e a little
man. I wonder if any one had ever more energy upon so little
strength? I know there is a frost; . . . but I mean to break that
frost inside two years, and pull off a big success, and Vanity
whispers in my ear that I have the strength. If I haven't, whistle
owre the lave o't! I can do without glory, and perhaps the time is
not far off when I can do without corn. It is a time coming soon
enough, anyway; and I have endured some two and forty years without
public shame, and had a good time as I did it. If only I could secure
a violent death, what a fine success! I wish to die in my boots; no
more Land of Counterpane for me. To be drowned, to be shot, to be
thrown from a horse--ay, to be hanged, rather than pass again through
that slow dissolution."

He would not consent to act the invalid unless the spring ran down
altogether; was keen for exercise and for mixing among men--his native
servants if no others were near by. Here is a bit of confession and
casuistry quite _a la_ Stevenson:

"To come down covered with mud and drenched with sweat and rain after
some hours in the bush, change, rub down, and take a chair in the
verandah, is to taste a quiet conscience. And the strange thing that
I mark is this: If I go out and make sixpence, bossing my labourers
and plying the cutlass or the spade, idiot conscience applauds me; if
I sit in the house and make twenty pounds, idiot conscience wails over
my neglect and the day wasted."

His relish for companionship is indeed strong. At one place he says:

"God knows I don't care who I chum with perhaps I like sailors best,
but to go round and sue and sneak to keep a crowd together--never!"

If Stevenson's natural bent was to be an explorer, a mountain-climber, or
a sailor--to sail wide seas, or to range on mountain-tops to gain free
and extensive views--yet he inclines well to farmer work, and indeed, has
to confess it has a rare attraction for him.

"I went crazy over outdoor work," he says at one place, "and had at
last to confine myself to the house, or literature must have gone by
the board. _Nothing_ is so interesting as weeding, clearing, and path-
making: the oversight of labourers becomes a disease. It is quite an
effort not to drop into the farmer; and it does make you feel so
well."

The odd ways of these Samoans, their pride of position, their vices,
their virtues,