I HERE present your Highness with the fruits of a very few leisure hours,
stolen from the short intervals of a world of business, and of an
employment quite alien from such amusements as this; the poor production
of that refuse of time which has lain heavy upon my hands during a long
prorogation of Parliament, a great dearth of foreign news, and a tedious
fit of rainy weather. For which, and other reasons, it cannot choose
extremely to deserve such a patronage as that of your Highness, whose
numberless virtues in so few years, make the world look upon you as the
future example to all princes. For although your Highness is hardly got
clear of infancy, yet has the universal learned world already resolved
upon appealing to your future dictates with the lowest and most resigned
submission, fate having decreed you sole arbiter of the productions of
human wit in this polite and most accomplished age. Methinks the number
of appellants were enough to shock and startle any judge of a genius less
unlimited than yours; but in order to prevent such glorious trials, the
person, it seems, to whose care the education of your Highness is
committed, has resolved, as I am told, to keep you in almost an universal
ignorance of our studies, which it is your inherent birthright to
inspect.
It is amazing to me that this person should have assurance, in the face
of the sun, to go about persuading your Highness that our age is almost
wholly illiterate and has hardly produced one writer upon any subject. I
know very well that when your Highness shall come to riper years, and
have gone through the learning of antiquity, you will be too curious to
neglect inquiring into the authors of the very age before you; and to
think that this insolent, in the account he is preparing for your view,
designs to reduce them to a number so insignificant as I am ashamed to
mention; it moves my zeal and my spleen for the honour and interest of
our vast flourishing body, as well as of myself, for whom I know by long
experience he has professed, and still continues, a peculiar malice.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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