But, after all, why should people insist on telling funny stories
at all? Why not be content to buy the works of some really first-class
humourist and read them aloud in proper humility of mind without
trying to emulate them? Either that or talk theology.

On my own side of the Atlantic I often marvel at our extraordinary
tolerance and courtesy to one another in the matter of story-telling.
I have never seen a bad story-teller thrown forcibly out of the room
or even stopped and warned; we listen with the most wonderful
patience to the worst of narration. The story is always without any
interest except in the unknown point that will be brought in later.
But this, until it does come, is no more interesting than to-morrow's
breakfast. Yet for some reason or other we permit this story-telling
habit to invade and damage our whole social life. The English always
criticise this and think they are absolutely right. To my mind in
their social life they give the "funny story" its proper place and
room and no more. That is to say--if ten people draw their chairs in
to the dinner table and somebody really has just heard a story and
wants to tell it, there is no reason against it. If he says, "Oh, by
the way, I heard a good story to-day," it is just as if he said, "Oh,
by the way, I heard a piece of news about John Smith." It is quite
admissible as conversation. But he doesn't sit down to try to think,
along with nine other rival thinkers, of all the stories that he had
heard, and that makes all the difference.

The Scotch, by the way, resemble us in liking to tell and hear
stories. But they have their own line. They like the stories to be
grim, dealing in a jocose way with death and funerals. The story
begins (will the reader kindly turn it into Scotch pronunciation