ase of war, now,--" went on Jimmie. He stopped speaking, and looked
down in deep embarrassment, remembering Tolstoy's hatred of war.

"Yes," said Tolstoy, kindly. "In case the whole civilised world waged
war on the United States, I dare say you could still remain a tolerably
prosperous people."

"At any rate," said Jimmie, recovering himself, "it would be a good many
years before we would be a hungry nation, and, in the meantime, we could
practically starve out the enemy by cutting off their food supply, and
disable their fleets and commerce for want of coal, so there is hardly
any danger, from the prudent point of view, of the world combining
against us."

"If the diplomacy at Washington continues in its present trend, under
your great President McKinley, your country will not allow herself to be
dragged into the quarrels of Europe. We older nations might well learn
a lesson from your present government."

"Oh!" I cried, "how good of you to say that. It is the first time in all
Europe that I have heard our government praised for its diplomacy, and
coming from you, I am so grateful."

Jimmie and the consul also beamed at Tolstoy's complimentary comment.

"Now, about your men of letters?" said Tolstoy. "It is some time since I
have had such direct news from America. What are the great names among
you now?"

At this juncture Countess Tolstoy drew nearer to Bee and Mrs. Jimmie,
and our groups somewhat separated.

"Our great names?" I repeated. "Either we have no great names now, or we
are too close to them to realise how great they are. We seem to be
between generations. We have lost our Lowell, and Longfellow, and Poe,
and Hawthorne, and Emerson, and we have no others to take their places."

"But a young school will spring up, some of whom may take their places,"
said Tolstoy.

"It has already sprung up," I said, "and is well on the way to manhood.
One great drawback, however, I find in mentioning the names of all of
them to a European, or even to an Englishman, is the fact that so many
of our characteristic American authors write in a dialect which is all
that we Americans can do to understand. For instance, take the negro
stories, which to me are like my mother tongue, brought up as I was in
the South. Thousands of Northern people who have never been South are
unable to read it, and to them it holds no humour and no pathos. To the
ordinary Englishman, it is like so much Greek, and to the continental
English-