IN THE opening words of his Discours sur l'histoire universelle, addressed in 1681 to the French dauphin, Bishop Bossuet states that ‘When history is worthless to other men, it must nonetheless be read to princes.’ The reasons for this, as advanced by Bossuet – in essence, that history serves both as a theatre of moral example from which the prince may learn, and as a means of imposing sense and order upon what might otherwise appear to be the patternless chaos of the past – would have been approved by many classical writers, and were as familiar at the court of the Plantagenet kings of England as they were to become at the Bourbon court of France. Gerald of Wales in his De Principis Instructione (issued in 1216, though much of it composed twenty years previously) declared that ‘The reading of old histories confers no mean benefit upon a lettered prince, for from such reading the prince may learn how to avoid the various outcomes and the uncertain hazard of war, hard or successive falls, as well as secret plots and conspiracies. From past events, and as if from a mirror, instructed by scripture (tanquam ex speculo, scriptura docente), he may consider which such acts to undertake and which to avoid, which to shun and which to pursue.’ From David, via Solomon, Augustus, Charlemagne and Alfred, through to the presentday sage of Highgrove, the connection between the prince and the reading and appreciation of history is undeniably strong.