so much.

The dinner has no attendant amusement, no dancing, no professional
entertainers, and rarely lasts over two hours. Some houses have stringed
bands concealed behind barriers of flowers playing soft music, but in
the main the dinner is a jollification, a symposium of stories, where
the guests take a turn at telling tales. Story-tellers can not be hired,
and the guest at the proper moment says (after having prepared himself
beforehand), "That reminds me of a story," and he relates what he has
learned with great _eclat_ and applause, as every American will applaud
a good story, even if he has heard it time and again. At one dinner
which I attended in New York story-telling had been going on for some
time when a well-known man came in late. He was received with applause,
and when called on for a speech told exactly the same story, by a
strange coincidence, that had been told by the last speaker. Not a guest
interfered; he was allowed to proceed, and at the end the point was
greeted with a roar of laughter. This appeared to me to be an excellent
quality in the American character. I was informed that these stories,
forming so important a feature of American dinners, are the product
mainly of drummers and certain prominent men; but why men that drum are
more skilful in story inventing I failed to learn. President Lincoln and
a lawyer named Daniel Webster originated a large percentage of the
current stories. It is difficult to understand exactly what the
Americans mean.

The American story is incomprehensible to the average foreigner, but it
is good form to laugh. I will relate several as illustrative of American
wit, and I might add that many of these have been published in books for
the benefit of the diner-out. A Cabinet minister told of a prisoner who
was called to the bar and asked his name. The man had some impediment in
his speech, one of the hundred complaints of the tongue, and began to
hiss, uttering a strange stuttering sound like escaping steam. The
judge listened a few moments, then turning to the guard said, "Officer,
what is this man charged with?" "Soda-water, I think, your honor," was
the reply. This was unintelligible to me until my companion explained
it. You must understand that soda-water is a drink that is charged with
gas and makes a hissing, spluttering noise when opened. Hence when the
judge asked what the prisoner was charged with the policeman, an
Irishman, retorted with a joke, the story-te