In “The Virtuoso’s Collection” we have the humor of impossibility. Nothing is more common than this, but Hawthorne gives it a peculiar value of his own. A procession of mythological objects, strange historical relics, and the odd creations of fiction passes before our eyes. The abruptness of their juxtaposition excites continuous laughter in us. It would be an extremely phlegmatic person who could read it with a serious face. Don Quixote’s Rosinante, Doctor Johnson’s cat, Shelley’s skylark, a live phoenix, Prospero’s magic wand, the hard-ridden Pegasus, the dove which brought the olive branch, and many others appear in such rapid succession that the reader has no time to take breath, or to consider what will turn up next. Like an accomplished showman, Hawthorne enlivens the performance here and there with original reflections on life, which are perfectly dignified, but become humorous from contrast with their surroundings. In spite of its comical effect, the piece has a very genteel air, for its material is taken from that general stock of information that passes current in cultivated families. The young man of fashion who had never heard of Elijah, or of Poe’s “Raven,” would not have understood it. In “The Hall of Fantasy,” we catch some glimpses of Hawthorne’s favorite authors: “The grand old countenance of Homer, the shrunken and decrepit form, but vivid face, of Æsop, the dark presence of Dante, the wild Ariosto, Rabelais’s smile of deep-wrought mirth, the profound, pathetic humor of Cervantes, the all glorious Shakespeare, Spenser, meet guest for an allegoric structure, the severe divinity of Milton and Bunyan, molded of the homeliest clay, but instinct with celestial fire--were those that chiefly attracted my eye. Fielding, Richardson, and Scott occupied conspicuous pedestals.” He also adds Goethe and Swedenborg, and remarks of them: “Were ever two men of transcendent imagination more unlike?” It is evident that Byron was not a favorite with Hawthorne. In addition to his severe treatment of that poet, in “P’s Correspondence,” he says in “Earth’s Holocaust,” where he imagines the works of various authors to be consumed in a bonfire: “Speaking of the properties of flame, me-thought Shelley’s poetry emitted a purer light than almost any other productions of his day, contrasting beautifully with the fitful and lurid gleams and gushes of black vapor that flashed and eddied from the volumes of Lord Byron.” This seems like rather puritanical treatment. If there are false lines in Byron, there are quite as many weak lines in Shelley. If sincerity were to give out a pure flame, Byron would stand that test equal to any. His real fault is to be found in his somewhat glaring diction, like the _voix blanc_ in singing, and in an occasional stroke of _persiflage_. This increases his attractiveness to youthful minds, but to a nature like Hawthorne’s anything of an exhibitory character must always be unpleasant.