Clubs.
THE SILENT CLUB.
There was at Amadan a celebrated academy. Its first rule was framed in these words:—
“The members of this academy shall think much—write little—and be as mute as they can.”
A candidate offered himself—he was too late—the vacancy was filled up—they knew his merit, and lamented their disappointment in lamenting his own. The president was to announce the event; he desired the candidate should be introduced.
He appeared with a simple and modest air, the sure testimony of merit. The president rose, and presented a cup of pure water to him, so full, that a single drop more would have made it overflow; to this emblematic hint he added not a word but his countenance expressed deep affliction.
The candidate understood that he could not be received because the number was complete, and the assembly full; yet he maintained his courage, and began to think by what expedient, in the same kind of language, he could explain that a supernumerary academician would displace nothing, and make no essential difference in the rule they had prescribed.
Observing at his feet a rose, he picked it up, and laid it gently upon the surface of the water, so gently that not a drop of it escaped. Upon this ingenious reply, the applause was universal; the rule slept or winked in his favour. They presented immediately to him the register upon which the successful candidate was in the habit of writing his name. He wrote it accordingly; he had then only to thank them in a single phrase, but he chose to thank them without saying a word.
He figured upon the margin the number of his new associates, 100; then, having put a cipher before the figure 1, he wrote under it—“their value will be the same”—0100.