After various experiments with different climates, including that of Switzerland, Stevenson sailed for America in August 1887.  The winter of 1887-88 he spent at Saranac Lake, under the care of Dr. Trudeau, who became one of his best friends.  In 1890 he settled at Samoa in the Pacific.  Here he entered upon a career of intense literary activity, and yet found time to take an active part in the politics of the island, and to give valuable assistance in internal improvements.

The end came suddenly, exactly as he would have wished it, and precisely as he had unconsciously predicted in the last radiant, triumphant sentences of his great essay, Aes Triplex.  He had been at work on a novel, St. Ives, one of his poorer efforts, and whose composition grew steadily more and more distasteful, until he found that he was actually writing against the grain.  He threw this aside impatiently, and with extraordinary energy and enthusiasm began a new story, Weir of Hermiston, which would undoubtedly have been his masterpiece, had he lived to complete it.  In luminosity of style, in nobleness of conception, in the almost infallible choice of words, this astonishing fragment easily takes first place in Stevenson’s productions.  At the end of a day spent in almost feverish dictation, the third of December 1894, he suddenly fainted, and died without regaining consciousness.  “Death had not been suffered to take so much as an illusion from his heart.  In the hot-fit of life, a-tiptoe on the highest point of being, he passed at a bound on to the other side.  The noise of the mallet and chisel was scarcely quenched, the trumpets were hardly done blowing, when, trailing with him clouds of glory, this happy-starred, full-blooded spirit shot into the spiritual land.”

He was buried at the summit of a mountain, the body being carried on the shoulders of faithful Samoans, who might have sung Browning’s noble hymn,

  “Let us begin and carry up this corpse,
    Singing together! 
  Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes
    Each in its tether
  Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain... 
  That’s the appropriate country; there, man’s thought,
    Rarer, intenser,
  Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought,
    Chafes in the censer. 
  Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop;
    Seek we sepulture
  On a tall mountain... 
  Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights: 
    Wait ye the warning! 
  Our low life was the level’s and the night’s;
    He’s for the morning. 
  Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head,
    ’Ware the beholders! 
  This is our master, famous, calm and dead,
    Borne on our shoulders...

Here—­here’s his place, where meteors shoot clouds form,
Lightnings are loosened,
Stars come and go!  Let joy break with the storm,
Peace let the dew send! 
Lofty designs must close in like effects
Loftily lying,
Leave him—­still loftier than the world suspects,
Living and dying.”