—Quem é, Thereza? quem é, Thereza? Não ouves passos, que vão pela serra Não ouves gritos, quem é, Thereza? —É D. Sebastião que vae para a guerra ....Ha quantos annos vós estaes fechados N'estas muralhas de granito e cal! Ah se soubesseis, Frades corcovados! O que vae lá por fóra, em Portugal! NA VOSSA JUSTIÇA NÃO ENTRA PIÇA NA LIÇA ? VENÉREA NO TÍTULO DESSE CAPÍTULO ?O os meus dias idos em contemplação! O os meus loucos sonhos que d'ahi eu trouxe! Fallava eu ás flôres, como se ella fosse: «Maria» eu lhes chamava, cego de paixão. Hei-de gravar-te em bronze e tornar-te immortal! Eu hei-de lançar o teu nome aos quatro ventos! Eu, o humilde Snr. Manoel dos Soffrimentos, Eu, por graça de Deus, poeta de Portugal. DO MESSIANISMO BACOCO AO MUITO MUITO LOUCO ...Lisboa á beira-mar, cheia de vistas, Ó Lisboa das meigas Procissões! Ó Lisboa de Irmãs e de fadistas! Ó Lisboa dos lyricos pregões... Lisboa com o Tejo das Conquistas, Mais os ossos provaveis de Camões! Ó Lisboa de marmore, Lisboa! Quem nunca te viu, não viu coisa boa... II És tu a mesma de que falla a Historia? Eu quero ver-te, aonde é que estás.....Ó JUSTIÇA SEM PIÇA ENROLADA NA TRELIÇA COM PELIÇA....COPULA COM COGULA OU SIMPLESMENTE CAPITULA NO ÓLEO FULA? Procura bem Anrique em Portugal; Procura-o na flôr das primaveras, Procura-o na sombra do olival; Procura á luz de todas as chymeras.E MESMO NAS QUIMERAS MAIS BERAS ...NA TRELIÇA DA JUSTIÇA A PIÇA COM PELIÇA COPULA MAS NÃO TRIPULA A COBIÇA ....nessa liça —Quem é, Thereza? quem é, Thereza? Quem é, Thereza, que bate á porta? —Olhe a Fortuna não é com certeza, Por isso... durma, durma, que lhe importa? (O vento uiva, uiva). —Não ouves, Thereza, tres pancadinhas? Vae vêr: é a D. Felicidade. —Mas as senhoras não sahem sósinhas N'uma aldeia, nem mesmo na cidade... Durma menino, a dormir Não soffre tanta paixão, Os sonhos que lhe hão de vir Afasto-os eu, com a mão. Durma menino, a dormir Não ouve o seu coração, E p'ra o ajudar a dormir Eu canto-lhe uma canção: Era uma vez, n'um paço sobre o Tejo, Um moço Rey... de lindos olhos verdes; (Senhor! se a luz dos vossos, perderdes, Tereis os d'elle que sempre abertos vejo.) Andava o moço Rey com seu gibão De prata branca, reluzente d'oiros. Tinha em anneis os seus cabellos loiros, No céu era anjo e cá... Sebastião. (O vento geme, geme sempre).

Uma lembrança dentro em mim se enraiza.
—Dou-te, bom velho! tudo que quizeres,
Se em troca me dás vestes e camiza.

O velhinho sorriu como as mulheres.
A quinzena me deu, e eu dei-lhe a minha,
Que na botoeira tinha malmequeres...

Ninguem a essa hora pela estrada vinha.
Tudo despiu, me deu: fiquei perfeito.
E eu dei-lhe em troca tudo quanto tinha.

Mas não estava ainda satisfeito,
As suas barbas brancas eu queria,
Comprar-lh'as era falta de respeito!

Comprar-lh'as nunca eu me atreveria!
Mas o bom velho o pensamento ouviu,
Que aquelle olhar excepcional ouvia.

Ó grandes barbas! que ainda ninguem viu!
Ó grandes barbas! como eram bellas!
Tal como outrora as de D. João, em Diu!

—Não lh'as vendo, Senhor! mas dou-lh'as, quel-as?
Ó povo portuguez! quanto és sympathico!
Ó povo portuguez das caravellas![116]

Cortou-as. Deu-m'as. Eu fiquei extactico.
Beijei-lhe as mãos curvado... E o bom velhinho
Lá se foi, a scismar... tossindo... asthmatico...

O sol cahia ao longe no caminho!
Não tarda a noite, já lhe sinto os passos,
Mas ha tempo: ella anda devagarinho.

Enfarpellei sem grandes embaraços;
A toillete tem poucos elementos,
Muitos remendos sim, rotos os braços...

Perdia-se o velho, ao longe, em passos lentos;
«Que nome tens, amigo?» lhe gritei.
«Manoel». E digo eu, «dos Soffrimentos».

Cahia a noite: com pressa caminhava.
Segui os passos deixados por Maria
Que flôres na mão, andando, desfolhava.

Não era aviso que assim daria?
O meu olhar teria percebido?
Que luz d'esperança a minha alma via!

Entrei no pateo, Senhores! Mas que atrevido
Irão achar o pobre esfarrapado!
Um mendigo velho... e tão mal vestido![117]

Pedi esmola e parei sobresaltado.
Emquanto alguns me enchiam a saccola
Um olhar lindo em mim era fixado.

E que olhar p'ra mim! tanta doçura evola!
Senhores, eu não me tinha enganado...
(Assim julguei então... a Vida foi-me escola!...)

Ella passou, de manso, para o meu lado
E murmurou o meu nome, assim, baixinho...
Disse-me depois que o houvera sonhado!


Tens razão, Anrique; mas no emtanto,
Quem soffreu como tu sem descançar,
Anrique, ou dá n'um cynico, ou n'um santo:
Não és cynico, não, sabes chorar.

Ouve-me, Anrique: n'esses céus existe
Um homem, Pae da Terra e mais do Mar,
Que fez o Mundo (por signal tão triste)
E os olhos, não p'ra o vêr, mas p'ra chorar.

Vá! offerece-lhe a tua mocidade.
Vá! vae soffrer por elle e trabalhar.
Ah bem sei que custa tanto, n'essa idade...
Mas que has-de tu fazer? Chorar? Chorar?[125]

Não tens na vida uma alma amiga
(Tu bem no sabes) para te amparar.
Só eu, embora curvo de fadiga,
Tenho paciencia p'ra te ouvir chorar!

Todos os mais, malvados e egoistas,
(Que tudo a Deus, um dia, hão de pagar)
Não te poriam nem sequer a vista,
Fugiriam, ao verem-te chorar!

A adversidade é uma maravilha
Que certas almas sabem respeitar,
Mas aos olhos dos mais a dôr humilha...
Ah quanto é grande vêr um rei chorar!

Ah pensa, pensa bem na tua sorte,
Cautela, Anrique, nada de brincar.
Ha outros males piores do que a morte,
Cautela, Anrique, vamos trabalhar.

Vae trabalhar por Deus.—«Mas como e aonde?
Não vos disse que morto é Portugal?
P'r'o trabalho quem antes era conde!»—
—Ai meu Anrique, não te fica mal!


Não me dizes que lá por Portugal
Andam as almas todas quebrantadas?
Vae, meu filho, vae para Portugal
Vae levantar as flores, já tão quebradas.

Anda, meu filho: vae dizer baixinho
A esse povo do Mar, que é teu irmão,
Que não fraqueje nunca no caminho,
Que espere em pé o seu D. Sebastião.

Anrique, vae gritar por essa rua
—Virá um dia o «Sempre-Desejado»!
Deu a vida por vós, Tu, dá-lhe a tua,
Esquece n'elle todo o teu passado.

Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seeds of rapacious licence and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November, before the first of the persons with whom this history has business. The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail, as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill, and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to their duty. With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested them and brought them to a stand, with a wary "Wo-ho! so-ho-then!" the near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it—like an unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind. There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings, and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed into it, as if they had made it all. Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter, when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in "the Captain's" pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet, and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols, deposited on a substratum of cutlass. The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the journey. "Wo-ho!" said the coachman. "So, then! One more pull and you're at the top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to it!—Joe!" "Halloa!" the guard replied. "What o'clock do you make it, Joe?" "Ten minutes, good, past eleven." "My blood!" ejaculated the vexed coachman, "and not atop of Shooter's yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!" The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative, made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of getting shot instantly as a highwayman. The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in. "Tst! Joe!" cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his box. "What do you say, Tom?" They both listened. "I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe." "I say a horse at a gallop, Tom," returned the guard, leaving his hold of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. "Gentlemen! In the king's name, all of you!" With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on the offensive. The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in; the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard, and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up his ears and looked back, without contradicting. The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation. The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill. "So-ho!" the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. "Yo there! Stand! I shall fire!" The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering, a man's voice called from the mist, "Is that the Dover mail?" "Never you mind what it is!" the guard retorted. "What are you?" "Is that the Dover mail?" "Why do you want to know?" "I want a passenger, if it is." "What passenger?" "Mr. Jarvis Lorry." Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard, the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully. "Keep where you are," the guard called to the voice in the mist, "because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight." "What is the matter?" asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering speech. "Who wants me? Is it Jerry?" ("I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry," growled the guard to himself. "He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.") "Yes, Mr. Lorry." "What is the matter?" "A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co." "I know this messenger, guard," said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the road—assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and pulled up the window. "He may come close; there's nothing wrong." "I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that," said the guard, in gruff soliloquy. "Hallo you!" "Well! And hallo you!" said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.

Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So now let's look at you."
The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist, and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger a small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of the man.
"Guard!" said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.
The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman, answered curtly, "Sir."
"There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown to drink. I may read this?"
"If so be as you're quick, sir."
He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and read—first to himself and then aloud: "'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.' It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, Recalled to life."
Jerry started in his saddle. "That's a Blazing strange answer, too," said he, at his hoarsest.
"Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night."
With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape the hazard of originating any other kind of action.
The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt, looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw, and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in five minutes.
"Tom!" softly over the coach roof.
"Hallo, Joe."
"Did you hear the message?"
"I did, Joe."
"What did you make of it, Tom?"
"Nothing at all, Joe."
"That's a coincidence, too," the guard mused, "for I made the same of it myself."
Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the hill.
"After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your fore-legs till I get you on the level," said this hoarse messenger, glancing at his mare. "'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion, Jerry!"

Se vires um homem de pernas mui altas, Olhos em guerra e cara de mau, Prostrae-vos por terra, beijae-lhe as sandálias, É Pedro Penedo da Rocha Calhau. Não haverá por 'hi quem merque (Gritava um homem na Feira) Vassouras da bigodeira Do Bernardo d' Albuquerque ? ou do vasco da gamma rasqueira?

Ó sr. dr., deixe ! Isto é a vêr se os policias me levam ás 
costas. » 

E**''levaram ; — e quando chegou ao limiar da esquadra, 
pQBsando os policias que o « pobre Horta » — coitado 1 — 
estava com « um accidente », o Horta perfllou-se muito perfilado,

 e disse-lhes assim muito cortez : 

— Quanto é acorrida, ó camaradas?

Tudo isto, por 6 a 8 mil réis por meí. cada um ! Pa- 
gava cada um oito tostões á criada, dois tostões cada 
um á servente que fazia os recados externos, e seis 
vinténs ao engraxador, — quasi sempre um aprendiz 
de sapateiro que ás G da mantiS, e ás vezes antes, já 
estava á poria do nosso quarto, rente á qual, da banda 
de fora, púnhamos o calçado todas as noites. 

Ensaiador, esse anno, o D. Affonso de Serpa, actual Marquez 
de Gouveia. Principaes interpretes : Pessanha; Netto Parra 
(que imitava com a bocca uma infinidade de pássaros e de 
quadrúpedes, e também vários instrumentos, incluindo a gaita- 
de-foUes!); João Taborda de Magalhães, que fez o papel de 
César; Cupertino; etc, etc. D'um dueto de Parra e Cupertino, 
extasiados ouvindo ao longe a voz da mulher amada, esta 
quadra de João Penha : 

Que musica tão bella ! 
Eriçam-se os cabellos ! 
Excede a charamela 
Da sala dos capellos ! 
 entre parenthesis : esta charamela que toca nas festas de 
capello, e também nos ac íos grandes no intervallo dos « argu- 
mentos », é soprada por charameleiros — todos de casaca ! 
Gonta-se que o Barjona velho, que estava uma vez a presidir 
a umas « theses » de Medicina, aborrecido com as asneiras do 
arguente e depois com as do candidato, com um murro tombou 
a ampulheta que tinha deante, e fechou o chorrilho d'esta 
maneira : « Postas asneiras, seguem-se asneiras. Toque lâ a 
musical 

BY THE POWER OF PRAXE OR PRAXIS THE ALUMNI MUST to embrace every method, consistent with the good of Masonry and their own honor, to promote a social AND SEXUAL intercourse with persons whom they so highly esteem as brethren and friends HOW TO BE A MASTER IS A SEXUAL AND SOCIAL SOCRATIC EDUCATIONAL PRACTICAL JOKE TO THE JUVENTUS CU ROMPIDA VON ATHENAS ...PÕE-TE DE GENOUX PORTUCALÉ DIZIA O GRAN FILÓSOFO GERMANO-ROMÂNICO VON MANAUS OU ERA VON MAMINHAS?it is our opinion the first part of the above vote ANTI-PRAXIS is premature; they not considering the Laws of Masons require irregular Masons to make a proper submission DE CU PRÓ AR AO ESTILO MECA OU AFOGADO AO ESTYLO MECO LE MEC .., ÊNFASE NA SUBMISSÃO OU SUB MISSÃO SUB SOTAINA EM POSITION MISSIONARIUS ORDINARIUS before they can be received. — The last Part OR PARTY IS LIKE ISIS disrespectful and injurious to this GranD KAHLIFA Lodge

The asperity of the controversy was softened. 

The storm was broken. 

Still, dark and threatening- clouds obscured the prospect. 
The future was uncertain.

 Nothing definite had been reached. 
And having unsuccessfully exhausted its powers of endurance 

in 
efforts to establish more amicable relations, 

and to effect a fraternal 
reconciliation of its difficulties 

with the Brethren of the St. John's 
Grand Lodge, the Lodge sought the aid 

of the three Military Lodges , 
attached to foreign regiments then stationed in Boston,

 in a petition to the Grand Lodge of Scotland 

for the appointment, in virtue 
of its own inherent and undoubted right, 

of a Grand Master for the 
Province, clothed with the ample powers of an officer 

of that distin- 
guished rank. 

The co-operation of the officers of these Lodges 
was probably the more readily obtained by reason of the favor- 
able consideration in which the young and popular Warren 
was held by the military men of that day.

 One of the reasons 
urged by the petitioners in support of their petition, was the neces- 
sity for a less precarious and uncertain protection than they then 
enjoyed, of the rights of Brethren 

who had enrolled themselves 
and were in symPathy with the so-called

 Auciait Masons ; to which relation I shall hereafter 

have occasion to refer more in detail

  The 
schismatic body originated with some restless Brethren in London, 
who, in 1738, becoming dissatisfied with certain measures of the 
established Grand Lodge of England, seceded from that body and 
organized themselves into independent Lodges, under what they, 
without authority, claimed to be the York Constitutions. They 
were originally few in number and of little influence in the 

fraternity ; and had they been left to themselves, would probably have 
soon abandoned their unlawful proceedings, and relapsed into the 
insignificance from which they sprung. But unfortunately, and as 
the event proved, unwisely, the Grand Lodge at London publicly 
denounced them, and then undertook to exclude them from its 
Lodges, by an unauthorized alteration of the ritual. This gave to 
the recalcitrant Brethren an advantage of which they were but 
too ready to avail themselves ; and calling to their aid the assistance 
of an Irish masonic adventurer, of some tact and ability, and in- 
creasing the number of their Lodges, they in turn denounced their 
mother Grand Lodge as having violated the established landmarks 
and corrupted the ancient ritual of the Order ; thereby resolving 
itself into a Grand Lodge of Modem 

ALSO CALLED MODERN Masons. 

This denunciation 
was followed by the erection in London, of the irregular and clan- 

^ destine body which long filled a prominent and important place 
in masonic history, as the Grand Lodge of Ancient Masons. 

In order to place this factitious distinction of Ancient and ATodcrn 
Masons in its true light, it may be proper to say that these terms are 
not to be received in their common and ordinary acceptation. All 
legitimate Masonry, wherever practiced in the Lodges, at that or 
the present time, is equally Ancient, by whatever name it may be 
called. It all has a common origin, and is derived from a common 
source, whether that source be the valley of the Nile, or Eleusis, 
or Tyre, or Jerusalem — a pre-historic or a modern age. The 
Masonry of England, of Scotland, of Ireland, and of America, and 

wherever else it is to be found in its purity, is identical. The only 
difference in the antiquity of either, is in the comparative date of 
its introduction and organization in their respective territories. 

But to return. The Grand Lodge of Scotland never officially 
endorsed or fully sympathized with the disturbing elements in 
England ; nor did it approve of or sanction the changes introduced 
into the ritual by the Grand Lodge of that kingdom. Neither did 
it justify or uphold the recusant Brethren in their irregular pro- - 
ceedings. On the contrary, it occupied neutral ground, and 
recognized both parties, irrespective of their local dissensions. 
Lawrie. in his History of Masonry in Scotland, elucidates this point 
in the following words : — 

" In the general History of Free Masonry, we have already given an account of the 
schism which took place in the Grand Lodge of England, by the secession of a number 
of men, who, calling themselves Ancient Masons, invidiously bestowed upon the Grand 
Lodge the appellation of Moderns. These Ancient Masons, who certainly merit blame, 
as the active promoters of the schism, chose for their Grand Master, in the year 1772, , 
his Grace the Duke of Athol, who was then Grand Master elect for Scotland." (It is 
believed that anterior to this date, this Grand Lodge had been without an actual Grand 
Master, that place having been filled by Laurence Dermott, under the assumed title 
of Dei)uty Grand Master.) " From this circumstance, more than from any particular 
predilection, on the part of the Grand Lodge of Scotland for the Ancient Masons, the 
most friendly intercourse has always subsisted between the two Grand Lodges ; and 
the Scottish Masons, from their union with the Ancients, imbibed the same prejudices 
again.st the Grand Lodge of England, under the Prince of Wales and Lord Moira, 
arising merely from some trifling innovations in ceremonial observances, which the 
Grand Lodge of England had inconsiderately authorized. From these causes the Grand 
Lodges of Scotland and England, though the brethren of both were admitted into each 
others' Lodges, never cherished that mutual and friendly intercourse which, by the prin- 
ciples of Freemasonry, they were bound to institute and reserve.