Talbot County GaArchives News.....Brown Behind The Bars Miller's Slayer Looks Like a Madman March 17, 1898
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Meredith Clapper http://www.genrecords.net/emailregistry/vols/00012.html#0002801 March 18, 2026, 3:37 pm

The Macon Telegraph  P 3 March 17, 1898
The Appearance of the Old Man Excites the Pity of His Friends--The Story of His 
Life Shows More of a Shadow Than of Sunshine.

Talbotton, Ga., March 16.  In the dense, dark shadows of the Talbot county jail 
sits a poor, pitiful trembling soul, whose palsied hands are crimson with the 
blood of a fellow-creature, whose form totters with premature age, whose blood-
shotten eyes blink and quiver, piercing the darkness.  This is Scott Brown, the 
Talbot county murderer, who shot and killed John Henry Miller on Saturday night, 
March 12. 
In a maudlin way Brown sits and retrospects the bygone years--years made up of 
some light, but many, many shadows; shadows cast athwart his pathway by that 
demon of destruction, whisky; years of conflict, years of drunken brawls and 
provoked quarrels; years spent in fighting the courts; years of gains and losses 
by his own misdoings; and now like a gaunt spectre, all blood-stained, rises the 
thoughts of a  horrible crime, the horror that a guilty soul must feel in taking 
the life of another, especially when that other is in the brightest flush of 
early manhood.  Brown has been a man who could have made of his life what he 
willed, with a naturally bright mind, well equipped by a fair education, fine 
business qualifications, generous impulses, of an excellent family, married early 
in life to a noble woman, whose untiring devotion and tender ministries ought to 
have been a day-star in his heart for good, yet evil triumphed over good; whiskey 
over a woman's Christian influence, and Satan over it all, and now rests this 
dark brand of Cain upon his brow.
In the mountains of north Georgia sleeps all that was mortal of young Miller.  
O'er him the March winds weep and the mountain pines sigh in mournful requiem.
On the night of the 12th young Miller was passing the home of Brown, singing 
merrily, singing with that joyousness a heart feels intent upon a helpful deed. 
On an errand of mercy he was bent, to the home of a sick friend he was going to 
watch all night by the bedside; with a gentle hand to smooth the pillows of the 
fevered sufferer, to administer medicine and soothe with his young voice the long 
hours of the night.  Gaily sounded that last song on the night wind; thrilled, 
perchance, with too much happiness for the lonely man in the lonely home, for to 
him there was no music in the song.  Its very gladness filled him with rage.  His 
poor, solitary heart had no sympathy for the joyousness of youth.  Out he rushes, 
shotgun in hand; the shaking, palsied hands pulls the trigger, unerring was the 
aim; hushed was the glad song; only the echo of the gun's crashing report.  The 
shot entered just above the heart, making a fearful hole.  Young Miller lived 
about two hours, and as his dying testimony said there was no provocation for the 
deed. 
Silenced forever is the blithe young voice, stilled the young heart which beat 
with such high hopes, ended the young life or seventeen brief summers. 
Brown will plead self-defense; that young Miller had been for some time molesting 
his stock and making free use for long nightly trips.
The case will, in all probability, come up next week.  



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