Have moved in order, to each other bound By a continuous and acknowledged tie Tho' unapparent, like those shapes distinct That yet survive ensculptured on the walls Of Palace, or of Temple, 'mid the wreck Of famed Persepolis; each following each, As might beseem a stately embassy In set array; these bearing in their hands Ensign of civil power, weapon of war, Or gift to be presented at the Throne Of the Great King; and others as they go In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged, Or leading victims dressed for sacrifice. For an ordinary book then the ordinary division into chapters might very well have sufficed. But this is an extraordinary book. Hath not the Quarterly Review—that Review which among all Reviews is properly accounted _facile Princeps_,—hath not that great critical authority referred to it _κατ᾽ εξοχην_ as “the extraordinary book called the Doctor?” Yes reader; All things within it Are so digested, fitted and composed As it shows Wit had married Order.[2] And as the exceptions in grammar prove the rule, so the occasional interruptions of order here are proofs of that order, and in reality belong to it. [Footnote 2: B. JONSON.] Lord Bacon (then Sir Francis) said in a letter to the Bishop of Ely upon sending him his writing intitled _Cogitata et Visa_, “I am forced to respect as well my times, as the matter. For with me it is thus, and I think with all men in my case; if I bind myself to an argument it loadeth my mind; but if I rid my mind of the present cogitation it is rather a recreation. This hath put me into these miscellanies, which I purpose to suppress if God give me leave to write a just and perfect volume of philosophy.” That I am full of cogitations like Lord Bacon the judicious reader must ere this time have perceived; though he may perhaps think me not more worthy on that score to be associated with Bacon, than beans or cabbage or eggs at best. Like him however in this respect I am, however unlike in others; and it is for the reader's recreation as well as mine, and for our mutual benefit, that my mind should be delivered of some of its cogitations as soon as they are ripe for birth. I know not whence thought comes; who indeed can tell? But this we know, that like the wind it cometh as it listeth. Happily there is no cause for me to say with Sir Philip Sydney, If I could think how these my thoughts to leave; Or thinking still, my thoughts might have good end; If rebel Sense would Reason's law receive, Or Reason foiled would not in vain contend; Then might I think what thoughts were best to think, Then might I wisely swim, or gladly sink. Nor with Des-Portes, _O pensers trop pensez, que rebellez mon ame! O debile raison! O lacqs! O traits!_