I've got a ticket, goodness, what a saving! A guinea for a very fine engraving. Ten shillings is its value—some say five; But what of that? the Fine Arts ought to thrive: And if its real worth were but a shilling, To patronize the arts all must be willing. But of their eagerness, the best solution Is the most gratifying fact, That to the plate a chance is tacked In some most promising Fine Art distribution, How anxious all must feel, At every circuit of the wheel, When the reflection doth arise, That one in several thousands gains a prize; That prize a picture worth one hundred pounds! According to the artist's estimate. But when the critics come to judge, odd zounds! They set it down at a much lower rate. Art Unions have to all things been applied; Twelfth-cakes, pianofortes, and Stilton cheese; And fifty other articles beside, Which could be made a pretext just to squeeze A little money from the public pocket. But now no more is to be got, Parliament thought 'twas a bad lot, And down one day accordingly did knock it. GARDENING FOR LADIES. THE MAMMA'S CALENDAR FOR JULY. Your daughters now demand your serious attention. Dress and plant them in rows for evening parties. Weed poor relations. Sift "Debrett's Peerage" well through, and do your best to nail the oldest branches. Lay traps for bets at races, and hoe young gentlemen for gloves. Calculate the advantages of foreign, as compared with English husbandry, and cultivate whichever promises to turn out best. Remove younger daughters to the nursery, and towards the 30th transplant young sprigs to narrow beds at preparatory schools. Cut your box at the opera, and look forward to spa watering for the autumn. Trim your old man well, if he does not come out handsomely: if the trimming should fail, forcing must be resorted to. Put your frames in muslin bags, and cart away loose furniture to the Pantechnicon. Graft slips on window-panes, labelled "To Let," and harrow your servants with board wages. Clear out your husband's purse, or if he is rather backward this year, transplant him to back kitchen; and, screening yourselves from exposure, drill policemen to say "the family have gone out of town." [Illustration: HORTICULTURAL FATE. ] THE HORTICULTURAL FATE. The morn was beautiful and bright, The sun—that general adorner— Was gilding with its glowing light The iron rails at Hyde Park Corner.