightfoote’s case, therefore, the possibilities would be limitless! Cowled covens and naked aspirants, all set upon a blasted heath, beneath a waning moon, followed by Dionysian debaucheries during which maidens are deflowered by the dozen. The Brotherhood Laid Bare – Shocking Secrets of the Freemasons Revealed, by Lily Pomegranate. A winner, I think?
     The Junior Warden of the Stonic Lodge runs an antiquarian book shop in a passageway just off St. Martin’s Lane. He specialises in ‘esoteric’ material – and one must construe from that what one will. Recently, a comely youth entered his premises and proceeded to browse, somewhat furtively. Bro. JW enquired as to whether he could be of assistance, and was told that he was seeking information about The Craft. Bro. JW, sensing that this was a genuine enquiry, warned the lad not waste his money on such stuff, assuring him that only way to discover the mysteries and privileges of Antient Freemasonry is by initiation into a regular lodge.
     The youth frowned. He would very much like to join a lodge but knew not how. He knew that his father had been a mason and wished to emulate him, but sadly the gentleman in question had died a soldier’s death in India, where his Lodge worked under a travelling warrant. Bro. JW was deeply moved. Having ascertained that the lad was of the full age of twenty-one years, the ostensible steward of the Stonic Lodge invited him to come along and meet the Brethren, informally, at the Yorick Tavern. And so, on the Tuesday night following, Master Toby Templar (an auspicious appellation, I thought) presented himself in the upper room wherein was gathered the majority of the members of the Stonic Lodge – self included. I was immediately struck by the fact that the lad looked more like fourteen than twenty-one. It was obvious that his cheek had never felt a razor’s edge; he was as slender as a reed and not above five foot two; his voice still veered at times towards treble, but he had with him a letter of introduction from the Dean of Kings inscribed in glowing terms of recommendation. Lodges need new blood and crabbed age must not discourage sprightly youth. At twenty-one I enjoyed good food, good wine and good company; in this I am unchanged from the man I was then and so I resolved to meet Toby on common ground. I got him a bumper of good London gin and a plate of herrings, just to begin with, and we sat down by the fire for a man-to-man chat. He told me that he’d been to school at Shrewsbury – a Shropshire lad! – before going up to Kings. He told me about his admiration for his soldiering father and his love for his widowed mother, both of which warmed my heart as did the gin, which had also served to sharpen my appetite.
     We progressed through a couple of capons, two bottles of fine claret, an excellent game pie washed down with a big, bold Burgundy, and some wonderful baked apples and a suet pudding, accompanied by a quite impeccable Madeira. Toby had grown quiet, perhaps because, emboldened by the wine, I’d asked him if there might be a young lady in his life.
     I fetched a bottle of Yardy’s ’59 and a pair of good sized glasses, but on pouring out the tawny elixir I noticed that the colour had completely drained from Toby’s face. The poor lad was as pale as death! I couldn’t think what might be wrong with him, nor why a number of my Brethren gave me looks which were unquestionably disapproving, but we got him to the window, opened it and loosened the lad’s clothing, whereupon he was revealed to be a lass.
     She, it transpired, had hoped to gain entry into our Lodge with a view to publishing a revelatory volume! Her bona fides were, naturally, fictitious, and how she had hoped to get through the ceremony of initiation one will never know. Following a good puke, she was sent off, blushing and pouting, in a cab. My health was drunk, repeatedly, for having discovered the impostor by the ultimate test of merit.
     I was late home. Mrs. Lightfoote enquired as to where I’d been and so I told her that I’d been dallying with a pretty young girl. She told me that I was drunk, which was also true.