Nathaniel Hawthorne's new work, "The House of Seven Gables," is in the press of Ticknor, Reed & Fields, of Boston.
Miss Fenimore Cooper, whose beautiful work entitled "Rural Hours in America" has been so much and so justly applauded, has a new volume in the press of Putnam.
In the new novel of "Olive," republished by the Harpers, (which is much praised by the London critics), the heroine, who has a lofty, noble nature, full of poetic feeling and enthusiasm for art, determines to devote herself to its study, urged on by a desire of liquidating a debt contracted by her father. Apropos of the purpose of her life, and the sphere of her sex:
"She became an artist—not in a week, a month, a year. Art exacts of its votaries no less service than a lifetime. But in her girl's soul the right chord had been touched, which began to vibrate into noble music, the true seed had been sown, which day by day grew into a goodly plant. Vanbrugh had said truly, that genius is of no sex; and he had said likewise truly, that no woman can be an artist—that is, a great artist. The hierarchies of the soul's dominion belong only to man, and it is right they should. He it was whom God created first, let him take pre-eminence. But among those stars of lesser glory, which are given to lighten the nations, among sweet-voiced poets, earnest prose writers, who, by lofty truth that lies hid beneath legend and parable, purify the world, graceful painters and beautiful musicians, each brightening their generation with serene and holy lustre—among these, let woman shine! But her sphere is, and ever must be, bounded; because, however lofty her genius may be, it always dwells in a woman's breast. Nature, which gave to man the dominion of the intellect, gave to her that of the heart and affections. These bind her with everlasting links from which she cannot free herself,—nay, she would not if she could. Herein man has the advantage. He, strong in his might of intellect, can make it his all in all, his life's sole aim and guerdon. A Brutus, for that ambition which is misnamed patriotism, can trample on all human ties. A Michael Angelo can stand alone with his genius, and so go sternly down into a desolate old age. But there scarce ever lived the woman who would not rather sit meekly by her own hearth, with her husband at her side, and her children at her knee, than be the crowned Corinne of the Capitol.
"Thus woman, seeking to strive with man, is made feebler by the very spirit of love which in her own sphere is her chiefest strength. But sometimes chance, or circumstance, or wrong, sealing up her woman's nature, converts her into a self-dependant human soul. Instead of life's sweetness, she has before her life's greatness. The struggle passed, her genius may lift itself upward, expand and grow mighty; never so mighty as man's, but still great and glorious. Then, even while she walks over the world's rough pathway, heaven's glory may rest upon her up-turned brow, and she may become a light unto her generation."
Dautzenberg, a Flemish poet, has issued at Brussels a volume of small compositions, which, apart from freshness of fancy and beauty of thought, are remarkable for the correctness and smoothness of their form. The Flemish tongue is used by him with a lyrical success that would reflect honor on a writer in the more melodious dialects of Southern Europe. He has also licked that jaw-cracking tongue so far into shape, that it serves for regular hexameters.