Jane lies in Winchester—blessed be her shade!
Praise the Lord for making her, and her for all she made!
And while the stones of Winchester, or Milsom Street, remain,
Glory, love, and honour unto England’s Jane!
In the Lodge of Instruction attached to “Faith and Works No. 5837 E. C.,” which has already been described, Saturday afternoon was appointed for the weekly clean-up, when all visiting Brethren were welcome to help under the direction of the Lodge Officer of the day: their reward was light refreshment and the meeting of companions.
This particular afternoon—in the autumn of ’20—Brother Burges, P.M., was on duty and, finding a strong shift present, took advantage of it to strip and dust all hangings and curtains, to go over every inch of the Pavement—which was stone, not floorcloth—by hand; and to polish the Columns, Jewels, Working outfit and organ. I was given to clean some Officer’s Jewels—beautiful bits of old Georgian silver-work humanised by generations of elbow-grease—and retired to the organ loft; for the floor was like the quarter-deck of a battleship on the eve of a ball. Half-a-dozen brethren had already made the Pavement as glassy as the aisle of Greenwich Chapel; the brazen chapiters winked like pure gold at the flashing Marks on the Chairs; and a morose one-legged brother was attending to the Emblems of Mortality with, I think, rouge.
“They ought,” he volunteered to Brother Burges as we passed, “to be betwixt the colour of ripe apricots an’ a half-smoked meerschaum. That’s how we kept ’em in my Mother-Lodge—a treat to look at.”
“I’ve never seen spit-and-polish to touch this,” I said.
“Wait till you see the organ,” Brother Burges replied. “You could shave in it when they’ve done. Brother Anthony’s in charge up there—the taxi-owner you met here last month. I don’t think you’ve come across Brother Humberstall, have you?”
“I don’t remember——” I began.