“Are we to go to bed supperless, then?”
“No, no; not quite; here are two specimens that will both amuse and, I hope, instruct us. To those who remember the Turkish tales, and have not forgotten the story of The King, The Sofi, and The Surgeon, the three maxims of Domitian will hardly appear a novelty. But without further preface, I will commence the monk’s account of the three maxims, for each of which Domitian thankfully gave a thousand florins.”
THE THREE MAXIMS.
There was an emperor of Rome named Domitian, a good and a wise prince, who suffered no offenders to escape. There was a high feast in his hall, the tables glittered with gold and silver, and groaned with plenteous provision; his nobles feasted with him—
“And ’twas merry with all
In the king’s great hall,
When his nobles and kinsmen, great and small,
Were keeping their Christmas holiday.”
The porter in his lodge made his fire blaze brightly, and solaced himself with Christmas cheer, every now and then grumbling at his office, that kept him from the gayeties of the retainers’ hall. The wind blew cold, the sleet fell quick, as the bell of the king’s gate sounded heavy and dull.
“Who comes now?” grumbled the porter; “a pretty night to turn out from fire and food. Why, the very bell itself finds it too cold to clank loudly. Well, well—duty is duty; some say it’s a pleasure—humph! Hilloa, friend, who are you? what do you want, man?”