envied the
North American Indians for their enjoyment of what it seems Burke
attributed to them: "the highest boon of Heaven, supreme and perpetual
indolence."

As regular a visitor was a huge long-bearded Norwegian who looked a
prophet and was an artist, and who spent most of the winter in the study
of Marion Crawford's novels, I cannot imagine why, as they roused him to
fury.

"Marion Crawford," he would thunder at us as if somehow we were
responsible, "Bah! He is a weak imitator of Bulwer, that is all, and he
has not Bulwer's power of construction. He is not Bulwer. No. He is a
weakling. Bah!"

My only quarrel with Marion Crawford's books was that they never excited
strong emotion in me, one way or the other, and I was so puzzled by his
excitement that I remember I went to the trouble of getting out _Mr.
Isaacs_ and _A Roman Singer_ from Piali's Library in the _Piazza di
Spagna_, that centre of learning and literature for the English in Rome
where, one day when I asked for Pepys's Diary, they offered me Marcus
Ward's. A new course of Marion Crawford left me as puzzled as ever for
the reason of the Norwegian's rage, and I was the more impressed with
the possibilities of a temperament that could heat itself to such a
degree at so lukewarm a fire.

We were as certain to find this fiery Norseman and the two Englishmen
any night we called as Vedder himself. Other men came and went, amongst
them a few Italians and Frenchmen and more Americans, Coleman for one
among them, but none could have appeared as regularly, so much fainter
is the impression they have left with me. Naturally, they were mostly
artists and at Vedder's, as at the _cafe_, the talk was chiefly of art.
There was little of his work to see, for his studio was some distance
from his apartment. But it was enough to see Vedder himself or, for that
matter, enough to hear him. In his own house he led the talk, even
Forepaugh having small chance against him. He was as prolific, a
splendidly determined and animated talker. It was stimulating just to
watch him talk. He was never still, he rarely sat down, he was always
moving about, walking up and down, at times breaking into song and even
dance. He was then in his prime, large, with a fine expressive face, and
as American in his voice, in his manner, in his humour as if he had
never crossed the Atlantic. The true American never gets Europeanized,
nor does he want to, however long he may stay on the wrong side