BRANDON.

Sarah Childress Polk is the daughter of an enterprising and wealthy merchant of Rutherford county, Tennessee. She was married on the first of January, 1824.

Fitted to dignify and adorn any station appropriate for woman, while presiding at the White house she was universally esteemed, and retired as honorably as any woman since the days of Washington. She is intelligent, refined, unaffected, affable, courteous, hospitable, and, above all, pious, and exemplary as a Christian. She has been for years in communion with the Presbyterians; and while at the Capital, and the eyes of the whole nation were upon her, she forbade, in the President's mansion, any amus.e.m.e.nt not in keeping with the Christian profession. In this respect, it may be said of her, in the language of Shakspeare,

Thou art not for the fashion of these times.

The following poetical tribute, from the pen and heart of Mrs. Stephens, is well merited:

LADY! had I the wealth of earth To offer freely at thy shrine, Bright gold, and buds of dewy birth, Or gems from out the teeming mine, A thousand things most beautiful, All sparkling, precious, rich, and rare, These hands would render up to thee-- Thou n.o.ble lady, good and fair!

For, as I write, sweet thoughts arise Of times when all thy kindness lent A thousand hues of Paradise To the fleet moments as they went; Then all thy thoughts were winged with light, And every smile was calm and sweet, And thy low tones and gentle words Made the warm heart's blood thrill and beat.

There, standing in our nation's home, My memory ever pictures thee As some bright dame of ancient Rome, Modest, yet all a queen should be.

I love to keep thee in my mind, Thus mated with the pure of old, When love with lofty deeds combined, Made women great and warriors bold.

When first I saw thee standing there, And felt the pressure of thy hand, I scarcely thought if thou wert fair, Or of the highest in the land; I knew thee gentle, pure as great; All that was lovely, meek and good; And so I half forgot thy state In love of thy bright womanhood.

And many a sweet sensation came That lingers in my bosom yet, Like that celestial, holy flame That vestals tremble to forget And on the earth, or in the sky, There's not a thought more true and free Than that which beats within my heart, In pleasant memory of thee.

Lady, I gladly would have brought Some gem that on thy heart may live; But this poor wreath of woven thought Is all the wealth I have to give.

All wet with heart-dew, fresh with love, I lay the garland at thy feet, Praying the angel forms above To weave thee one more pure and sweet.

THE WIDOW JENKINS.

In humblest vales the patriot heart may glow.

J. T. FIELDS.

At the time Colonel Watson, the commander of a corps of regulars and tories, was making inroads upon the Pedee, he pitched his tent one night near the house of a widow named Jenkins, and took up his own quarters under her roof. Learning, in the course of the evening, that she had three sons fighting under General Marion, he commenced the following conversation with her:

"So, madam, they tell me you have several sons in General Marion's camp; I hope it is not true."

She said it was very true, and was only sorry that it was not a thousand times truer.

"A thousand times truer, madam!" replied he, with great surprise, "pray what can be your meaning in that?"

"Why, sir, I am only sorry that in place of three, I have not three thousand sons with General Marion."

"Aye, indeed! well then, madam, begging your pardon, you had better send for them immediately to come in and join his majesty's troops under my command: for as they are rebels now in arms against their king, should they be taken, they will be hung as sure as ever they were born."

"Why, sir, you are very considerate of my sons; for which, at any rate, I thank you. But, as you have begged my pardon for giving me this advice, I must beg yours for not taking it. My sons, sir, are of age, and must and will act for themselves. And as to their being in a state of rebellion against their king, I must take the liberty, sir, to deny that."

"What, madam! not in rebellion against their king? Shooting at and killing his majesty's subjects like wolves! don't you call that rebellion against their king, madam?"

"No, sir, they are only doing their duty, as G.o.d and nature commanded them, sir."

"The d----l they are, madam!"

"Yes, sir, and what you and every man in England would glory to do against the king, were he to dare to tax you contrary to your own consent and the const.i.tution of the realm. 'Tis the king, sir, who is in rebellion against my sons, and not they against him. And could right prevail against might, he would as certainly lose his head as ever king Charles the First did."[83]

[83] Weems' Marion, pp. 182-3.

A FAITHFUL LITTLE GIRL.

Labor in the path of duty Beam'd up like a thing of beauty.

C. P. CRANCH.

"A very profane and profligate sailor, who belonged to a vessel lying in the port of New York, went out one day from his ship into the streets, bent on folly and wickedness. He met a pious little girl, whose feelings he tried to wound by using vile and sinful language. The little girl looked him earnestly in the face, warned him of his danger, and, with a solemn tone, told him to remember that he must meet her shortly at the bar of G.o.d. This unexpected reproof greatly affected him. To use his own language, 'it was like a broadside, raking him fore and aft, and sweeping by the board every sail and spar prepared for a wicked cruise.'

Abashed and confounded, he returned to his ship. He could not banish from his mind the reproof of this little girl. Her look was present to his mind; her solemn declaration, 'You must meet me at the bar of G.o.d,'

deeply affected his heart. The more he reflected upon it, the more uncomfortable he felt. In a few days his hard heart was subdued, and he submitted to the Saviour."

HOSPITALITY OF CALIFORNIA WOMEN.

Blest that abode where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair.

GOLDSMITH.

In his Three Years in California, the Rev. Walter Colton speaks as follows of the native women:

Their hospitality knows no bounds; they are always glad to see you, come when you may; take a pleasure in entertaining you while you remain; and only regret that your business calls you away. If you are sick, there is nothing which sympathy and care can devise or perform, which is not done for you. No sister ever hung over the throbbing brain or fluttering pulse of a brother with more tenderness and fidelity. This is as true of the lady whose hand has only figured her embroidery or swept her guitar, as of the cottage-girl wringing from her laundry the foam of the mountain stream; and all this from the _heart_! If I must be cast, in sickness or dest.i.tution, on the care of a stranger, let it be in California; but let it be before avarice has hardened the heart and made a G.o.d of gold.

SARAH LANMAN SMITH.

Where'er the path of duty led, With an unquestioning faith she trod.

T. W. RENNE.

Among the many names endeared to the friends of missions, is that of Sarah L. Smith, a native of Norwich, Connecticut. Her maiden name was Huntington. She was born in 1802; made a profession of religion in youth; became the wife of the Rev. Eli Smith in July, 1833; embarked with him for Palestine the September following; and died at Boojah, near Smyrna, the last day of September, 1836.