Mark Twain's Speeches

STATISTICS

          EXTRACT FROM “THE HISTORY OF THE SAVAGE CLUB”

          During that period of gloom when domestic bereavement had
          forced Mr. Clemens and his dear ones to secure the privacy they
          craved until their wounds should heal, his address was known to
          only a very few of his closest friends.  One old friend in New
          York, after vain efforts to get his address, wrote him a letter
          addressed as follows

                    MARK TWAIN,
                         God Knows Where,
                                   Try London.

          The letter found him, and Mr. Clemens replied to the letter
          expressing himself surprised and complimented that the person
          who was credited with knowing his whereabouts should take so
          much interest in him, adding: “Had the letter been addressed to
          the care of the ‘other party,’ I would naturally have expected
          to receive it without delay.”

          His correspondent tried again, and addressed the second letter:

                    MARK TWAIN,
                         The Devil Knows Where,
                              Try London.

          This found him also no less promptly.

          On June 9, 1899, he consented to visit the Savage Club, London,
          on condition that there was to be no publicity and no speech
          was to be expected from him.  The toastmaster, in proposing the
          health of their guest, said that as a Scotchman, and therefore
          as a born expert, he thought Mark Twain had little or no claim
          to the title of humorist.  Mr. Clemens had tried to be funny
          but had failed, and his true role in life was statistics; that
          he was a master of statistics, and loved them for their own
          sake, and it would be the easiest task he ever undertook if he
          would try to count all the real jokes he had ever made.  While
          the toastmaster was speaking, the members saw Mr. Clemens’s
          eyes begin to sparkle and his cheeks to flush.  He jumped up,
          and made a characteristic speech.

Perhaps I am not a humorist, but I am a first-class fool—a simpleton; for up to this moment I have believed Chairman MacAlister to be a decent person whom I could allow to mix up with my friends and relatives. The exhibition he has just made of himself reveals him to be a scoundrel and a knave of the deepest dye. I have been cruelly deceived, and it serves me right for trusting a Scotchman. Yes, I do understand figures, and I can count. I have counted the words in MacAlister’s drivel (I certainly cannot call it a speech), and there were exactly three thousand four hundred and thirty-nine. I also carefully counted the lies—there were exactly three thousand four hundred and thirty-nine. Therefore, I leave MacAlister to his fate.

I was sorry to have my name mentioned as one of the great authors, because they have a sad habit of dying off. Chaucer is dead, Spencer is dead, so is Milton, so is Shakespeare, and I am not feeling very well myself.