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  • Publication Name: Aiken Journal
  • Location: Aiken, South Carolina
  • Pages Available: 2,250
  • Years Available: 1874 - 2002
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View Sample Pages : Aiken Journal, August 08, 1874

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Aiken Journal (Newspaper) - August 8, 1874, Aiken, South Carolina VOLUME 4.—NUMBER 183$2 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE, JI  , shojis it towering above the roof of .a.*; vv^ two story house, while a man who gtard* in its shade near the trunk Iookf diminutive. Mr. Howard’s article treatsi £tlgl of ‘‘The Turaip, Sheep Husbandry and' ^ Soil Improvements” at the^Sodth, and is characterized by £he vigor of style ‘.|X9 .* •    - .'Vt* and thoroughness of knowledge that ^ ways marks his writings. ‘The reminder WM of the number is filled to overflowing with the choicest agrionkural matter, v, Walker, Evans & Cogswell, publishers!, ^Charleston, S. O'. '* ljj| , f *£ ,EAUTIFtL POEM In her dark eye’s painfnl pleading, Fresh my heart begins its bleeding, And life seems a hopeless hell. The Hope of the Broken-Hearted Oh ! then tell me not of sorrow, Such as mine can never borrow Consolation from the morrow ; Morrow knows no joy for mc;— For each day brings some fresh token That in vaine kind words are spoken, To the heart that has been broken— Ever broken must in be. BY MAYNE RIED God of heaven ! has she perished? All on earth I ever cherished— Can a hope not yet be nourished ? Say not, evqry hope is lied ; Friends ! phycians ! save her—save her! Oh! but knew you how I love her, Tau would try your souls-endeavor— It is vain then—she is dead And tj^y*lell me I am lonely— To the wtrld I seem so only— But I never can be lonely; For by day, in dreams by night, There’s a loye-born spirit near me : And she seems to hear and see me : And her dark eye smiles to cheer me With its pure and holly light. Dead and gone I know not whither But her soul returns not hither! Could I only follow thither, Thither joying would I fly— For in life there is no glad^pss, Only sorrowing and sadness : Living longer would be madness, It is better far to die. In the sun at mid-day brilliance, ’Ronnd me still her kind surveiliance, Lurling woes to sweetest dalliance— As when she was by my side ; And when night is closing o’er me, 9|he darkling forms below me, en an angel watching o’er me, Seems my own sweet spirit bride Oh! then tell mo not that sorrow, Such as mine can neverhorrow Consolation from the morrow Morrow knows no joy for me ; For each day brings some fresh token, That in vain kind words arn.spoken To the heart that' has been broken— Ever broken must it be.7 In the mid-night deep and sombre, In my lone and voiceless chamber, Pouring bliss into my slumber, O’er my bosom dark eyes beam. Till the sense is drunk yet aching, With a thirst that knows no slacking And my giddy soul awaking, Half denies it was a dream. Shrouded in her long dark tresses, Feels she not my wild ceruses? Feels she not the lip that presses— Presses hot upon her brow ? Hears sin not my widowed mourning No ! that eye once passion burning, Not an answer is returning : Cold starting at me now. Could a love so well united— For our very souls were plighted— Could such love by death be blighted Blighted never more to bloom ? Oh ! give me a hope that’s sweeter— Tell me—tell me I shall meet her, And with burning kisses greet her, In aland beyond the loom. I have seen what men call fairest— Each may think his own the rarest--But my soul conceives her nearest The embodiment of love ; She is there still—look upon her ! For not yet decay has won her— And, though death’s cold hand is on her. Does she not your pulses move ? Yes! amid my desolation— ’Tis not fanoy’s false creation— That’s a stranger^ sweet consolation Heals my bleeding, broken heart And ivtelteinc 'tvriH given, For our hearts so rudely riven, To unite again in Heaven, Never—nevermore to part. Saw you e’er a cheek so tender ? Ora hand so white and slender ? Ora waist ttfdi would    , Such a yearning to caress ? Saw you eye so liquid ever ? Or a lip so luring ? .Never! ’Twould have made your heart strings quiver, But in life that lip to press.A Brilliant; Record of Cures An American humorist tells us that it would have been money in his pocket if he had been born without a stomach, and then proceeds to figure up the cost of a chronic dyspepsia, to which he is a martyr, and which he says it is impossible to cure. On this point, «Josh Billings,” (for he i3 the party referred to) is mistaken. Unless his stomach differs from all other dyspeptic stomachs. Hostetter^ Bitters will cure him in less than three months. This it would be safe to guarantee under any penalty. There are a/ few, a very few, actual specifics for disease in existence, aud Hostetter^ Stomach Bitters may be set down as one of them. In cases of indigestion it never foils. Persons who have suffered for many years almost every conceivable species of torture from this agonizing complaint, have been permanently cured with the Bitters in six weeks. Hundreds of such instances are on record, authenticated by .the testimony of prominent men in every walk of life, eminent physicians among the number. But this celebrated vegetable preparation is something more than a stomachic and toirc. It is also an aK terative of wonderful virtue. In liver comp laint its effect is as direct and im wdtate as that of calomel or blue pill, and far more salutary ; and in all dis eased conditions of the bowels, notably in cases of constipation, its regulating properties are in the highest degree serviceable. The new settlements in the west and all low-lying tracts of country infested with miasmatic exhalations so fruitful at this season, of the various types of intermittent fevers, should be always well stocked with this incomparable chologue, which will cure any case of fever aud ague in a period varying from three days to three or four weeks, according to the violence of the complaint. Nervous disorders which are always aggravated by the adulterated liquors usually prescribed by physicians, are readily cured by a course of this admirable combination medicine, ia which the properties cf a stimulant, n tonic and alterative are happily blended And she loyed me—she had sworn it— She had won my heart aud worn it— Oh! the anguish that had torn it, They alone can know, who part With the one and only being, Who, by nature’s kind decreeing, Has been blended wit a their being, And entwined around their heart She had neither father—mother— Sister none; nor yet a brother ; She and I were to each other All the world and its joyB ; And from hearts each day united, By our lips fresh vows were plighted— And our souls, with love benighted, Never dremt of its alloy. Oft at midnight from my sleeping, I have woke and found her weeping, And her jealous vigil keeping— Keeping o’er me in my sleep ; For her love was ever zealous— Never cold, and hearty jealous— For the loss of such love, tell us, Is it strange that I would weep ? Oh! then tell me,not that sorrow Such as mine can never borrow Consolation from the morrow— Morrow knows no joy for me— For each day brings some fresh tok< That in vain kind words are spoken To the heart that has been broken-Ever broken must it be.Tile Bursil Carolinian* * There are tw« particular striking features about the present, number of this leading Southern agricultural periodicle. The front is a very handsome fronti-piece, giving the first and only engraving of the celebrated Eucalyptus tree that has ever been published in tuis country. The second is an able article from the pen of that distinguished agricultural writer, C. W. Howard, of Georgia. The Eucalyptus represented ip the frontipicce was planted in 1868, and was not six years old when the photograph was taken from which the engraving was made. Ic is, nevertheless, fifty six feet high, and the engraving \ A LL PERSONS ARE HEREBY jLjk. ed that - William Austen, of AHjjjjft Comity, has no authority 10 act ais’ MBt.* and any representation he may make OS such will not be recognized byline* un interest in the growing crop bai$y plantation, but is vested with no authority to trade or bargain for my account.    v'3&Qfl| J. A« BEAUTI Langley, S. C., June 27th, 1874. And I know’tis vain, and folly, Most profane and most unholly, Thus to mourn, sinoe fate has lowly, Lowly laid that lovely form : Yet far vainer were the notion, That a life-time of devotion Could allay the wild emotion Burning now my bosom warm. No ! I cannot cease to mourn her. Thou ’tis God’s own hand hath torn her And His angel that has borne her, To the home where angels dwell. As I gaze remembrance reading TTERY DESIRABLE SITU A V Main street, Aiken, (“Aiken For further particulars applv dr ess,    HE    X HY Si ;