One of the places which they point out on Ship Street is the Italian fruit-shop on the corner of Perry Court, before the door of which, six years ago, Guiseppe Cavagnaro, bursting suddenly forth in pursuit of Martin Lavezzo, stabbed him in the back, upon the sidewalk.  “All two” of them were to blame, so the witnesses said; but Cavagnaro went to prison for fifteen years.  That was the same length of time, as it happened, that the feud had lasted.

Nearly opposite is Sarah Ward’s New Albion dance-hall.  It opens directly from the street There is an orchestra of three pieces, one of which plays in tune.  That calm and collected woman whom you may see rocking in the window, or sitting behind the bar, sewing or knitting, is not a city missionary, come to instruct the women about her; it is Sarah Ward, the proprietress.  She knows the Bible from end to end.  She was a Sunday-school teacher once; she had a class of girls; she spoke in prayer-meetings; she had a framed Scripture motto in her chamber, and she took the Teachers’ Lesson Quarterly; she visited the sick; she prayed in secret for her scholars’ conversion.  How she came to change her 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 drugged and robbed in the New Albion.

A few doors below, and on the same side of the street, is the dance-hall that was Bose King’s-.  It is here that pleasure takes on its most sordid aspect.  If you wish to see how low a white woman can fall, how coarse and offensive a negro man can be, you will come here.  There is an inscription on the bar, in conspicuous letters, — “Welcome Home.”

By day it is comparatively still in Ship Street.  Women with soulless faces loll stolidly in the open ground-floor windows.  There are few customers in the bar-rooms; here and there two or three idlers shake for drinks.  Policemen stroll listlessly about, and have little to do.  But at nightfall there is a change; the scrape of fiddles, the stamp of boot-heels, is heard from the dance-halls.  Oaths and boisterous laughter everywhere strike the ear.  Children, half-clad, run loose at eleven o’clock.  Two policemen at a corner interrogate a young man who is hot and excited and has no hat.  He admits that he saw three men run from the alley-way and saw the sailor come staggering out after them, but he does not 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 flag floats close by the spot where Martin Lavezzo fell, with the long knife between his shoulder-blades.  Its sign of welcome is in close rivalry with the harsh strains from Sarah Ward’s and the lighted stairway to Bose King’s saloon.  It stands here, isolated and strange, an unbidden guest.  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 a troop of black-eyed, jet-haired Portuguese women, half of whom are named Mary Jesus, flock in to a sewing-school.  On Tuesdays and Fridays American, Scotch, and Irish women, from the tenement-houses of the quarter, fill the settees, to learn the use of the needle, to enjoy a little peace, and to hear reading and singing; and occasionally the general public of the vicinity are invited to an entertainment.

It was a February afternoon; at the Mission building the board were in monthly session.  The meeting had been a spirited one.  A proposition to amend the third line of the fourth by-law, entitled “Decorum in the Hall,” by inserting the word “smoking,” had been debated and had prevailed.  A proposition to buy a new mangle for the laundry had been defeated, it having been humorously suggested that the women could mangle each other.  Other matters of interest had been considered.

Finally, as the hour for adjournment drew near, a proposition was brought forth, appropriate to the season.  Saint Patrick’s Day was approaching.  It was to many a day of temptation, particularly in the evening.  Would it not be a good plan to hold out the helping hand, in the form of a Saint Patrick’s Day festival, with an address, for example, upon Saint Patrick’s life, with Irish songs and Irish readings?  Such an entertainment would draw; it would keep a good many people out of the saloons.  Such was the suggestion.

The proposition excited no little interest.  Ladies who had begun to put on their wraps sat down again.  To one of the board, a clergyman, who had lately been lecturing on “Popery the People’s Peril,” the proposition was startling.  It looked toward the breaking down of all barriers; it gave Romanism an outright recognition.  Another member, a produce-man, understood, — in fact he had read in his denominational weekly, — that Saint Patrick could be demonstrated to have been a Protestant, and he suggested that that fact might be “brought out.”  Others viewed the matter in that humorous light in which this festival day commonly strikes the American mind.

The motion prevailed.  Even the anti-papistic clergyman was comforted, apparently, at last, for he was heard to whisper jocosely to his left-hand neighbor:  “Saint Patrick’s Day in the Morning!”

A committee, with the produce-man at the head, was appointed to select a speaker, and to provide music and reading.  It was suggested that perhaps Mr. Wakeby and Mrs. Wilson-Smith would volunteer, if urged, — their previous charities in this direction had made them famous in the neighborhood.  Mr. Wakeby to read from “Handy Andy;” Mrs. Wilson-Smith to sing “Kathleen Mavourneen,” — there would not be standing-room!

So finally unanimity prevailed, and with unanimity, enthusiasm.

The committee met, and the details were settled.  The chairman quietly reserved to himself, by implication, the choice of a speaker.  He knew that it would be an audience hard to hold.  The occasion demanded a man of peculiar gifts.  Such a man, he said to himself, he knew.