the belief of the most eminent jurists of those days, that her sudden demise saved Peter Cooper from a residence of ten years in the dungeons of the State. Peter Cooper has long bamboozled this city and country with his bogus philanthropy. He has not, and never will surrender his right, nor that of his heirs, to the building bearing the imposing inscription of “Union” and “To Science and Art.” He will let the first four stories, and pocket the rent, but the fifth story being (like the upper story of the Wall street buildings,) almost valueless, and which he could hardly let at all, he designs devoting to human learning, by letting it to itinerating lecturers for as much as he can squeeze out of them, and put that in his pocket also. And from my knowledge of his narrow mind, (he having been my Grammar pupil in his old age,) I do not believe that he will ever let the fifth story of his bogus scientific edifice to any lecturer who differs with his political or religious views. The penurious old rascal has furnished the immortal “Union” and “Science” and “Art” fifth story with the dilapidated and wormy benches of the old Wash Tub Tabernacle, and of Dr. Spring’s old brick church, which were too much decayed for a wholesome and patriotic or political bonfire. By all his noise and imposture about devoting his building to “Union, Science, and Art,” he has succeeded in prohibiting the construction of an edifice (on the vacant square at the junction of the Third and Fourth Avenues) far more beautiful than his, and by foiling that project, he greatly enhanced the value of his own property. And through his stupendous “Union,” and “Science” and “Art” imposition, he has cheated the New York Common Council into voting him a reduction of $8,000 worth of taxes on his building. There never was such a cunning wretch as Peter Cooper, whose craft would make the devil himself blush. Through his pretended love of his species, and his spurious earnest regard for the culture of the youth of the present and of coming generations, he has foisted the merest old granny that ever existed on the noble Metropolis as Mayor; and, not content with the Mayoralty and nearly all of the Executive Departments in his grasp, this cunning old rat directs the Mayor (who married his adopted daughter) to appoint his (Peter’s) own son Edward as Street Commissioner, which is worth millions in the hands of such cunning old thieves as Peter Cooper and Daniel F. Tieman, who have been stealing the public money through their enormous speculations and gigantic suburban operations, ever since they entered the Common Council in 1828. I have got the data to write a hundred pages on Peter Cooper’s indictment, while he had a glue factory on the old Boston road, and his niggardly meanness to his nieces and nephews, and other kindred, and to the poor Irishmen at present in his glue factory in the vicinity of New York. He screws down all in