human
Ghosts, Ibsen preaches a terrible sermon on the responsibility of one generation for the next, but not all his relentless logic can move you to the sharp throb of horrified sympathy you feel as you see Nelse Pettingrew's poor mother run down the street, her shawl flung hastily over her head, framing a face of despairing resolve, such as can never look at you out of the pages of a book. Somebody has told her that Nelse has been drinking again and
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For Hillsboro is no model village, but the world entire, with hateful forces of evil lying in wait for weakness. Who will not lay down
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Ghosts to watch, with a painfully beating heart, the progress of this living
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Mrs. Alving past the house, pleading, persuading, coaxing the burly weakling, who will be saved from a week's debauch if she can only get him safely home now, and keep him quiet till
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with a penetrating sense of the tragedy of heredity, quite as stimulating to self-control in the future as Ibsen is able to make us feel in
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Ghosts. But we know something better than Ibsen, for Mrs. Pettingrew is no
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Mrs. Alving. She is a plain, hard-featured woman who takes in sewing for a living, and she is quite unlettered, but she is a general in the army of spiritual forces. She does not despair, she does not give up like the half-hearted mother in
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Ghosts,