to you as I did to Fanny Wright, and Robert Dale Owen, and George H. Purser, and to the City of New York in its hour of peril. Do this, my dear Kingsland, and I will lobby through the Common Council the Ganzevoort jobs, and all the oil contracts you desire, and let you go where you please unmolested; and you can join Messrs. Paine & Phalon in musical, or lottery and policy operations, and buy as many millions of dollars’ worth of land in Williamsburgh and Greenpoint, and own as many licentious houses in Church, and Leonard, and other streets, as you desire, and I will not cull a solitary hair from your beautiful and conscientious skull. What is your response?” _Kingsland._—“Have I not declared that you were my first choice for Chief of Police?” _Matsell._—“Yes. But that was only a verbal declaration. I desire the bird in my own cage. I want the fascinating documents under your signature.” _Kingsland._—“Waiter: Bring me pen, ink and paper. [Writes.] There, Matsell, there it is, but do not use it until I see my political friends, and conciliate them with the assurance that your appointment was absolutely essential to the preservation of the Metropolis from riots, and sword, and fire, and ashes. If I fail to allay their exasperation, I shall send them to you, and if you fail to pacify them with promises of appointment, and those sweet accents that flow like Stuart’s syrup from your ruddy lips, and your oriental bows, and meek scrapes, and cringing smiles,—why, then, you must put your bloodhounds on their track on howling tempest nights, (when only owls dare prowl through the fearful darkness of ether,) who will pursue them to the dens of infamy and revelry, and blasphemy, and obscenity, and dicery, when you will have them in your awful clutches, as you have me. O, God! Matsell, I hardly know what I say. Wine works wonders, and now let us fill our glasses to the brim, and have another dulcet cream, and depart for the Metropolis,—and at our nocturnal farewell, let us kneel and swear beneath the universal concave, that we will cling to each other like Damon and Pythias, or Burr and Arnold, until our wormy conquerors begin their happy feast, and grin and dance over our silent and icy forms in the dreary and awful sepulchre. But remember my oil and other contracts, Matsell. Be piously true to them. When we next meet, I’ll tell you how to effect their continuation with the Aldermen, if you don’t know already, from your limited experience.” _Chorus._ O, oil is the thing That the stuff will bring, Which will buy sweet cream To eat on life’s stream. [More ice-cream next Saturday, of a superior quality.] Supervisor Blunt. Two more public documents, written by Stephen H. Branch for Orison Blunt, who was Alderman of the Third Ward in 1854, and Alderman of the Fifteenth Ward in 1857, and is now Supervisor from the Fifteenth Ward. [From the N. Y. Herald, April 22, 1851.] Paul Julien’s Second Concert.