The society of the literary world of London is conducted after this wise:--There are certain persons, for the most part authors, editors, or artists, but with the addition of a few who can only pride themselves upon being the patrons of literature and art--who hold periodical assemblies of the notables. Some appoint a certain evening in every week during the season, a general invitation to which is given to the favoured; others are monthly; and others, again, at no regular intervals. At these gatherings, the amusements are conversation and music only, and the entertainment is unostentatious and inexpensive, consisting of tea and coffee, wine or negus handed about in the course of the evening, and sandwiches, cake, and wine at eleven o'clock. Suppers are prohibited by common consent, for costliness would speedily put an end to society too agreeable to be sacrificed to fashion. The company meets usually between eight and nine, and always parts at midnight.--_The Critic_. THE SKY-LARK'S SONG. It comes down from the clouds to me, On this sweet day of spring; Methinks it is a melody That angel-lips might sing. Thou soaring minstrel! winged bard! Whose path is the free air, Whose song makes sunshine seem more bright, And this fair world more fair! I ask not what the strain may be, Thus chanted at 'Heaven's gate'-- A hymn of praise, a lay of joy, Or love-song to thy mate. Vain were such idle questioning! And 'tis enough for me To feel thou singest still the notes Which God gave unto thee. Thence comes the glory of thy song, And therefore doth it fall, As falls the radiance of a star, Gladdening and blessing all! Oh! wondrous are the living lays That human lips have breathed, And deep the music men have won From lyres with laurel wreathed: But there's a spell on lip and lyre, Sweet though their tones may be-- Some jarring note, some tuneless string, Aye mars the melody. The strings sleep 'neath too weak a touch, Or break, 'neath one too strong; Or we forget the master-chord That should rule all our song. When shall our spirit learn again The lay once to it given? When shall we rise, like thee, sweet bird! And, singing, soar to heaven? FANNY FARMER. DOG-SELLING EXTRAORDINARY.