On Saturday, according to a time-honoured custom at Michaelmas, the Liverymen of the City of London were convened in the Guildhall to elect a member of the Court of Aldermen to the office of Lord Mayor for the ensuing civic year, beginning on the 9th of November. Sir Sills John Gibbons, the Lord Mayor, went in state from the Mansion-house, at 11 o’clock, to preside at the ceremony, escorted by the Sheriffs, and, as usual, preceded by trumpeters. Prior to the election, the new Sheriffs, Mr. Alderman White and Mr. Frederick Perkins, were publicly inducted into office in the presence of the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, attended by the high officers of the Corporation, the retiring Sheriffs all wearing their official robes, and the Liverymen assembled in the Hall. The new Sheriffs, with their friends and Under-Sheriffs, had previously met at the Guildhall Tavern, and had proceeded thence to the Hall for the purpose of making the requisite declarations on assuming office. (“Election of Lord Mayor,” 30 Sept 72, 11)

With an unctuous relish for the quaint traditionary forms, ... each and all who took part in the scene strove laudably to preserve its curious interest and historic dignity in the eyes of strangers. The auspicious rumour that an American man of letters had come to see what he should see was buzzed about; and when it became known that this illustrious visitor was “Mark Twain,” one of the latest and most successful of those comic writers who dissemble their graces and accomplishments beneath a humorous eccentricity of spelling, and who discover a truly international spirit in their mingling of Yankee rhetoric with Cockney rhymes, great was the desire to identify the face of the distinguished littérateur. To so shrewd an observer as Mr. Clemens (“Mark Twain” being only a nom de plume), there must have been much that was both amusing and instructive in Saturday’s ceremonial. (“Civic Changes,” 30 Sept 72, 3)

All at once the applause broke out with great vehemence. This must be some very distinguished person indeed. He joined in it with great enthusiasm. When it was over he whispered to Sir John:

“Whose name was that we were just applauding?”

“Mark Twain’s.” (MTB, 1:463)

proposed “Success to Literature,” coupled with the popular name of Mark Twain {cheers}. Who had ever read Mark Twain’s works could have done otherwise than admire him {cheers}. He was glad to be able to say that the gentleman so favourably known in England as Mark Twain was present and that he had kindly consented to respond for the toast {great cheering}. (“Election of Lord Mayor & Swearing in of Sheriffs,” London Observer, 29 Sept 72, 6, clipping in CU-MARK)

Mr. S. L. CLEMENS (Mark Twain), who was very indistinctly heard, was understood to say—Messrs. Sheriffs, Ladies, and Gentlemen: Though I have had no previous notice, I am ready for you this time {laughter}. I beg to thank you very heartily for the expression of goodwill which you have displayed towards me {hear}. It was only an hour ago that I was told that I should be called upon to respond to a toast with which I was told that my name would be coupled. I am, therefore, not very well prepared to respond to the kind manner in which my name has been referred to. It would not, perhaps, be becoming in me to trouble you very much on an occasion like the present. Indeed, I am not prepared to do so. I have been taken so much by surprise that I do not know that I can adequately speak to the toast with which you have so kindly coupled my name {cries of Go on}. The toast to which I have been called upon to respond is one in which I take a great interest—one with which I have had some slight connection {laughter}. I regret that you did not tell me that I was to speak to such a toast as this. Had you given me even twenty-four hours’ notice instead of half an hour, I should have prepared a speech respecting literature which I am certain would have proved very acceptable to you—in fact a speech which I believe would have made your hair stand on end {laughter}. I must only hope that under these circumstances you will excuse me. I beg you will understand that I have no lack of words, I have no want of ideas, and that I have no want of method in putting those ideas together in a sufficiently chaste manner to meet the public gaze {cheers}. All I want is time {laughter}. Had you given sufficient time I might have prepared a speech such as I hope and believe would have proved satisfactory {renewed laughter}. As I have told you, literature is a subject in which I take some interest, but you will admit it is a subject which cannot be treated upon very offhand or readily {hear}. If you take me by surprise in this manner, and if I do not reply in adequate terms, you have yourselves to blame and not me {laughter}. I should like very much to express myself properly on an occasion like the present, and I think, if I were disposed, I might keep you all the night long {cries of All right and Go on}. I could do so, but I had better not; at least I am sure you think so {laughter, and cries of Speak louder}. It is impossible for me to speak louder. I have been at this table so long, and the wines have been so good and so various, that I have become to be perhaps too emotional {laughter}. I should be glad to speak louder if I could, but I do not know that I can do so under the circumstances. I am not a person who is inclined to talk nonsense. Therefore I like to leave to some one better prepared to say what I have got to speak about {hear, hear}. I have crossed the Atlantic with the intention of doing some good. I hope you will allow me to do that good in my own collected and reflective way {hear, hear}. Instead, therefore, of butchering a subject in which I feel much interest, and respecting which I do not like to speak without some reflection, I beg you will allow me to leave it to other gentlemen who may be better prepared to do justice to the matter. I have only to say, ladies and gentlemen, in conclusion, that I thank you very much for the cordial reception you have given to the toast and to myself this evening {cheers}. (SLC 1872)

I was there by appointment, to respond to a regular toast, of which there were nine! Nine to be responded to, and mine in the place of honor—the last! It was a large distinction to confer upon a stranger, and I was properly proud of it; sorry for it too, for it broke my heart to wait so long; if I had had a hatful of hearts it would have broken them all. When at last the long, long, exhausting wait was ended, and my turn was come, and my gratitude rising up and pervading and supporting my whole system, a disaster befell: Sir John Bennett rose, uninvited, and began to speak. The indignation of the weary house burst out with the crash of an avalanche—a crash made up of shouts of protest and disapproval, powerfully aided and reinforced by deafening pounding of the tables with empty champagne bottles. But no matter—the gallant Sir John stood serene on the distant edge of the smoke and storm of battle and visibly worked his jaws and his arms, undismayed—and in silence, of course, for neither he nor any other man could hear a word that he was saying. He was one of the two out-going sheriffs, and it was said that he always made speeches at the great banquets; that he was never invited to make them; that no one had ever been able to find out whether they were good or bad, or neither, because nobody had ever heard one of them, since the tempest of resentment always broke out with his rising and never ceased until he finished his pantomime and sat down again. (AD, 29 Aug 1907, CU-MARK)