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The cover illustration to-day is from a painting entitled "Scaffolding Around a War Carrier," by the New York artist, JOHN C. JOHANSEN. It was recently shown in the Arden Gallery on Fifth Avenue with a collection of canvases representing shipbuilding industries under government control during the war.

CARL PLOUG'S poem "The Battle of Slesvig," was written to commemorate the terrible Easter morning, in 1848, when the Danes met the Prussians and Holsteiners at Dannevirke and were defeated. Its hopeful refrain has become the motto of North Slesvig and has an especially moving appeal to all friends of Slesvig now that their hopes are about to be realized. JANE CAMPBELL, translator of Danish poems that have appeared in earlier issues of the REVIEW, has been very happy in reproducing the peculiar metre of the poem, which carries with it a suggestion of an old-fashioned round dance.

GEORG BECH, Danish Consul General in New York, entered the consular service in 1904 and has represented his country as consul in Chicago and in Buenos Aires.

W. MORGENSTIERNE, Commercial Advisor to the Norwegian Legation, has had unusual opportunities for observing the various phases of our intercourse with Norway. He was formerly attached to the legation, afterwards travelled through the country as secretary of Nordmandsforbundet, and most recently acted as secretary of the Nansen Commission in Washington, ARTHUR RATCHE is studying American newspaper methods with a stipend from the Conrad Mohr Foundation in Norway.

JAMES CREESE, JR., is a member of the staff of the Foundation.

RAGNA BERGLIOT ESKIL has frequently contributed to the REVIEW.

NORMAN L. ANDERSON, as United States Trade Commissioner in Stockholm, is doing important work in reviving commerce between us and the Scandinavian countries. The article in this issue is a part of his official report.

CHARLES RICH FLANDREAU is trade correspondent of the REVIEW in Washington.

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CARL LARSSON-SELF PORTRAIT. MAY 28, 1853-JANUARY 22, 1919

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Carl Larsson

HEN lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed," the line with which Walt Whitman began his elegy to Lincoln, recurs to my mind when I try to realize that Carl Larsson, the great-hearted, is dead. For it was in spring time, just when the lilacs were in flower, that I enjoyed the privilege of shaking hands with the great Swedish painter of family life at his home in Sundborn. The Larsson household, who, in paint and print, have gladdened many a thousand homes the world over, that day stepped out of their water colors and down from their frames to cheer me with their laughter.

From the hour I first entered Sweden I had seen everywhere the hand of Carl Larsson. Public halls and art galleries, theatres and schools, were aglow with his imaginative frescoes; private drawing rooms cherished his etchings and water colors; in books and magazines mine host pointed to illustrations signed with the familiar "C. L." How could one man paint and draw so much? Such exuberance of life there must be in him! What library table in Sweden is complete without one or another of his colored picture books,-"A Home," "Larssons," and the others, in which the artist has shared with his fellow men the beauty and joy of his own hearth and family? The plain workingwoman feels that Karin (Larsson's wife) is her friend, whose children she can call by name and whose portraits in lithograph she pins to her kitchen walls, after arranging her chairs like "the Larssons."

Sweden has many great artists whom favoring critics give first place among their contemporaries. Popular judgment, however, recognized Carl Larsson as second in a trio of three Swedish painters of his generation: Zorn, Larsson, Liljefors. Fourth place was more often assigned to royalty in the person of Prince Eugen. An American critic, Dr. Brinton, has thus characterized the more popular side of Larsson's varied talent: the bright tinted home which

is famous the world over; everyone knows and loves Sundborn. In these spirited, sparkling water-colors we see it winter and summer, outside and within. Conceived in a vein of Swedish rococo with a basis of substantial Dalecarlian motive this series constitutes a domestic cycle the like of which you can meet nowhere else in art. Larsson found his inspiration amid the endearing associations of family life and became the foremost intimist."

An eight-mile drive out of Falun, among the Dalecarlian hills, along roadways perfumed by the pervading scent of lilacs, brought me to Sundborn Village. The driver, with whom I had discussed the affairs of the family on the way, pointed his whip toward the collection of buildings and ponds and white birches, which make up the Larsson estate, and as my eye took in curiously each detail, I looked up to the top of the flagpole and saw waving there the American flag. We drove up, under a studio wing that seemed to offer no entrance, but presently the wall appeared to open up, and out burst a boy, it was Esbjörn. Around the corner came Greta and Kerstin and another girl, a guest. Then the mother, Karin, appeared, gaily swinging her sunbonnet,-and last, Larsson, in a white studio robe slightly stained with fresh yellow streaks. "Välkommen till Larssons,' he exclaimed, grasping my hand with a peculiar emphasis that thrilled me with the Swedish joy of life.

We went into the house, through the hall of white woodwork, the dining-room with its gay panelling, and into a simple frescoed drawing-room, where fresh spruce needles were strewn on the floor and vines peeped through latticed windows. The new studio was visited and, upstairs, the girls' dormitory. The old studio was now "Karin's room," where Mrs. Larsson and the girls wove tapestry, while Esbjörn strode his rocking horse. On one of the panels of the doors was a portrait of Fru Larsson. "She used to sit here and watch me paint," Larsson explained, “and I thought it would be nice to keep her as she was then."

Lunch was served in the garden, where only that morning the Larssons had entertained a party of school-children from Stockholm. The table was laden with lilacs, and the children were seated in informal postures, for all the world like a Larsson picture. We discussed his long postponed visit to America and his reluctance to leave home in spite of insistent invitations and his desire to see our country.

After lunch, the children showed the ducks on the pond and the boat in which their father had painted them "Playing Viking." I asked Kerstin what I suppose is the usual question: "Do you like being painted?" and she replied in the conventional way, but with a smile, which assured me that I had been the first to make the query, “Oh, we don't mind, except when Papa paints us ugly."

All too soon it was time to think of trains. Larsson pointed out a rocky path over the hills by which I could enjoy the walk back to Falun. He insisted on accompanying me for half a mile. At last he bade farewell, with another handshake, and many Swedish bows and greetings to America. From the first clearing on the hillside the visitor looked back on Sundborn. A tall, athletic figure was striding home through the fields, swinging his hat by his side and singing some folk song. Esbjörn had hauled down the American flag; the yellow and blue of Sweden was floating over Larssons. H. G. L.

The Battle of Slesvig

Original Danish by CARL PLOUG

English Verse by JANE CAMPBELL

Easter bells so softly chime from the Danish coast;
Over all the land they toll for a battle lost.

But join hands and stand fast, all ye Danish men,
God still rules, and we shall gain victory again.

Treacherous was the dark night, Danes no Germans saw,
Scarcely had the Danish men time swords to draw.
But join hands and stand fast, etc.

Faced them the militia now, bravery their shield,
Bulwark of their dead Germans built upon that field.
But join hands, etc.

Germans had to learn, too, Danish tongue that day,
As shots flew, swords sang, and cannon roared away.
But join hands, etc.

Over Thyra's broken gate streams with blood were stained,
For the Germans dearly bought every inch they gained.
But join hands, etc.

Though the little band, forced to retreat at last,
Denmark's truth and honor had they all held fast.
But join hands, etc.

Though fewer are the few, and many cheeks are white,
Yet still, for Denmark's honor enough are left to fight.
So join hands and stand fast all ye Danish men,
God still rules, and we shall gain victory again!

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