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Abridged.
A pretence at a literal understanding — or misunderstanding — is a favorite form of jesting. Charles Lamb’s serious reply to a gushing mother who asked him, “And now, Mr Lamb, how do you like children?” “B—b—boiled, madam,” is a classic instance.
Sheridan, reproving his promising son Tom on the irregular life he was leading, ended by saying, “My dear Tom, really it is time for you to take a wife.” “With all my heart,” replied the dutiful son; “whose wife shall I take?” Sydney Smith’s jest when advised by his doctor to take a walk upon an empty stomach belongs to the same class: “Upon whose?” he asked. And very similar, too, is Leigh Hunt’s. A lady at dessert asked if he would not venture on an orange. “Madam,” he replied, “I should be happy to do so, but I am afraid I should tumble off.”
“How does your horse answer?” inquired the Duke of Cumberland of George Selwyn. “I really don’t know,” George replied: “I have never asked him a question.”
A council of ministers having met on some important questions, a nobleman inquired of Talleyrand, “What has passed at the council?” “Three hours,” was the answer.
One of a party of friends, referring to an exquisite musical composition, said, "That song always carries me away when I hear it.” “Can anybody here whistle it?” asked Jerrold appealingly.
A police-officer met an organ-grinder on the street and said,— “Have you a license to play? If not, you must accompany me.” “With pleasure,” answered the street-musician. “What will you sing?”
Gazzam (looking up from the newspaper). “That’s the longest sentence I ever heard of.”
Mrs Gazzam. “What?”
Gazzam. “Fifty years.”
Mrs Gazzam (who was once a school-teacher). “It isn’t a sentence at all. It has no verb.”
Taking things literally is a frequent method among the unregenerate of sliding out of a difficulty. A minister, meeting a boy with a long pole one Sunday morning, stopped him and inquired, “I hope you are not going fishing in the creek on this beautiful Sabbath morning?” To which the boy answered emphatically, “No, I’m not.” So the minister gave him a nickel, patted him on the head, and passed on. “Well,” said the boy, thoughtfully, “if he’d asked me was I goin’ fishin’ in the mill-pond, he’d ’a’ had me sure.”
