The Christian Observatory. BY THE EDITOR. The Christian Observatory: A Religious and Literary Magazine. A. W. McCLURE, Editor. It may be well, sometimes to let our readers know the kind of opposition that we have to meet with. The above periodical has been extremely inimical to our whole work. The editor seems at a loss for terms sufficiently bitter to express his views. We know his history, and we expected nothing better. Mr. McClure may lay claim to one thing certainly, and that is originality. It is really a curiosity: PRISONERS' FRIEND. This publication belongs to the insect world. It first made its appearance as a little newspaper, monthly, we believe, called "The Hangman." It was then a creeping thing. Next it became a weekly, under the still more ironical name of " Prisoners' Friend;" as though "hangman" and "prisoners' friend" were all one and the same. This was its chrysalis state, disgusting and helpless. It is now a handsomely printed monthly pamphlet, with a sort of jaunty and literary air. This is its butterfly-state, though it leaves a slimy trace on every leaf and flower where it alights. The way the editor and his helpers befriend the prisoner is, by excusing all his unhandsome peccadilloes, and by laying the blame wholly on an uncertain impersonal something called "Society,' which has organized itself so badly as to compel the poor misfortunate prisoner to steal or kill that he may gratify propensities which he has no other means of indulging. This publication seeks to befriend lovely manslayers also, by bringing capital punishment to an end. It regards life so sacred that it may never be taken. "Yon must not take what you cannot give." We presume that when the editor "catches a flea in his ear," or some other interesting animal which grazes in near vicinity to that organ, he never extinguishes the vitality which he is impotent to impart; but, like Uncle Toby with his fly, turns the depredators loose to prey upon society at large. On the subject of capital punishment, we have a divine law, and the reason of that law; which were also proclaimed long prior to the Mosaic code, and addressed to the whole human race through its second progenitor and his sons. "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed." This is the universal and perpetual law of God; and the reason of the law is added-" FOR in the image of God made he man." As the defacing and overthrowing of the statue of a king is an act of high treason, which stands at the head of all crimes, so to destroy the living image of God is the highest treason against the King of kings. The wilful homicide has murdered God in effigy. For this he stands an outlaw, and is placed in the same class with the wild beast which has destroyed a human being; and "at the hand of every beast," and at the hand of every such brutal man, the blood they have shed is required. Here the maxim applies in full force: "The law remains so long as the reason of the law remains." It is said that the gospel brings in a milder law. But has the gospel taken away "the image of God" from man? Or has it rather, so far as its influence has gone, heightened and perfected that image? If the benevolent power of the gospel has increased our likeness to God, then it has strengthened the reason of the law given through Noah, and so confirms the law itself. Here is the argument in a nut-shell. We will only add, that in Michigan, the only state in the union which has yet abol ished the death-penalty, the people already, after a short trial, are alarmed at the increase of the blacker crimes, aud grand juries are petitioning that the principle of the divine legislation may be restored to the statute-book. 218 An American Editor. [Jan. The Editor would have done well to have come to us for a few facts. The periodical was originally started as a weekly, and has been so continued until within four months. Mr. McClure takes the usual route to find a place for the gallows. He looks about him, and finding no place in the New Dispensation, he at once hastens on, and cuts through the body of Christ, passes by the prophets, and over Moses with his thirtyfour capital offences, and at last arrives at a remarkable period in the history of the world. The earth had been drowned by a deluge. After some days the Great Patriarch of a new world anxious once more to see dry land, sends out the dove which returns with the olive branch. And now as the only family are about to enter and replenish the earth, our editor finds a place whereon to erect his gallows. Fortunate man! We sometimes wonder he and the advocates of blood do not go just the other side of the flood. But no, this would place them at a period of time when even the "lovely manslayer" was suffered to go unhung. But our friend at last comes back and wandering over our great Republic he finds one State where the gallows does not exist, and he then catches at a mere report that this State, Michigan is again to return to the bloody statute. But we cannot follow this eccentric editor. The day will come when the last press will cease to speak in favor of this barbarous law. May the Lord hasten the time. An American Editor. OUR American brethren have an off-hand, free-and-easy, rough-andready way of editing their newspapers. Here is The Prisoners' Friend, a Boston journal filled with a mortal hatred of Jack Ketch—or, at least, of his avocation. The readers wish to know in what language to petition the Legislature for Jack's discharge. "Don't be particular about the form," says the editor. "The undersigned respectfully ask you to abolish the law of Capital Punishment. That is enough" certainly not too much. He is a thrifty man, the editor; economical of his words. He is "much in want of money," however, in spite of his thrift, but has sources of happiness which support him among the shabbiness of subscribers and the atrophy of his pocket. "He is happy to be able to inform his friends that the Rev. Alvin Abbott, a faithful and amiable man, is now devoting his time and talents to lecturing on the abolition of capital punishment, collecting bills, and obtaining subscribers for the Prisoners' Friend!" An invaluable man, Alvin Abbott. "Wanted, a woman!" Our brother stands in need of a volunteer from the fair sex. "One who is a good accountant, understands the mailing of papers, and is familiar with composition, would be preferred." If our friend-(we call him our "friend" because he is the "Prisoners' Friend")—if he has got his want supplied, his paper will not only be mailed, but femaled. What he means by "composition" we don't exactly know. Is the lady to assist him, or the compositors?-Gateshead Observer: The above is from a paper published in Great Britain. It has attracted much notice in this country, having already been extensively copied. We thank the editor for his kind notice. We would just inform him that we have not yet obtained the "volunteer from the female sex," so that our paper is only mailed as yet. We are on the look out, and we shall be glad to let him know when we arrive at so desirable a consumatiou of our wishes. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by J. H. ROBINSON, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. It has THE following poem was written several years ago. It is among the author's earliest productions, although many alterations, and corrections have since been made. The writer has little excuse to make for offering it to the public. many imperfections, no doubt and might afford work enough for the critic should he feel disposed to mark its faults. Ye critics, and poets, speak kindly to the "Fugitive Chief." J. H. R. NIGHT'S noxious vapors, chill, and damp, The Raven's croakings, hoarse, and low- * Bleeding, fainting, hungry, worn, Stretched hopeless 'neath a sheltering tree. The brows depressed, the dusky face A tyrant's varying mood to please And fewer still would wish to make And then that proud, and out-cast man As look the skies when storms are near; That would for one brief moment play The misery of one such day. "Long has it been since words like thine Stranger, I would that thou could'st read [Jan. This night in dreams my requim song Stranger, I would not lay these limbs whims Beside this Lake all cold and still, Its foliage rich, and green would wave From fields of cotton, and of rice A sound goes up to Paradise Oh! who would hear such sad sound twice, And ever wish to list again To such a living note of pain. It is the Negro's weary wail— It murmurs on each passing gale Strange things, at which thou well mayst quail. Those murmurs tell of darkest crime- Of youth, and innocence defiled- How doubly dreary are those strains 'Tis written in the christian creed, That God the words of prayer will heed And answer in thy darkest need; If true, the bondman's prayer sincere In mercy spares this blood-stained land. The christian's prayer can nought avail. In Negro land the skies are clear, * * * My thoughts pursue their wonted track, And wildly wandering take me back Upon the heavy steps of time To brighter scene-to sunnier clime. A thousand blessed mem'ries rise Of native land, of distant skies, While one dear form with love-lit eyes, And truthful heart, and faithful breast, Awakes the thought that cannot rest. No white blood mantled in her face To link her to thy ruthless race : I would have been the first to drain Such venom from her recreant vein. I lov'd Lelis with warmth which few I deem have ever felt or knew, Nor time, nor distance can subdue. When to the heart love's power is lent And it has to its idol bent, Though it had being in a day, It cannot fade or die awayIt is a thing to dare decay A guest which harbored once must stay. Deem it not strange that one so stern The lore of love could ever learn:The coldest human heart will turn To woman, in the darkest hour, And own at last her potent powerThat can o'er sorrow cast a charm, And life of half its ills disarm. Deep, deep, the hate I bear to those I rank among my mortal foes, And not one pitying pulse it knows, As is my hatred, so my love; Not thus with her-the stars above That gladden with their living beam, And warm to life the coldest stream, Are not more free from passions wild Than she, the simple Ethiop child. * Dearest, though thou art far awayThough seas, perchance, between us layRoll their blue waves, and dash their spray, And my crushed heart seems cold and chill, I'll think of thee, and love thee still. While life's dull flame, lights up my frame I still will think, and love the same Perhaps that hand is still, and cold, * * * * * A year passed on, a year of pain, The past seems like a studied scroll: So much its warring waves should hide. Stranger, I would that I could tell N. S. VOL. I. NO. v.0. S. VOL. III. NO. XL. 20 |