of Stevenson was the same as Ben Adhem's in Leigh Hunt's poem, who,
when he found his name was not among those who loved the Lord,
cheerily asked the angel to write him as one who loved his fellow-
men. The heavenly messenger returned

"And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,"
And "lo! Ben Adhem's led all the rest"

To Stevenson, throughout his life, all the world was truly a stage.
He went gaily along playing his part, and when he came to Samoa, he,
on whose brows the dews of youth still sparkled, gleefully revelled
in the pomp and circumstance which allow him to make believe he was
a chieftain. He could go flower-bedecked and garlanded without
comment in among his adopted subjects. He paid deference to Samoan
codes of manners, a thing he had scorned to do in his native land.

All his life he indulged in too few relaxations. The grim Scots
divines, whose "damnatory creed" Louis objected to so strongly, in
their studies, we read, reserved a corner for rod and gun. In his
library there was never a sign of sporting tools, not even a golf-
club. He was not effeminate; in fact, if "the man had been dowered
with better health, we would have lost the author," says one speaker
of him; but he simply never let go the pen, and, doubtless, his
singleness of purpose, his want of toil-resting hobbies, was
hampering to his health. Walking-tours, during which he was busy all
the while taking mental notes for some article, was no brain
holiday. In Samoa, he enjoyed the purest of pleasures, gardening.
"Nothing is so interesting," he says, in his VAILIMA LETTERS, "as
weeding, clearing, and path-making. It does make you feel so well."
But despite warring with weeds and forest rides, in an enervating