THE story of William Morgan should perhaps be salutary. The way it’s told beneath the portals of Freemasons’ Hall in Darlington is that Morgan was a 19th Century American journalist who infiltrated the Masonic movement, reported rather more than was perhaps good for him, was taken by the Brethren for a “holiday” at the Niagara Falls and there fell, as it were, from grace.

Arrested for Morgan’s murder, several Masons were tried and acquitted – or were, at any rate, until it was discovered that judge and jury were Freemasons, too.

The old order changes – no longer a secret society, they like to proclaim, but a society with secrets. The Craft opens the doors, or at least allows a pretty good glimpse through the curtains.

It may originally have been in the hope of interesting a potential new member that I’m invited to an open night at the St Cuthbert’s Lodge, one of 14 which meets in the Masonic Hall just off Darlington’s inner ring road (and close, as some like to say, to the Brit.)

A primary journalistic purpose is explained and accepted. A Masonic request for the column to be seen before publication is declined. That – fair play – is accepted, too.

I’ve been there several times before, but never for a Lodge meeting. There was a supper-singing do at the Licensed Victuallers’ ball – whatever happened to the dear old Licensed Vultures? – another at the Butchers’ Guild where the bulls’ lug beef remains utterly memorable.

Last Tuesday was different. Last Tuesday I got to go upstairs.

ABOUT a dozen guests – “strangers” they’re called, as they are in the House of Commons – are seated in a semi-circle in the downstairs bar. They’re quiet, seemingly apprehensive, like a waiting room for vasectal virgins.

In the corridors outside, brethren are tying apron strings in various shades of opulence. There are neck bridles – it may not be the term – and other decorations, too. Lesser brethren clink, greater clank.

Andrew Foster, for 26 years secretary of Darlington Rugby Club, announces that they’re going up “to do our funny stuff” and leaves us to a historical talk by Peter Willis, a Freemason from Hartlepool.

It’s Peter who tells the story of William Morgan, and of others, reveals that fellow Masons have included Len Hutton and Jackie Milburn, Oliver Hardy and Gilbert and Sullivan, but insists that Masons aren’t elitist – “just ordinary working men, as they are in Darlington”.

He might even have mentioned my dear old Uncle Tom, who many years ago was caretaker and chief clinker man at Tin Tacks school in Shildon and himself became a Worshipful Master.

“Fifty years ago I couldn’t have said any of this. I’d have been in big trouble,” adds Peter.

Those upstairs doing the funny stuff have received a formal written summons – “by command of the Worshipful Master” – calling them to the lodge meeting and requiring dark clothing and (inexplicably) white gloves.

The summons also lists lodge officers, many with substantial suffixes. A PPGSwdB may be supposed to have had something to do with sword bearing, a PPGStwd to have been in charge of the bar.

Goodness only knows what a PPAGDC might have got up to, but the higher echelons of the Craft do become rart grand, as probably they say in lodges down in Leeds.

Finally, we’re escorted to the Lodge Room, formerly known as the temple and still chandeliered, chess board-carpeted and ceremonially impressive. Members, visitors and strangers sit along the sides, rows of seats punctuated by desks occupied by officers who annually move up one.

It’s a bit like the parable of the rich man’s feast: go thou higher. Freemasonry is greatly hierarchical. Rhys Maybrey, this year’s Worshipful Master, presides. Andrew Foster – open, articulate, affable and engaging – holds the floor.

FREEMASONRY, says Andrew, is fraternal, non-political and non-religious, though some of the rituals have a biblical base.

They might also allude to the biblical text about light and bushel because for an organisation believed to be Britain’s second biggest charity – after the National Lottery – they still have an image problem.

The first question at interview is whether the candidate believes in a supreme being, and there’s little hope of progression for those with a negative answer.

Once admitted, black balls still pocketed, there are – of course – three degrees of Masonry. Birth, life and the other thing. There are ritual enactments – playlets, some call them – which must be learned by heart, embraced enthusiastically and are said to promote self-knowledge.

Yes, says Andrew, the novitiate still comes in blindfold. Yes, there may be a bit of trouser leg rolling, but that’s just to check that he’s not wearing a shackle (or in these egalitarian days, perhaps, a tag.)

“We don’t drop our trousers or ride around on goats,” says Andrew. If you think these boys dress up a bit, whispers someone else, you ought to see the Knights of the Grand Templar.

Nationally there are 250,000 Masons, including the Duke of Edinburgh. Within the Provincial Grand Lodge of Durham there are 37 halls, 187 lodges and around 6,000 brothers.

Darlington’s 14 lodges include one for the legal profession and another for commercial travellers, which still meets on a Friday – that being the end of a possibly nomadic week – though the lodge, as it were, is now wholly non-representative.

St Cuthbert’s membership costs £60, annual subscription £130, basic regalia about £50 on eBay. Outside the meetings there’s a chap with a drawn sword known as the Tyler. Off with his head? Happily, that’s just ritual, too.

BACK downstairs, we’re treated to what Freemasonry calls a festive board – a four course meal. There may not be butchers’ beef, but the pie crust’s top class.

Formalities over, the brethren are now shorn of their appurtenances. Since many wear black jacket and grey trousers, it rather resembles an undertakers’ convention.

The websites talk of enjoyment and of fun, of charity and of transparency. “Members are expected to be of high moral standing, and to speak openly about Freemasonry,” says one.

“Qualities include integrity, kindness, honesty and fairness,” says another.

Maurice Bartle, 40-odd years in the Craft, talks of friendships. “Some of the best and most genuine people I’ve ever met have been Freemasons,” he says.

Numerous toasts follow the meal, up and down like a masonic metaphor. Usually there’s a song, too, hands clasped like Auld Lang Syne, but they’ve decided against it. Maybe they’ve heard about me and The Laughing Policeman.

The evening has proved greatly interesting, the company convivial. So will the column be seeking to join the great fraternity? Well that would be telling, wouldn’t it, and there’s still William Morgan to worry about.

I’m not quite sure about those white gloves, too.