ur readers.

We are glad to see the national mind beginning to effervesce on art
subjects. The most opposite views, the new and the old, the conventional
and the truly imaginative, the severely real and the more
latitudinarian, the earnest and the flippant, the pedantic and the
broad, far reaching--will continue to clash for a season, while a school
of American Landscape is, we think, destined to rise steadily through
the chaotic elements, and to reach a height of excellence to which the
conscientious efforts of all advocates of the highest Truth in Art will
have greatly contributed.

We are indebted to Mr. Cropsey for a pleasant opportunity to visit his
studio (No. 625 Broadway), and see such pictures and sketches as he now
has by him, the results of a long residence abroad and of his summer
work among the hills of Sussex, N. J. A view of Korfe Castle,
Dorsetshire, England, is a highly-finished and evidently accurate
representation of that interesting spot. We are presumed to be standing
amid the ferns, flowers, and vines of the foreground, and looking off
toward the castle-crowned hill, the village at its foot, and the
far-away downs, with a silver stream winding into the distance. A
rainbow quivers among the retreating clouds to the right, and from the
left comes the last brilliant light of day, gilding the greenery of the
hills, and throwing out the deepened hues of the long shadows. There are
also pleasant views of other English scenery, of Italian landscape, and
of American lakes and streams. Mr. Cropsey has a high reputation both
at home and abroad, and we are glad to learn that for the present, at
least, he intends to pursue his art labors within the limits of his
native land.

_Beethoven's Fidelio_.--This noble opera has lately been given us by Mr.
Anschuetz, with the best use of such means as were at his disposal. The
orchestral, choral, and concerted vocal portions are grand and
beautiful, highly characteristic and effective. The story is simple,
pure, and deeply pathetic. The prison scene affords scope for the finest
histrionic abilities. In the solos, however (with the exception of that
of Pizarro, where dramatic power satisfies), we miss the lyric genius of
the Italians, their long-phrased, passionate, and never-to-be-forgotten
melodies, containing the element of beauty _per se_ so richly developed.
Cannot the whole world produce one man, who, with all the expanded
musical knowledge of the present d