| 501 A celebrated author tells us, in writing the history of a person, when they arrive at perfect happiness the biographer should stop; for if he proceed further, he must certainly record days of misery, and in the present instance this was but too true. George was persuaded one evening to join some of his friends in a party of pleasure; wine was handed ronnd [round], but he refused to taste it; again and again he was pressed to take some, till at length, not having courage to resist longer, he reluctantly yielded, intending to take but one glass; he thought he had frmness [firmness] to refrain from taking more; but ah! fatal delusion; when he found his resolution beginning to waver, had he left the company, he might have returned to his wife the same being he left her, but having been enticed to take one glass, he had not strength sufficient to persist in refusing a second and it required but little persuasion to induce him to take the third. Poor George! he had now entirely forgotten his resolution, and he drank until nature, unable to support such excess, gave way, and he fell senseless on the floor: he was taken home and laid on his bed, from which he never rose, till he was carried forth to be laid in his last resting place. Who can tell the anguish that filled the heart of that devoted wife, as she hung in speechless agony over her beloved husband, who had parted from her that evening buoyant with health and happiness-now she saw him extended on his death bed, for such indeed it was. The morrow's sun arose, but he did not welcome it with the joy he was wont to do; it shone upon him, but he heeded it not;. its rays imparted no warmth to his body, for they fell upon cold, inanimate clay; in the silent hour of night, his spirit had flown to the God who gave it; it was, indeed, a dreadful stroke to his young wife; a stroke for which she was not prepared; a few hours had changed her from a happy wife to a wretched widow.
Reader-this is no idle tale of fancy! no flight of the imagination-would that it was-but it is a sad reality. What an awful warning does it furnish, not only to the lover of wine, but to every young man, to "touch not, aste [taste] not, handle not."
Hymenial.
Married-in this city July 25th, 1841, by Elder D. C. Smith Mr. George A. Smith to Miss Bethsheba W. Bigler, the former of Lee co. I. T. the latter of this city.
We wish the above happy pair long life, health, joy and peace, and a plenty of the good things of the earth to make them comfortable, with a wise and intelligent family in their old age to make them happy.
Married-At Walnut Grove, Knox county, Ill. by Elder Hiram Hoyt, Mr. Homer C. Hoyt to Miss Sarah Fuller.
Died-In this place July 16th Alice consort of Oliver Olney, aged 41 years. Brother Olney is absent from home and probably knows nothing of the afflicting occurrence.
The deceased has left a large family and a numerous circle of friends to mourn her loss, a loss which is easier felt than told. Of her worth in society we would freely speak could we point it to the mind's eye in its true merits, but language would fail us to tell of her virtues, her patience, her endurance, her godly walk, and motherly care to the orphan, &c. &c. In all her afflictions and persecutions, we are confident that she never was heard to complain. She was truly a saint.
To The Memory of Mrs. Alice Olney.
By Miss Eliza R. Snow.
'Twas not to gain the world's regard,
That she the path of virtue trod;
She sought-she's won a high reward:-
She lov'd and worship'd Israel's God.
'Midst persecution, she has borne-
The keenest pang of deep distress;
But tho' of earthly comforts shorn,
Pursued the ways of happiness.
Screen'd from the world's unhallow'd gaze,
She nobly grac'd her humble lot;
She walk'd in wisdom's golden ways,
And twin'd the wreath of heav'nly thought.
Like a sweet rose that's wont to spread
Its fragrance thro' the darkest gloom;
Her christian life an infl'ence shed,
That does, and will, survive the tomb.
Not like a flowret [floret] in the shade,
That's doom'd to waste its beauties there;
Her's were the charms that will not fade,
Nor perish on terrestrial air.
And tho' she's gone, her virtues twine
A holy wreath above her urn-
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