Enter MEREFOOL, a melancholic student, in bare and worn clothes, shrowded under an obscure cloke, and the eves of an old hat. Mere. [fetching a deep sigh.] Oh, ho! Johp. In Saturn's name, the father of my lord, Is this, breaks in between my wishes thus, Mere. No! no intelligence! Not yet! and all my vows now nine days old! Johp. O! 'tis one Hath vow'd himself unto that airy order, And now is gaping for the fly they promised him. [Steps aside. Mere. Have I both in my lodging and my diet, My clothes, and every other solemn charge, Observed them, made the naked boards my bed, what appears, at first sight, the mere sportiveness of invention, will be found, upon falling into the track of his studies, (which is seldom my lot,) to be the result of laborious and excursive reading. In the Alchemist, for example, the directions given to Abel, for insuring the prosperity of his shop, 66 On the east side of your shop, aloft, Vol. iv. p. 39. have probably been regarded as a mere play of fancy; but they appear to be derived from the very depths of magical science. Angeli secundi cali regnantes die Mercurii, quos advocari oportet a quatuor mundi partibus: Ad Orientem: Mathlai, Tarmiel, Baraborat. Ad Septentrionem : Thiel, Rael, Velel, &c. Elem. Magica Petri de Albana. A faggot for my pillow, hungred sore! Mere. To look gaunt, and lean! Johp. Which will not be. Mere. Who's that?-Yes, and outwatch'd, Yea, and outwalked any ghost alive In solitary circle, worn my boots, Knees, arms, and elbows out! Johp. Ran on the score! Mere. That have I-who suggests that?—and for more Than I will speak of, to abate this flesh, And have not gain'd the sight Johp. Nay, scarce the sense. Mere. Voice, thou art right-of any thing but a cold Wind in my stomach. Johp. And a kind of whimsie Mere. Here in my head, that puts me to the staggers, Whether there be that brotherhood, or no. Johp. Believe, frail man, they be; and thou shalt see. Mere. What shall I see? Johp. Me. Mere. Thee! where? Johp. [comes forward.] Here, if you Be master Merefool. Mere. Sir, our name is Merryfool, But by contraction Merefool. Johp. Then are you The wight I seek; and, sir, my name is Johphiel, Intelligence to the sphere of Jupiter, An airy jocular spirit, employ'd to you From father Outis. Mere. Outis! who is he?2 2 Outis! who is he?] Outis is Greek for no-body; here is an allusion to the trick Ulysses put on Polyphemus when he had shut Johp. Know ye not Outis? then you know nobody: The good old hermit, that was said to dwell And runs on wheels; where Julian de Campis3 him in his cave, and asked him what his name was, which Ulysses said was Outis. WHAL. 3 Where Julian de Campis Holds out the brandish'd blade.] For my knowledge of this person, I am indebted to the kindness and activity of my friend, F. Cohen, who rummaged him out from a world of forgotten lumber in the old German language. "Send Brieff oder Bericht an alle welche von der Newen Brüderschafft des Ordens vom Rozen Creutz gennant, etwas gesehen oder von andern per modum discursus der sachen beschaffenheit vernommen. "Es sind viel die im schranken lauffen, etliche aber gewinnen nur das kleinot, darumb ermahne ich, Julianus de Campis, dass diejenigen welche von einer glücklichen direction und gewünschtes impression guberniret worden, sich nicht durch ihrer selbst eigenen diffidens oder uppigheit unartiges judiciren wendig lassen. "Milita bonam militiam, servans fidem, et accipies coronam gloria. "Gedruckt im Jahr 1615.” "A Letter Missive, or account addressed to all those who have [as yet] read any thing concerning the New Fraternity, entitled the order of the Rosy Cross, or who have become acquainted with the matter by the verbal relations of others. Many enter the cabinet, but few acquire the treasure. Therefore I, Julianus de Campis, warn all who wish to be guided by a happy direction and desirable impression, not to suffer themselves to be misled by their own mistrust, or by the loose judgment of forward people. "Printed in the year 1615." It is probable that this Julian de Campis (an assumed name) was among the earliest writers on this fantastic subject, and that Jonson derived some information from his Letter Missive. Mr. Mere. Is't possible They think on me? Johp. Rise, be not lost in wonder, But hear me and be faithful. All the brethren Mere. For me? Johp. For you. Last New-year's-day, which some give out, Because it was his birth-day, and began The year of jubilee, he would rest upon it, Mere. What had he? Cohen, however, assures me that there is nothing in it respecting "the brandished blade." It is somewhat singular that the origin of the Rosicrucians should not have been discovered. Neither Paracelsus nor Agrippa, (daring dreamers as both were,) has any approaches to this singular sect, which, as far as can be discovered, did not spring to light till the end of the sixteenth century. It seems not unreasonable to conjecture that the folly had birth in one of those hot-beds, so prolific of all monstrous, all prodigious things, Gorgons and hydras, and chimæras dire," a German lodge of Free Masons: thus much, at least, is certain, that they pretend to the brandished blade, which is even now one of their hieroglyphics. A curious disquisition, I will not say a profitable one, might be written on this subject, on which nothing satisfactory has hitherto appeared. The Count de Gabalis wisely broke off just in time to hide his utter ignorance of it; indeed, he only refines upon the rude visions of Paracelsus; and Gabriel Naudé, who wrote expressly on the Rosicrucians, is loose and declamatory, and has little to the purpose. He notices, however, a work entitled "Speculum Sophisticum Rhodostauroticum," which our poet had perhaps seen.—But I forget-satque superque. Fohp. Had! an office, Two, three, or four. Mere. Where? Johp. In the upper region; And that you'll find. The farm of the great customs, Through all the ports of the air's intelligences; Then constable of the castle Rosy-cross : Which you must be, and keeper of the keys Of the whole Kabal, with the seals; you shall be Know all the signatures and combinations, What not? Would you turn trees up like the wind, The rock of diamond, to the mine of sea-coal? Mere. But how? Johp. Why, by his skill, Of which he has left you the inheritance, Here in a pot; this little gallipot Of tincture, high rose tincture. There's your order, You will have your collar sent you, ere't be long. Mere. I look'd, sir, for a halter, I was desperate. Johp. Reach forth your hand. Mere. O, sir, a broken sleeve Keeps the arm back, as 'tis in the proverb. Johp. Nay, For that I do commend you; you must be poor made Your glasses, gardens in the depth of winter, have |