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.
To this modesty the ingenious president replied with a politeness equal
to his address: he put the figure 1 before the 100, and wrote, “_they
will have eleven times the value they had_--1100.”
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