The weekly Lancaster gazette. (Lancaster, Ohio) 1852-1855, 1853-09-08

Of the Prescott House, so auded by the
Press for its magnifcence, dashed our eyes
and almost blinded our senses to a degree Of
Imagination that first class Hotels must
have such Five Point denisen-making ap-
purtenances as this glitering room, shame
less;y inviting, open to the street; when that
watch-word cry, like the pibroch's startling
pearl, came up from the near vicinity, wall
ing like a lost spirit on the midnight air
"Hot corn, hot corn-here's your nice hot
corn-smokiDg hot-hot-hot corn"
"Yes, yes! Near you cry--t is watch
word-a glorious watch-w0rd, that bids US
do or die-until the smoking, hot, iery-furn-
ace-like gates of hell, like this one now
yawning before Us, shall cease to be licens-
ed by Christian people, to send delicate
little girls at midnight through the streets,
crying, "Hot corn," to support drunken
mother, whose first glass was taken in a
Questionable saloon," or 6rst-class liquor
selling hotel.
slot corn, then, be the watch-word of
all who would rather see the grain fed to the
drunkard's wife and children than into the
/ Unsuitable hot nav Of the whiskey still.
Let your resolution grow hot and strong
every time you hear this midnight cry, that
lyou will devote, if nothing more
"Three grains OF corn. mother,
I Only three grains of corn"
toward the salvation OF the thousand equal
/ ly pitiable objects as the little girl, whose
wailing cry has been the melting cause of
this present dish of Slot corn-smoking
| hot!"
CHAPTER IT.-Tas Home Of Lille Katy.
About week ago, we published little
story under this title, detailing some OF the
sufferings which crime and misery bring up
on the poor of this city, and limited at the
cause. That story isnotyet finished. The
next night after the interview with that neg
lected, i'll used little girl, the same plaintive
cry of Slot corn! hot corn! here is your
nice hot corn!" came up through our open
window on the midnight air, while the rain
came drippling down from the oVrcharged
clouds in just sufficient quantities to wet the
thin single garment Of the owner of that
sweet young voice, without giving her an
acceptable excuse for leaving her post be-
fore her hard task was completed. Al
length the voice grew fainter, and then
ceased, and then we knew that exhausted
nature slept-:hat tender house plant was
exposed to the chilling influence Of night
rain-that an innocent little girl had the
curb-stone for a bed and an iron post for a
pilow-that by and by she would awaken
not invigorated with refreshing slumber, but
poisoned with the sleep-inhaled miasma o
the fith-reelnng gutter at her feet, which
may be breathed with impunity awake, but
like the malaria of our Southern coast, is
death to the sleeper; not soothed by drea.
my consciousness of hearing mothers
voice, turning the soft lullaby Of
'lIush, my child, lie srill and slumber;"
but starting like a sentinel upon a savage
frontier post, with alarm at having slept;
shiyering with night air and fear and final
ly compelled to 60 home trembling like a
culprit, to hear the hard words of a mother
yes, a mother, but oh! what mother
cursing her for not performing an impossi-
bility, because exhausted nature slept--be-
cause her child had not made profit which
would enable her more freely to indulge in
the soul-aDd-body dydestroyng vice of drum
kenness, to which she had fallen from an
estate when "my carriage" was one of the
''househod words" which used to greet the
young ears Of that poor little death stricken
neglected street sufferer
1t was past midnight when she awoke land
found herself, with desperate effort, just
able to reach the bottom of the ricketty
stairs which led to her home. We shall not
go up now. In little while, reader, you
shall see where live the city poor.
Tired. worn with the daily toil--for such
is the work of an editor who caters for the
appetites of his morning readers were
not present the next night to note the alb
sence of that cry from its accustomed spot;
but the next, and next, and still on we listen
ed in vain --that voice was not there. True
the same hot corn cry came floating upon
the evening breeze across the park, oI
wormed its way from some cracked fiddle
voice down the street, up and around the
corner; or out of some dark alley, with 0
broken English accent, that sounded almost
as much like "lager bier" as it did like the
commodity the immigrant, struggling to eke
out his precarious existence, wished to sell
All oyer this great poverty burdened, ant
wicked waste, extravagant city, at this sea.
son, that cry goes up, nightly proclaiming
one cfthe habits Of this late supper eating
people.
Yes, we missed that cry. "Hot corn" was
no longer like the music of siringed instru
ment to weary man, for the treble-striRg
was broken, and, to US, the harmony spoil
, ed.
What was that voice to us? 1t was bat
one of the ten thousand, just as miserable
which may be daily heard where human mis-
cry has its abode. That voice, as some 9TH
. ers have, did not haunt us, but its absence
r in spite of all reasoning, made US feel un
! easy. We do not believe in spirit maafes
, tations half as strongly as some of the min
, compoops of this world would have thei
, long-eared listeners think yet we do believe
+ there is spiritn man, not yet made man
ifest, which makes us yearn after co-exist
: ing spirits in this sphere and in this life, ant
, that there is no need of going beyond it
seeking after strange idols.
We shall not stop to enquire whether i
was a spirit of "the first, third or sixth
sphere" that prompted us as we left ou
! desk one evening, to go down among the a
} BODIES of the poor, with a feeling of certain
I ty thatwe should see or hear something o
: the lost voice, for that spirit led us on; per
t hapsit was the spirit Of curiosity; no matter
, it led, and we followed in the route we ha,
seen that little one 60 before--it was ou
only cure--we knew no name--had no mum
Der, nor knew no one that knew her whom
{ we were going to find. Yesswe knew thn
9 good Missionary, and she had told us of tn