He is not the least of a formalist. If he has a guest, whom he asks to take a glass of wine with him, he will himself search for the keys of the side-board, if the servant happens to be absent, produce the decanters and glasses himself, and tell some pleasant story the while. When he talks of men, he speaks of their worth, and seldom of their wealth. With his purse he is too open, and too often he bestows more than his means warrant, upon some needy applicant, for whom he can find no office, or whom he may think unfitted for one. For the President his family have the most unbounded love. The only restraint they know, is what they think he would not approve; and their familiar talk among themselves is never checked, in the least, by his entrance; it is, on the contrary, promoted. These little personal traits of President Tyler and his family, which might be easily extended into a volume, are offered to the readers of the KNICKERBOCKER as being not without interest, since they illustrate the private character of the Chief Magistrate of our great Republic, and with the assurance that they are strictly true. F. A CONTRASTED PICTURE. FROM 'PASSION ODE,' AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY J. RHEYN PIKSOHN I. IT was a glorious day When, on the winding way That led to Salem's towers and temple high, From the assembled throng Loud burst the choral song: 'Hosanna in the highest!' rang the cry; While shouting thousands lined the road, And boughs of palm before triumphant JESUS strowed. II. 'Tis morning: and again The mighty crowds of men Tread Salem's streets and throng her towers high; Their many-voiced roar Swells louder than before, But 'crucify him!' is the savage cry; The furious curse the welkin tore, 'His blood be on us and our children ever more!' III. In vain false Pilate stands; No washing of the hands Clears from the heart the tinct of innocent blood. The crowd, with cruel care, Load his shoulders bare, Like Isaac's, with the sacrificial wood: And the red lash, with many a blow, Scourges his faltering steps along the road of wo. IV. Nor stripes, nor mockery, Nor heaped-up agony, Can wring from infinite Love one vengeful word: While suffering JESUS stands Amidst your pagan bands, And ye laugh round, ye cruel hearts abhorred, Hear the LORD'S dying prayer for you: 'Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do!' V. Through the city doors The shouting tumult pours, And up the steep of Calvary they wind; Golgotha! on thee They plant the accursed tree; No pity can the God of pity find. Pierced were the hands that gave them bread. And fast 'the beauteous feet that brought good tidings' bled! THE MAIL ROBBER. NUMBER TWO.