Mither Prethident and thubtheriberth of the Hookam-cum-Sthnivey Sthchool of Dethign, in rithing to addreth thuch an afthembly ath thith—­

Here the confusion became so general that our reporter could catch nothing further, and as the partisans of Mr. Jones became very much excited, while the opposition was equally violent, our reporter fearing that, though he could not catch the speeches, he might possibly catch something else, effected his retreat as speedily as possible.

* * * * *

QUEER QUERIES.

NOT THE BEST IN THE WORLD.

Why is a man with his eyes shut like an illiterate schoolmaster?—­Because he keeps his pupils in darkness.

BETTER NEXT TIME.

Why is the present Lord Chancellor wickeder than the last?—­Because he’s got two more Vices.

FORGIVE US THIS ONCE.

Why are abbots the greatest dunces in the world?—­Because they never get further than their Abbacy (A, B, C.)

WE’LL NEVER DO SO ANY MORE.

Why is an auctioneer like a man with an ugly countenance?—­Because he is always for-bidding.

WE REALLY COULD NOT HELP IT.

Why is Mrs. Lilly showing the young Princes like an affected ladies’-maid?—­Because she exhibits her mistress’s heirs (airs).

* * * * *

IMPORTANT INTELLIGENCE.

A dispatch, bearing a foreign post-mark, was handed very generally about in the city this morning, but its contents did not transpire.  Considerable speculation is afloat on the subject, but we are unable to give any particulars.

Downing-street was in a state of great activity all yesterday, and people were passing to and fro repeatedly.  This excitement is generally believed to be connected with nothing particular.  We have our own impression on the subject, but as disclosures would be premature, we purposely forbear making any.  We can only say, at present, that Sir Robert Peel continues to hold the office of Prime Minister.

* * * * *

THE BROTH OF A BOY.

AN IRISH LYRIC.

AIR,—­I’m the boy for bewitching them

  Whisht, ye divils, now can’t you be aisy,
    Like a cat whin she’s licking the crame. 
  And I’ll sing ye a song just to plase you,
    About myself, Dermot Macshane. 
  You’ll own, whin I’ve tould ye my story. 
    And the janius adorning my race,
  Although I’ve no brass in my pocket,
    Mushagra!  I’ve got lots in my face. 
      For in rainy or sunshiny weather,
        I’m full of good whiskey and joy;
      And take me in parts altogether,
        By the pow’rs I’m a broth of a boy.