SAINT PATRICKBy Heman White Chaplin1887I.One of the places which they point out on Ship Street is the Italianfruit-shop on the corner of Perry Court, before the door of which, sixyears ago, Guiseppe Cavagnaro, bursting suddenly forth in pursuit ofMartin Lavezzo, stabbed him in the back, upon the sidewalk. "All two"of them were to blame, so the witnesses said; but Cavagnaro went toprison for fifteen years. That was the same length of time, as ithappened, that the feud had lasted.Nearly opposite is Sarah Ward's New Albion dance-hall. It opens directlyfrom the street There is an orchestra of three pieces, one of whichplays in tune. That calm and collected woman whom you may see rocking inthe window, or sitting behind the bar, sewing or knitting, is not a citymissionary, come to instruct the women about her; it is Sarah Ward,the proprietress. She knows the Bible from end to end. She was aSunday-school teacher once; she had a class of girls; she spoke inprayer-meetings; she had a framed Scripture motto in her chamber, andshe took the Teachers' Lesson Quarterly; she visited the sick; sheprayed in secret for her scholars' conversion. How she came to changeher views of life nobody knows,--that is to say, not everybody knows.And still she is honest. It is her pride that sailors are not druggedand robbed in the New Albion.A few doors below, and on the same side of the street, is the dance-hallthat was Bose King's-. It is here that pleasure takes on its most sordidaspect. If you wish to see how low a white woman can fall, how coarseand offensive a negro man can be, you will come here. There is aninscription on the bar, in conspicuous letters,--"Welcome Home."By day it is comparatively still in Ship Street. Women with soullessfaces loll stolidly in the open ground-floor windows. There are fewcustomers in the bar-rooms; here and there two or three idlers shake fordrinks. Policemen stroll listlessly about, and have little to do. Butat nightfall there is a change; the scrape of fiddles, the stamp ofboot-heels, is heard from the dance-halls. Oaths and boisterous laughtereverywhere strike the ear. Children, half-clad, run loose at eleveno'clock. Two policemen at a corner interrogate a young man who is hotand excited and has no hat. He admits that he saw three men run from thealley-way and saw the sailor come staggering out after them, but he doesnot know who the men were. The policemen "take him in," on suspicion.It is here that the Day-Star Mission has planted itself. Its white flagfloats close by the spot where Martin Lavezzo fell, with the long knifebetween his shoulder-blades. Its sign of welcome is in close rivalrywith the harsh strains from Sarah Ward's and the lighted stairway toBose King's saloon. It stands here, isolated and strange, an unbiddenguest. It is a protest, a reproof, a challenge, an uplifted finger.But while, to a casual glance, the Day-Star Mission is all out of place,it has, nevertheless, its following. On Monday and Thursday afternoons atroop of black-eyed, jet-haired Portuguese women, half of whom arenamed Mary Jesus, flock in to a sewing-school. On Tuesdays and FridaysAmerican, Scotch, and Irish women, from the tenement-houses of thequarter, fill the settees, to learn the use of the needle, to enjoya little peace, and to hear reading and singing; and occasionally thegeneral public of the vicinity are invited to an entertainment.It was a February afternoon; at the Mission building the board were inmonthly session. The meeting had been a spirited one. A propositionto amend the third line of the fourth by-law, entitled "Decorum inthe Hall," by inserting the word "smoking," had been debated and hadprevailed. A proposition to buy a new mangle for the laundry had beendefeated, it having been humorously suggested that the women couldmangle each other. Other matters of interest had been considered.Finally, as the hour for adjournment drew near, a prop