Evening Star Supplement, December 4,1875.

The Murdered Drover.

Many years ago, when I lived in Mary land, a neighbour of mine—one Albert Odyne —waking in the night, heard something which sounded much like the hoofs of a horse as the animal wanders listlessly over the frozen ground. He was an honest old farmer, and had several horses of his own.. He believed that all his animals were securely stabled ; but when the noise of hoofs pounding the hard soil approached his window, he thought it was time to get up and recon noitre. Therefore, although his good lady heaved a heavy sigh and muttered : 'O, Jerusalem ! Why upon 'arth can't the man lay still P I've got a hard day's work befora me to-morrow morning,' yet the fanner carefully got out of bed and raised his window.

Oq looking out, Farmer Odyne saw a hors • near the house moving to and fro, with, his nose to the earth, as if seeking for while on his back was a saddle with low-hanging stirrups. As the horse raised his head and looked toward the open window, the farmer discovered a bridle on the head of the beast, though the bight had slipped over his ears and was dangling below. This was a case that required looking into, for it was a cold, wintry night; and some traveller might have become benumbed and fallen from his horse.

The farmer now hastily dressed him self, and his wife, being informed of what her husband had seen, no longer thought of the hard day's work on the morrow, but, springing out of bed. rushed the logs and kindling wood on the anlirons, and! soon had 'the fire fair blazing and the vestment warm.'

In a few minutes the good woman had everything prepared for receiving the luckless stranger whom the frost had touched.

On first goinj out of the front door Mr. Odyne observed an .ox looking over into' his garden, the neck of the animal resting' on the top of the fence. He ran out into' the road, and soon met two more oxen,! and immediately afterward he became sensible that there was a whole herdj scattered hither and thither, andenjoyingj ' the largest liberty.' j He now felt certain that some unlucky drover had fallen by the wayside; and' then, for the first time, a sinister thought; plowed its way sharply through his brain J and his heart beat more quickly as the questioQ arose : j ' Am I myself altogether safe on this road ab this time of ni«?ht ?' He tried to quiet his suspicions and went briskly forward. He had long passed the hindermost of the oxen, when, coming near a farm-house whose gabld looked out on the road, he saw something dark lying on the ground, which might be the object which he sought. He went up to it and found that it was the body of a man lying in a heap on the frozen ground. He reached out hid hand to feel whether the heart of the fallen man, was still beating, when it came in contact with something hard. He soon discovered that this was the handle of a dagger which had been thrust to the hilt into the breast Of the deceased. Odyne now ran to the nearest tavern and aroused ! the landlord. Half the village was on the spot in a few minutes, for there was a. tremendous excitement. the murdered man having been quickly recognized as one Jacob Beaman, a wealthy drover living on the southern border of Pennsylvania,

On examining the body, the coroner found that deceased had been shot as well as stabbed. A rifle ball had entered the temporal bone, and was doubtless lodged in his brain. A couple of; swaggering young men, belonging to the village* spoh came up, and having examined the dagger, swore that it belonged to Mr.' Silas Doane, the farmer near whose house the corpse was found. Doane. was present, and confessed that the dagger was his; but he added that it was an old, rusty affair that had been long kicking about in his chaisehouse, and that any. one might have taken it from thence. . ' O, yes,' cried one of the bullies ; ' that is very likely, yet it is the coroner's duty to search your house, for it's no trifling thing to find this dagger of yours in a dead man's breast.' i fount .'• I The coroner confessed that he could do no less than search the premises, while he said, rather roughly, to the man who proposed this measure: 'I suppose that you would like to put Mr Doane to inconvenience, as he complained of you and your friend here last summer, and had you put in gaol for a misdemeanor. You have owed him a spite ever since.' • Spite or no spite,' cried the, other, ' you find old Doane's weapon in this dead man's heart.' ~

'I shalldomy duty,'returned the coroner, pushing the young men aside and entering the farm-house, followed by the tavern keeper, constables and others. During the search the two young mem were part* icularly busy, opening.this! door and that, and peeping into every cranny. The coroner could find nothing in, the, shape of a rifle, and had already begun to apologize to Mr. Doane for giving him so much trouble, when one of the graceless i scamps pushed open the door of the milk room and cried: ••■;•■•;:.;

'We have not looked in here yet ■!'• The coroner, with a listless air,. entered

the apartment,... followed by a village lawyer, and just turning over a tin pan offlmsfa9s Qfttto shelf near a; window^

something fell to the floor. The coroner picked it up; it Was a large pocket-book. Surely, tinder a pan in the milk-room was a strange1 place for a pocket-book; still the coroner held it doubtingly in his hand, when the lawyer observed : ' Better open it, Mr. Butter worth.' The pocket-book was accordingly opened. It contained seven dollars in bank-notes, a receipt for five buudred dollars, and an old letter much worn. The coroner examined the name, on the back, one of the young roisterers being very officious in holding the candle near the letter. The coroner held the missive under the eyes of the lawyer, and both of them at once looked very grave, exchang ing meaning glances. The letter was directed to 'Mr. Jacob Beaman,' the murdered man.

The coroner immediately ordered the constable to arrest Mr. Doane. Soon after a loud sbriek was heard proceeding from a distant apartment; the shriek was uttered by the wife of the prisoner. The letter was opened. It came from a nephew of the murdered man, living at Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. In the letter that young man earnestly besought his uncle to consent to his marriage with a girl in humble life, to whom he was madly attached. It contained a great deal of romantic rhetoric about marrying for money, and highly extolled the virtues of the poor girl with whom the writer was smitten. It was afterward known that the wealthy drover had fixed his eye upon a young lady highly connected, and had assured his nephew that unless he married her, he would not leave him a cent at his death, but would alter his will in favor of a more distant relative, living in P^nsa cola.

Silas. Doane was imprisoned, tried, convicted, and sentenced to death; several other circumstances appearing to confirm his guilt on the trial.

But the governor of Maryland was not satisfied with the verdict of the jury, and tho friends of Doane soon produced testimony which, in the view of the executive, warranted him in granting a reprieve of three months. One Belief Swazey—a poor half-witted girl in the service of the Doanes—stated, in a roundabout way, that, on the night of the murder, she heard a noise as of some one opening the window which led from the rear garden into the milk-room, and that, in looking from her window soon after, she saw two men runniug through the garden. A few weeks afterward a traveller called on the governor and stated that, riding through that part of the township on the night of the murder, he saw two men carrying a heavy burden, resembling the body of a man, along the public road. Supposing they were carrying home one of their companions who had taken too much whiskey, he thought no more of the matter, till accidentally seeing an old paper, while he was staying in Richmond, Va., which gave an account of Doane's trial, he was struck with the coincidental circumstances. He described one of the men who carried the body as tall and slender, the other as short and stout. Such, indeed, were the two rogues who had been so earnest to procure the conviction of the prisoner! Both of them were arrested and put in the county prison. They were very much frightened, and pretended to make a confession. They said they were out late, on-.tlje^night of the murder, when, finding: the,.dead body of the drover at some distance from the house of Mr. Doane, they determined to fasten suspicion upon him, as they owed him a deep grudge and had sworn to be revenged.' Accordingly, tljey picked up the body, carried it and deposited it near the house of Doane, went to the chaise house and got the old, rusty dagger, which they thrust into the body; then they took the drover's pocket-book from the breast of his coat, went behind the house, raised the window which led into the milk-room, deposited it under a tin-pan and cut for life ' ;:.: ;

Many believed this story; others mocked. The two young men were generally believed to be guilty of the murder. The governor pardoned Silas Doane, and he was set at liberty; but the hand of Cain was on his brow, as a considerable number of the community believed in his guilt. They said the poor simpleton, Liefly Swazey, had been suborned, and that the two prisoners had founded their confession on her story, as the readiest means of getting out of prison.

Finally, the two rogues broke out of prison and made good their escape. Satisfied that they would never come back, the villagers very generally rejoiced that they had left that part of the country, for they had been regular nuisances.

Several years had passed away and the murder ot the rich drover had become ah old story. Then it was that, lying late one morning, I had a dream—if dream it could be called—in which that old Jacob Beaman, the murdered drover, stood at my bedside in his long Guemsev frock!, and with uplifted hand said : ' Bring my murderer to justice. Avenge my blood, which cries from the ground against the ungrateful one.'

' How can I do that ?' demanded I; I know him not, and, even if I did, how could I prove that he did the deed ?'

Thereupon the face of the drover became distorted with an expression of the most violent anger, and, muttering 'Mary Brown,' he disappeared as suddenly as he came.

♦A very foolish dream,' said T, as I woke, though the cold sweat stood in htjge drops upon i»y (Qiel^ead. "Who was

Mary Brown, and how could she have shot the drover ? '"'-*. ,'--:•''

A week passed and I had almost forgot ten, my dream, when taking up a news paper, the first thing that met my eye was the advertisement of a clairvoyant Spiritualist who pretended to do several things which are generally supposed to be beyond the power of mortal' man. The advertisement was signed - Mary Brown.' The coincidence was remarkable, and for a moment I seemed again to hear the sepulchral tones ot the drover as he pronounced the»name of 'Mary Brown. ' One likes to believe in wonders if he can, especially when he is individually associated with them, and for a moment I felt flattered in having been chosen by the departed drover as his medium of communication with this lower world. Then came intrusive reason, which has demolished so many an air-built fabric rich with rainbow glories. It suggested : ' You have seen this name,' Mary Brown,' at some other time, when carelessly glancing over the advertisements, and it came back to you in your dream. A very common occurrence.' Very well, thought I. . Nothing is easier than to test this over-sceptical reason by attending one of the seances of Miss Mary Brown. Hamlet tested his ghost and found it to be a genuiDe article. ' It was a true ghost,' said he to his friend Horatio after the play. That very night I called at the house of Mary Brown, and found her seated at a large table, with a dozen persons around it of both sexes. A tall, slender young man in black sat near the register, and now and then rubbed his hands over it. I took my place at the table. ' I can settle with you as well now as at any other time,' said Miss Brown to her visitor at the register. 'O! no, no, madam,' returned ne politely ; ' lamin no hurry for my rent— none at all —besides, I like to witness the performance. Continue on, and don't mind me.' So tnis was Mary Brown's landlord. In a moment one lady suggested that ' perhaps Dr. Beaman would like to get some communications himself.' I started at the name of Beaman, and while the young gentleman was declining with thanks, saying : * Really, madam, it would be no use, as I have no faith.' I asked a gentlemen at my side if the speaker was a nephew and heir to the rich;' drover who was murdered several years' ago. ' Yes,' was the reply; ' a very fine young man, I believe, has improved the property, been very successful in specula tions, married a fine girl, very beautiful but very poor. Lucky for him that ihe old man dropped off just as he did. It was the turning point.' My informant paused, for three loud raps, that made the mahogany quiver, were given, apparenlty, on the other side of the table. , Even the medium started with surprise. At length, recovering herself, she smiled serenely, and remarked : 'We are getting more company than we bargained for ; the earnest spirit is a new comer.' One of the ladies turned to a gentleman near her, and said: 'lam frightened ; hadn't we better go ?' , , . The gentleman laughed her out of the notion, and I said : , 'Perhaps that spirit is calling for Mr. Beaman, and is angry at his scepticism.' ■.:....-. Beaman laughed, and said he had never before imagined himself to be a person of so much importance. S ' But,' said 1,.' as you are a sceptic, sirj, you are the man who ought to come to the table and get converted. You know that the physician is not for the wholei but for the sick.' Here most of the company—especially the ladies—joined with me in parsuading Mr. Beaman to take a seat at the table. He, could no longer refuse without appearing perverse, and, therefore, in a laughing, jaunty manner, he placed him self at the table. ' Have you no deceased friend or relative from whom you would like to receive a communication ?' inquired the medium, gently. There was a pause. I looked at the countenance of Beaman; it was pale as death, ' Yes,' cried a little girl at the end of the table, ' I'm sure Mr. Beaman would like to hear from his good old uncle.' * I have more resoect, more veneration for my deceased relative,' answered in a hoarse voice, 'than td associate his name with what to me— begging pardon of the company—are naught but juggling tricks.' As the speaker finished the last words* those thre xc terrible knocks on the bottom side, of the .table made the latter jump under our hands, and drew forth a low shriek from more than one lady present. ' That's he,' cried the medium; * now! I'm sure, you can't refuse, Mr. Beaman.' And, at the moment, tb* medium's hand and arm shook , yv-',; '; Vr n yM_l seized a pencil as this . V spirit influence, requiring her to wrue.v ,„ j.'.] She,wrote, however, but a few, wbrds; when the influence passed, and her hand became stationary. The medium. seemed to expect a renewal of the influence, and Waited two minutes, when a, lady said: * Pray, Miss Brown, read what you have written.' .

The medium took up the paper, held it to the light and read : ' Secure my murderer; he is present.' The believers looked around on every side, scanning eyeiy face at the taWe» while one or two

iscepticsi smiledYb^t it was a %omewhal ghastly smile; nevertheless. r: (;' .Asa was a stranger many-keen glances were^-Tslwjt at my Countenance'; _]ox_i fj_\ was looking at young Beaman. He sat motionless, like an image of white marble. He said not a word; but in a few moments He 'roije and staggered toward tbe door. Before he half reached it he fell senseless to the -~ wJJL

We picked him up and means were used to restore him to consciousness. He only partially recovered and then com plained of terrible pain a,bout the heart. He was conveyed home in his own coach, whidh had, been Seat for. The physician told him'that he could not recover. Theu he sent for a clergyman, to Whom he confessed that, being determined to marry the young girl, who was absolutely necessary to his happiness, and being assured that if he married her his uncle would disinherit him, he, had v followed his uncle one night,' When the latter was driving his cattle to Ba'timore, until coming to a sdlitaryplace, where there were no houses, he shot him dead with a rifle. . ..;. ...; _. I fill1 I «.;.;■ _bni l>|(j ! What else passed between Beaman and his religious counsellor is known only ,to the latter. In two days Beaman. breathed his last; "His' amiable and lovely J young wife, struck to the heart on learning' her husband's guilt, survived' him only five months.' "*&d a&oicp '•• Ktyuipobcof

A War Incident.

How a Dose, of Qpittm Blockaded

THE EIfEMX.

-ii.i'u [From the New York graphic] = ' Lieutenant,' said ihe adjutant, .. rei port to the coloneL at his quarters instantly.' - - • ■ i • ..'' Stop, adjutant • what's up ?' asked the lieutenant. .\hhem Bioaoil j 'Don't know, on honor/ was the reply. ;■■ ■ ' '■ ■'.'.'■■■'' "" j .f.-^Q-en. Gordon was here yesterday; and has just called again. The colone} gave me the wink to step, but. It's 4 big job, though, I'm thinking, and you are m it.' [' j The young officer hastily uniformed and reported. The gray-headed colonel met him at his tent door, closed it carefully, and, handing a stools said irj. low tones: ' 'This is a dark evening, my boy, ancj. I have dark work for you. G-en. Gor don asked me yesterday in our con fidential interview if I had an officer whose self-control and control over his men I could implicitly rely on in great danger. I said yes—-named you. He| has just left here, and you will report to his head-quarters at sunset for a most difficult rote—the command of th^ outlying picket. The enemy will 'cerj tainly endeavour to flank ■ -us to-night, and if he gets thepositibn/whicKoul lack of reinforcements' has "Hitherto prevented us assuming we '' will'b&sub| jected to a disastrous 'retreat oaind certain loss. You take your i life ds^ your hand, my boy, but it is'-ajpost-oi great honor. I have ho fears. ">■■ Qpf ready at once.' <■■ WR■■■•■'■'{ f The young officer thanked f>hif superior, returned to his 'tent,' and, having carefully equipped* kiraselfj scribbled a few lines to his loved ones,; explaining matters, and praying them not to grieve if he fell—he would fall bravely if at all—and^ besides, they knew life to him was a heavy burden (how heavy r alas ! only the opium-eater knows) ; and then,* having sealed • the letter—indorsed ' to< be delivered if t fall'—he knelt down and committed himself and his all unto Him .who neither Blumbereth nor sleepeth, and with whom there are no accidents. j The brave old colonel, showed I only too plainly in throwing his own canteen; of brandy 'over .'the i boy's shoulders and nervously pushing him from his embrace that he feared1 it would be their last embrace on earth. smii Bmtit j

• Jumping' intoj 'an ambulance the lieutenant soon saluted Gen. Gordon, received his orders, and at .the ' ap pointed hour, 10 p.m., was i safe in command of the picket force. Two hours after, whilst; on, the round, he, felt the time;had now come to streng then himself with the customary dose of morphine—nay a double dose. He unbuttoned his coat and felt for it. Oh, herrbr of horrors! in his haste he had come off and left the morphine in his valise! He saw that he was ruined,; undone,) ; and,. disgrace inevitable.; What should he 4»? Heavens ! thg tortures of that' hour! Amoment'sj reflection —he knows it will take one hour for the opium to produce, effect; thafe in; one hour, without it, his, voice now | clear, encouraging,, commanding, would be as shrill andjCsreaky as ; that of an old woman ripe for ( the, grave,; and as wholly unfitted for command. But Oiie course is; left,| thought he—throw up the sponge, and make a full expose. ' To.the rear,' cried he to a corporal; 'to the rear quickly, and tell Maj. P. to meet me,at 'the centre' in fifteen minutes/ . : ■ tes IJ

I.|^.u^^d;ihei;ifew trembli, [lieutenant itfet^-' m 1 ihe whispers, < you Telieve-me, and at once. I am d very ill.' n 'Eelieve you, lieutenant', respig the brave major, sternly: 'relieve but—never. Sick ?—nonsense! L and bear it; be a man! Retire 1 and you are "eternally- dfrgracrtet stigma 'coward' ever yourir^anßft know it. You astound me-M measure, andufflessybucover v o s with glory to-night r as we all llelien I shall haye,youiaiTested and wm you know for what. ~ ' Major!' shrfekedlihe whisi back, * stop—listen! liam aconftj opium-eater; I leftimyrhorphiiie;^ tent—forgot it-^ahd am now stifieH for the infernal !drug.,^ , / Maj. P. sprang from his horssft instant. < Will crude opium do;*ot he asked. '',-".; f ' Yes; I can make it answer.' ;i9 He pulled but a halifDoundo^ift stuff from oil silk,1 and1 cut offi hunk. ,;, ; i, ■'„' 1 ffl tv, JBrute, majpr ?' ' Yes,' he responded,*l use it 6 and know how! to sympathize wisf With it we are devils, in cool Cburg without it, cringing vassals. <■ &%__ us! You wpl^doiiowi3 know.' t And ; thOi young did Two hours'&ft&'; th&adjance 0 the enemy^was sterniyreptdsed."! foe saw^ he;; li^,;been^bißtraye^y the rebs were prepared for ';_ijm after, a hotrfirej sullenly l. retired^ the coinfederates, instead of retro! advanced ait daylight next mprninl -mj_ Old, Soldier's Adttafi An old soldier of the\First Jsj has just died' who \ had a most 'dip adventure^ ,., Bis name was ions and he, wasia^ybun^fprivate'M^ when the French took' OBugea, a 1 island in the\3^4Mc.i/rlt;.W^:iQ!^f| by a detachment of Davoust's cor when orders came toI'evacuate iti all haste and "Without ~li ihomii delay. The»» compainionsj gpt:M with such haste thai they M Bousel, who was doing sentinel 'is, upon! an oUtpbSt.1 unai that hisl comrades' hM f,embarked|i waited several' bburs; for' the' k guard, and "-only left his post nil pressed by hunger, to find that M the only Frenchman on the islfi 1 Ahl' me cried)1 f;l'ard set dowi| deseirter-1^- dishonour^ for eveiijl :t_ e < wretched: sentinel began %% like a child; !A man livirig nesl ; touched«-byv this i: distress aridfl t homei with himj lodgedi ' fed?'hfea,'gave him' wbrk,( and afil time bestoweduponhim1 his daiigSS i.hfetfclJo" :iThe 'forgotten vßdlidie^ lflfe 3very«happily• there for 'five jai during which 1' time J a -daught£i|l 'beeti fboid_ l!but one'; day BbussePw 'fthifbwm into a1 gireat state' of excited -l>y 'sight-of £a; -Prencn-flag^ from' the 'masthead bf -l frig^tw imagined that they had sent'toS for him, and that, his time had «W He would certainly be tried, il deserting in time of war-and \jjm But a certain idea gave him coi^( JSunning homey he pub dp his unifw seized his gun and, taking up Mi post, began to march up sahd dOW beat. 'Qui vive ?'! he cried, iP French boat came near the ' lm 'Qui vive yourself?' was' theii ' Sentinel,' responded Eoussel. 'm when?' 'Since Aye years ago.^ explanation took place on shore;! w the deserter malgre Hi was taken« the, islands .v,i Davoust laughed f, heartily when he heard of'the W ture, ari'd;had a conge made out® form and delivered to the soldier; j also procured seme emplbymontJ him, the war^ being then bver, laffl G-overnment gave him a suKiof Vm for his daughter. KEn after yesy brought his family >to FrancegJ seems to have prospered in his la^J

THE FUTURE.

■ i .... . ■~, -, iit] '■:._■!* Turn to the future, If thou wouldst conc«w| The nobler aspirations et the soul; '»'J':i Turn to thp future, if thou wonldst retrievff . Thynature in its one, 1 eternal whole!' ■The past is past.i a shadowy stream ef ■i_v_iM Suck'd in the beds of immortality;; j _m Whose struggling water*.' o'er life's boundW . Have left theitraoes of their potency; ' The past Is full of reverence and aire,. < > 4 Replete with memories fond to every, heart* A silent teacher of unswerving law, ; And of ourselves a vast, enduring .pan. Urn Thepresentis a dream, a mystic power,, s j| That swiftly flits hefore the wondering tjt l Of human hearts the short,; deceivingh»nr«fl Fraught with ho stern and sacred : W^(^ ; The future.'i-ah! the' futnre' is the insn: 1 'Tis Life, 'tis God. to all qur hearts proclstt In it alone our inner selves began s ■ &M ;Toit wa look for^'turtioe, tenth and fsme. j

A woman is very like a kettle, jl come to think of it.' She sings awij pleasantly—then she stops-and when Wexpe&tit,shßb«aßOT«r{, •