Mark Twain arrived in Hobart on the 2 November 1895.
After Hobart he departed for New Zealand.
Part One of an article was published in a local newspaper: Tasmanian News.
This morning the union liner Mararoa arrived here from Melbourne and amongst her passengers was no less a distinguished personage that the great American humorist, Mark Twain. He was accompanied by Carlyle Smythe, a son of the much travelled (Smyth Senior), and after a stay here of a few hours continued his voyage to Maoriland. Mr Clemens has been very un-well of late, but is gradually being restored to his usual state of health, and hopes the climate of New Zealand will thoroughly restore him. A reporter of the News was deputed to interview him and caught the gentleman on the boat surrounded by newly-made friends who seemed delighted and honored at the opportunity of speaking to Mark Twain.
“It was at first arranged,” said Mr Clemens, “that I would give an ‘At Home’ here; but owing to the unavoidable alteration in the arrangements I am unable to do so.” This fact will be sincerely regretted by many Hobart residents who were naturally looking forward to hearing and seeing this distinguished humorist for themselves. Mr Clemens is a really brilliant conversationalist and goes from topic to topic with animation and knowledge and drops numerous points, which would fill up more space than is at our disposal. As to how he likes the colonies, Mr Clemens quaintly remarked,” I am still in them, and as I am going to write a book on them it will hardly do to tell you, but this I will say, I like the climate very mush, while the scenery is also grand.”
He is a lover of Marcus Clark’s book entitled For the Term of His Natural Life ands expressed the wish to linger over and follow out for himself by personal investigation the glimpses of Australian life disclosed in that novel. But time is precious, and would not allow him to do more than take what he termed an outer view of Australian life and institutions in which he has already seen much that awakes his sympathy. One of subjects touched upon was humor, and he maintained that a man could never be a humorist until he could feel the springs of pathos, and the man was never yet properly funny who was not capable at times of being serious. Mr Clemens’ literary capabilities are well known all over the world, and it was not to be wondered that the matter of writing books was remarked during the conversation. He does not regard writing books as work; but it is when he feels tired of inaction that he thinks of writing a book, and he intends to write up his impressions of this Australian trip from and outside view entirely.
“No man can understand the life of a community unless he has lived in it,” says Mr Clemens, “and as I cannot do that, I intend to confine myself to outside impressions only.”
Speaking of writing fiction, Mark Twain said he read little but the “heaviest” sort of literature, and left “modern” writers almost entirely alone, always having a fear of getting into someone else’s’ style if he dabbled among the modern writers too much. Among those he read he spoke particularly in favour of Gilbert, the famous composer of comic operas. He referred to it being marvelous that a man should have a gift of saying not only the wittiest of things, but saying them inverse, and said he had been struck dumb with astonishment when reading Gilbert’s operas. He had lost much of his admiration for Dickens, but considered Lewis Carroll a true and subtle humorist. S to the distinction between wit and humor, he admitted it was always difficult to reconcile any definition of the two kindred qualities, but by general consent wit seems to be counted a very poor relation of humor, which is never artificial.
Our representative then asked Mr Clemens of his wanderings around the world, and the humorist spoke of the many interesting men he had met. He thought London was a marvelous place, and said he had dined with Mr H M Stanley there not long ago, when some 80 guests were present, very one of whom was distinguished in some way or other. One of the most interesting gentlemen he had ever met was General Grant, and he spoke of him in a highly eulogistic manner. He had also met Rudyard Kipling, who travelled some 275 miles for the purpose of seeing him, and considered a very high compliment had been paid him.
“Harking back to book writing,” said Mr Clemens,” I might tell you that when I am engaged in writing a book my family find it hard to dig me out of my chair, but unless my taste or inclination leads me in some special direction, then I am what you call lazy. To be a true comedian a man must have a genuine ring about him, otherwise he would not be a comedian, and, as Garrick pertly remarked to a friend, ‘You may fool the town in tragedy, but they won’t stand any nonsense in comedy.’”
Mark Twain, with his pilot-cap, his bushy white hair, his cigar, is very much like his photographs. Those photographs have had such frequent publication of late that I need enter on no other description. When I asked him if he would talk with me for a few moments, he looked whimsical and said, “Well I’ve nothing to say, but if its of any use to you I’m quite willing to say it.”
And he led the way (we were on the deck of the Mararoa) to a vacant seat apart from the crowd, where for a time, with the strong, invigorating breeze stirring the masses of his hair, he sat in companiable silence, gazing on the kaleidoscope panorama of Mt Wellington.
After Hobart he departed for New Zealand.
Part One of an article was published in a local newspaper: Tasmanian News.
This morning the union liner Mararoa arrived here from Melbourne and amongst her passengers was no less a distinguished personage that the great American humorist, Mark Twain. He was accompanied by Carlyle Smythe, a son of the much travelled (Smyth Senior), and after a stay here of a few hours continued his voyage to Maoriland. Mr Clemens has been very un-well of late, but is gradually being restored to his usual state of health, and hopes the climate of New Zealand will thoroughly restore him. A reporter of the News was deputed to interview him and caught the gentleman on the boat surrounded by newly-made friends who seemed delighted and honored at the opportunity of speaking to Mark Twain.
“It was at first arranged,” said Mr Clemens, “that I would give an ‘At Home’ here; but owing to the unavoidable alteration in the arrangements I am unable to do so.” This fact will be sincerely regretted by many Hobart residents who were naturally looking forward to hearing and seeing this distinguished humorist for themselves. Mr Clemens is a really brilliant conversationalist and goes from topic to topic with animation and knowledge and drops numerous points, which would fill up more space than is at our disposal. As to how he likes the colonies, Mr Clemens quaintly remarked,” I am still in them, and as I am going to write a book on them it will hardly do to tell you, but this I will say, I like the climate very mush, while the scenery is also grand.”
He is a lover of Marcus Clark’s book entitled For the Term of His Natural Life ands expressed the wish to linger over and follow out for himself by personal investigation the glimpses of Australian life disclosed in that novel. But time is precious, and would not allow him to do more than take what he termed an outer view of Australian life and institutions in which he has already seen much that awakes his sympathy. One of subjects touched upon was humor, and he maintained that a man could never be a humorist until he could feel the springs of pathos, and the man was never yet properly funny who was not capable at times of being serious. Mr Clemens’ literary capabilities are well known all over the world, and it was not to be wondered that the matter of writing books was remarked during the conversation. He does not regard writing books as work; but it is when he feels tired of inaction that he thinks of writing a book, and he intends to write up his impressions of this Australian trip from and outside view entirely.
“No man can understand the life of a community unless he has lived in it,” says Mr Clemens, “and as I cannot do that, I intend to confine myself to outside impressions only.”
Speaking of writing fiction, Mark Twain said he read little but the “heaviest” sort of literature, and left “modern” writers almost entirely alone, always having a fear of getting into someone else’s’ style if he dabbled among the modern writers too much. Among those he read he spoke particularly in favour of Gilbert, the famous composer of comic operas. He referred to it being marvelous that a man should have a gift of saying not only the wittiest of things, but saying them inverse, and said he had been struck dumb with astonishment when reading Gilbert’s operas. He had lost much of his admiration for Dickens, but considered Lewis Carroll a true and subtle humorist. S to the distinction between wit and humor, he admitted it was always difficult to reconcile any definition of the two kindred qualities, but by general consent wit seems to be counted a very poor relation of humor, which is never artificial.
Our representative then asked Mr Clemens of his wanderings around the world, and the humorist spoke of the many interesting men he had met. He thought London was a marvelous place, and said he had dined with Mr H M Stanley there not long ago, when some 80 guests were present, very one of whom was distinguished in some way or other. One of the most interesting gentlemen he had ever met was General Grant, and he spoke of him in a highly eulogistic manner. He had also met Rudyard Kipling, who travelled some 275 miles for the purpose of seeing him, and considered a very high compliment had been paid him.
“Harking back to book writing,” said Mr Clemens,” I might tell you that when I am engaged in writing a book my family find it hard to dig me out of my chair, but unless my taste or inclination leads me in some special direction, then I am what you call lazy. To be a true comedian a man must have a genuine ring about him, otherwise he would not be a comedian, and, as Garrick pertly remarked to a friend, ‘You may fool the town in tragedy, but they won’t stand any nonsense in comedy.’”
Mark Twain, with his pilot-cap, his bushy white hair, his cigar, is very much like his photographs. Those photographs have had such frequent publication of late that I need enter on no other description. When I asked him if he would talk with me for a few moments, he looked whimsical and said, “Well I’ve nothing to say, but if its of any use to you I’m quite willing to say it.”
And he led the way (we were on the deck of the Mararoa) to a vacant seat apart from the crowd, where for a time, with the strong, invigorating breeze stirring the masses of his hair, he sat in companiable silence, gazing on the kaleidoscope panorama of Mt Wellington.