ABSTRACT
Unlike Shakespeare, who was forced to the contrary course by circumstances, Nathaniel Hawthorne (either from simple disinclination, or else from inaptitude) refrains from all the popularizing noise and show of broad farce, and blood-smeared tragedy; content with the still, rich utterances of a great intellect in repose, and which sends few thoughts into circulation, except they be arterialized at his large warm lungs, and expanded in his honest heart. Some may start to read of Shakespeare and Hawthorne on the same page. They may say, that if an illustration were needed, a lesser light might have sufficed to elucidate this Hawthorne, this small man of yesterday. The author feels that if Shakespeare has not been equalled, he is sure to be surpassed, and surpassed by an American born now or yet to be born.
