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
country, he wrote persistently through the swooningly hot days of
damp heat.
"I have done my fiddling so long under Vesuvius, that I have almost
forgotten to play, and can only wait for the eruption and think it
long of coming," he wrote; and shortly after, in December 1894, it
came and smote him down to the earth with merciful painlessness.
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