_Apropos_ of the above fragment of art-criticism, a correspondent sends us the following analysis (clipped from a rival journal) of another remarkable picture:―― “It is better to speak the truth at once, and to say that we have in Mr. Symphony Priggins a master as great as the greatest; and in this picture the master-piece of a master; and in this episode of a picture the masterstroke of a master’s master-piece. The sublimity of Buonaroti, the poetic fervour of Raffaelle, the tremulous intensity of Sandro Botticelli, the correggiosity of Correggio have never raised these masters to higher heights than our own Priggins has attained in this transcendent rendering of the Dish running away with the Spoon. “The artist, like some others of his craft, is, as is known, a poet of no mean pretensions; and he has set forth the inner meaning of his picture in the following lines, which form the motto on its frame:――” _A Ballad of High Endeavour._ Ah night! blind germ of days to be, Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) What wail of smitten strings hear we? (Ah me; ah me! _Hey diddle dee_!) Ravished by clouds our Lady Moon, Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) Sinks swooning in a lady-swoon (Ah me! ah me! _Dum diddle dee_!) What profits it to rise i’ the dark? Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) If love but over-soar its mark (Ah me! ah me! _Hey diddle dee_!) What boots to fall again forlorn? Ah me! ah me; (Sweet Venus, mother!) Scorned by the grinning hound of scorn, (Ah me! ah me! _Dum diddle dee_!) Art thou not greater who art less? Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) Low love fulfilled of low success? (Ah me! ah me! _Hey diddle dee_!) No one we imagine, would have been dull enough to have missed the allegory of Mr. Priggins’ great picture even without such exposition; but many, perhaps, will only feel it after this its setting forth in “perfect music matched with noble words.” ―――― SONG BY MR. JOSEPH HUBERT HILLYER. Art is to me no intellectual fad; (_A goodly balance is fair to see_!) You don’t catch me o’er culture going mad. (_The rarest of letters are £ s. d.!_) As soon as I could paint I set my heart On making money (else what good is Art?); In painting show-bills ’twas I made my start. (_O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!_)