Sit down. There was a
mule in Arkansas once," etc. How they do their banking without that
mule I don't know. But they manage it. I can certify also that if
you meet the proprietor of a great newspaper he will not begin by
saying, "There was a Scotchman once." In fact, in England, you can
mingle freely in general society without being called upon either
to produce a funny story or to suffer from one.
I don't mean to deny that the American funny story, in capable
hands, is amazingly funny and that it does brighten up human
intercourse. But the real trouble lies, not in the fun of the story,
but in the painful waiting for the point to come and in the strained
and anxious silence that succeeds it. Each person
around the dinner table is trying to "think of another." There is
a dreadful pause. The hostess puts up a prayer that some one may
"think of another." Then at last, to the relief of everybody, some
one says: "I heard a story the other day--I don't know whether
you've heard it--" And the grateful cries of "No! no! go ahead"
show how great the tension has been.
Nine times out of ten the people have heard the story before; and
ten times out of nine the teller damages it in the telling. But
his hearers are grateful to him for having saved them from the
appalling mantle of silence and introspection which had fallen upon
the table. For the trouble is that when once two or three stories
have been told it seems to be a point of honour not to subside into
mere conversation.
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