New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1898-08-14

to be "artistic' in the treatment OF repulsiye
matcrial-the dreary results Of this ambition
crowd the counters of the booksellcrs-but one
must have more than art If one is really to
transligure this sordd substance; one must have
INSPIRATION and deep tender insight into
human nature. Jack has the insight and the
inspiration: also the art. She Is a writer in a
thousand. Life is Life" the story which opens
her volume. is hc2rtron1ing in its sadness 1t
leaves the impression that Is only left by a
work Of genuine feeling and power. The note Is
sanely tragic it is rarely forced In fact. Miss
Keats rover gems to force the note except
when she swcrvcs from the centre OF human
grief ard Thus in The RedIIared Mans
Dream" we feel that the sufferngs OF the three
actors magniGod cut Of all proportion to
tn, natural scale Of human emotion in such
situation and the sentiment OF the thing lapses
into something dangerously like sentmentality.
The reader is conscious Of n slip somewhere as
though the author had allowed herself to be-
come too fearful had pitied the figures in her
little drama more than they deserved But We
are bound to say that this is TIE only story In
the book which fails to ring true, and we are
not cure but that even this one might be de-
Tended on the score OF its being in way
true to life. 1t is conceivable that Roch and
Jess, and the Rcd-Eaired Man. might all have
felt grotesqucy sorry for themselves Bat II
we read Jack Alright she Is less concerned with
the self-rity in which her pcrsonaGes might
indulge than with the fundamental values Of
each grief or joy in their experience, and thus
we turn from the woful cOuntenanccs in Tho
cd-Haired Mans Dream'-which seem far
more wofui than they have a right 20 be-tO
those men and women In the book whose TRACE
dies have the spirit Of universally. the spirit OF
a human nature in which sclf-pity taxes its
naturally subordinate place. These other
stories are more worth while; the issues seem
larger. more passionate, more veracous. In
them find the author working truly at the
h cart Of things
II is the old blind struggle Of man against
Fate that she celebrates. and II she Is painfully
aware Of the darkness and bitterness Of Tho
contest she Is not inert and stupidity pess'nstic-
On The contrary, there is a thread running
through the tales which in strange way
keeps them from utterly strangling the hope In
ores heart. II is hard to define 1t does not
hint Of the stimulus or comfort OF religion or
philosophy. 1t does not mean that the writer
has some theory which accounts for the sorrows
she depicts. ard 10y the light Of which all will
be seen to be steps in the working out Of
desirable destiny. 1t Is rather thread Of in
,cnsc feeling, binding her sorry heroes and
herones together and to the great movement OK
human life. Joining them 10 the same vague
springs OF endurance which feed the race. In
other words we witness the tragedies of this
book as W. witness those OF real life. as things
which aye rart Of our whole human experience
/ and therefore not merely horrible and provooa-
tive OF shuddcrs II is the tragedy that is mon
/ strous unrelievcd by human feeling, and there
fore artificial which rcpols US. even disgusts us,
! In the pages Of the cheap realists SO long as
the pcrsonagcs In a story wake the sympathles,
so long as we suffer with them instead or
watching their agonies though from another
planet we can thank the author who makes us
suffer We have spoken Of lacks error in giving
self pity too large canvas Let us illustrate
her work at n soInder point The English lad
who goes In Life is Life" from a pleasant
home in England to find news in Australia Of
the father whom he believed to be dead meets
rufan. at whose hands he is deprived Of his
sight The father dies in prison Humphrey
drifts into the company OF another blind man.
older than himself, an umbrella mender and In
course Of time when this friend also dies he
carries on the shop. Here let US turn to the
authors words:
Seated on the broken doorstep. repairing the
ribs of some nei ;hbor's broken Bingham, his
heart would swell with inconsistencies. and
terrible longing for the people he had known
and loved In childhood take possession Of him.
Then the umbrella would drop from his hand.
and his blind eyes fiji with visions Of his Eng
lish home; the crude street noises around him
would hush themselves, and the lop-lop OF the
river. as it bumped its way over brown pebbles,