While stories should be used sparingly, there is probably nothing more effective before a popular audience than the telling of a story in which the joke is on the speaker himself.  Thus: 

The last time I made a speech, I went next day to the editor of our local newspaper, and said,

“I thought your paper was friendly to me?”

The editor said, “So it is.  What’s the matter?”

“Well,” I said, “I made a speech last night, and you didn’t print a single line of it this morning.”

“Well,” said the editor, “what further proof do you want?”

Many of the best and most effective stories are serious in character.  One that has been used successfully is this:  Some gentlemen from the West were excited and troubled about the commissions or omissions of the administration.  President Lincoln heard them patiently, and then replied:  “Gentlemen, suppose all the property you were worth was in gold, and you had put it in the hands of Blondin to carry across the Niagara River on a rope; would you shake the cable, or keep shouting out to him—­’Blondin, stand up a little straighter—­Blondin, stoop a little more—­go a little faster—­lean a little more to the north—­lean a little more to the south?’ No, you would hold your breath as well as your tongue, and keep your hands off until he was safe over.  The Government is carrying an immense weight.  Untold treasures are in our hands.  We are doing the very best we can.  Don’t badger us.  Keep silence, and we’ll get you safe across.”

Punning is of course out of fashion.  The best pun in the English language is Tom Hood’s: 

     “He went and told the sexton,
     And the sexton tolled the bell.”

Dr. Johnson said that the pun was the lowest order of wit.  Newspapers formerly indulged in it freely.  One editor would say:  “We don’t care a straw what Shakespeare said—­a rose by any other name would not smell as wheat.”  Then another paper would answer:  “Such puns are barley tolerable, they amaize us, they arouse our righteous corn, and they turn the public taste a-rye.”

But punning, when it is unusually clever and spontaneous, may be thoroughly enjoyable, as in the following: 

Chief Justice Story attended a public dinner in Boston at which Edward Everett was present.  Desiring to pay a delicate compliment to the latter, the learned judge proposed as a volunteer toast: 

“Fame follows merit where Everett goes.”

The brilliant scholar arose and responded: 

“To whatever heights judicial learning may attain in this country, it will never get above one Story.”

Story-telling may attain the character of a disease, in one who has a retentive memory and a voluble vocabulary.  The form of humor known as repartee, however, is one that requires rare discrimination.  It should be used sparingly, and not at all if it is likely to give offence.

Beau Brummell was guilty in this respect, when he was once asked by a lady if he would “take a cup of tea.”  “Thank you,” said he, “I never take anything but physic.”  “I beg your pardon,” said the hostess, “you also take liberties.”