University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
KNUCKLE LANE.

During the year, there arose in Woodylin a movement,
which ultimately embodied itself in what was called the
Knuckle Lane Club. Its object was to remove degradation
from the city; and no person was deemed fit to join it who
was not willing to spend an evening in Knuckle Lane. This
precinct, extending along a deep gorge, was sinuous, jagged,
damp and dark. It was a result of the city. Its waste
measured the improvement of the city. It was the slag
and dross of the city refinement. Its houses were the old
city houses, that had been replaced by better ones; and
they looked as if they had been brought to the edge of the
gully, and one after another pitched into the receptacle below,
where they lay, in all shapes, at all angles, and in all
predicaments.

This Club did not, however, confine itself to that locality;
it had a more comprehensive aim. It was a sort of subterranean
method of doing good in general. It proposed to
look at vice from beneath. Like the sewers of London,
there are moral sewers in all our cities, extending many
miles, in the labyrinthine passages of which one may travel
days. It would go into these.

The Club resolved, not merely to berate vice, but to follow
it home, — see its bed and board; talk with it, and
find out what was on its mind; listen to its arguments;
make a stethoscopic examination of it, and trace to their
source some of its streams.

The enterprise required tact, strength and faith. A number
of individuals were combined in it. Some ladies acted
with it, — others sympathized. Some families in Victoria
Square contributed furniture and clothing; some rich men
gave money. But there must be workers, — Putnams of
this den.

The plan had been for some time maturing. There was
no secrecy about it, nor were there any attempts at publicity.
There was no desire to provoke opposition, or to be
impeded by prejudice; therefore, those were chiefly spoken
to who, it was thought, would be interested in the matter.
Richard and Nefon were particularly interested.

In the course of this business, Richard made new acquaintances,
and, as he thought, with nice people. Among these was
Augustus Mangil, one of the Brokers. No one dreamed of
Augustus Mangil in such a connection. At his capacious
office window lay all day long piles of gold and silver, and
passers by, seeing the man through the window, and, as it
were, breast-high in the precious stuff, supposed him a sort
of monster, — half a knave, half a fool. He was reputed to
shave notes, get up panics, disturb the street; and, with a
shark-like voracity, devour railroads and factories, and orphan
patrimonies. He had a pleasant, smiling face, — but that was
to win your money. He played on the flute, — that was to
decoy the unwary; his head was partly bald, and some said
the window's tears scalded it; yet he was fat and sleek; —
still, there were hundreds who knew where his marrow and
oil flowed from.

But Nefon, who prided himself on his insight into human
nature, knew his man, and knew this man. He looked
him in the eye, somewhat as Klumpp would, and said,
“Gus,” — he called him Gus, — “you must go with us.”
“Go? go? go where?” “Knuckle Lane.” “I know

Knuckle Lane. I have just sold some Knuckle Lane
stock.” “Don't speak of it. We must try to improve the
stock.”

“Not speak of it?” exclaimed the Broker. “I have
saved five dollars for the poor dog. He put all he had in a
railroad share, because they told him it would help his
trucking. Frightened, horse dead, wife confined, and all
that, — would sacrifice. I never stand about such things;
cashed the bond, divide the profits; and five dollars is his,
— that goes into Knuckle Lane.”

“Come along!” said Nefon; “you are a man, and the
man, and our man.”

In addition, Richard was introduced to a worthy lady, of
whom he had heard, a sister-in-law of the Broker's, Mrs.
Helen Mangil; and as there was another lady in Woodylin
of the same name, and whose husband bore the same name
with that of the first, this one, in certain circles, was called
Helen the Good.

This Knuckle Lane became a cause; it counted its
friends and supporters, — it grew into a spirit and a feeling.

Mayor Langreen was its President, Parson Smith its
Secretary, Nefon its Treasurer; then it created a Do-something
Committee, or might be said to resolve itself into such;
and this comprised men and women, among whom were
Richard, Mr. Mangil, Broker, Elder Jabson, Munk, Mr.
Cosgrove, Carpenter, Mr. Horr, Collector of Customs, Mr.
Lawtall, Pianoforte-maker, Ada Broadwell, the Lady Caroline,
Helen the Good, Melicent, and others.

It will be recollected the condition of membership was
willingness to spend an evening in Knuckle Lane; and this,
in the estimation of many good people of Woodylin, was
narrow and exclusive. It savored of bigotry; it was a
reflection on excellence. Mrs. Tunny was shocked at it;

the Redferns in Victoria Square sniffed at it. “But now,”
said Nefon, “we know who is who; if anybody has got
quills, here is a chance to show them. Every man's eyes
must be his own chap in this business.”

There must be first a reconnoissance, and a report. Richard,
Mr. Mangil, Elder Jabson, and Nefon, were commissioned
to this task. It was a thick and misty night when
they sallied forth. From the height that overlooked
Knuckle Lane, that region, with its pent lights, appeared
like a gully cut through Hades by some deluge, along the
hideousness of which a dim phosphorescence luridly gleamed.
“We must peel and go at it,” said Nefon. Not peel, but
wrap up, oh valorous man! — pull on gutta percha boots, to
wade through that mire and dirt; clothe breast and arms in
faith and hope, to meet that sin and shame. It was the
rendezvous of theft, the resort of bawdery, and a creek into
which whatever is unfortunate in human condition, or depraved
in human nature, daily set, like the tide.

“There are children there!” ejaculated Richard. “There
are souls there,” said Elder Jabson, with pious eagerness.
“I have a customer there,” answered the oily, laughing
Broker, “and I think we had better corner him.”

They entered the house of the truckman, where they
found a sick wife, and a sorrowful looking man vainly
attempting to fill the office of nurse, and keep his infant
child alive. “Where was the Lady Caroline?” bethought
Richard. It had not been deemed safe or prudent for the
ladies to come out that night. Mr. Mangil had in his
hands a balance of money due the truckman. This was
opportune. It enabled the man to buy a horse; a horse
would restore him to his business, — his business would
support his family. “A transaction,” said the Broker. “I
negotiated his share, and put five dollars into my own

pocket; if he has any more dealings of the sort, I should
be happy to act for him.”

They went next to Fuzzle's, one of the men who had
been induced to sign the temperance pledge at Quiet Arbor,
the winter before. He had been, in his own language, “off
and on” abstemious. His wife was an acetate of bitterness.
He spent most of his evenings out; drank to enjoy
himself; cursed the License law.

They visited a washerwoman, who cared more for others
than herself, and seemed to absorb in her own family all the
dirt she took from the world at large.

Whimp's was a vile and villanous spot,—no culture, no
ideas, no hope, no God.

Slaver's they attempted to inventory, but it was an endless
task; it stood plus nothing, and minus everything.
Yet there were cats, and a pig, broken stools, smoked walls,
unseemly beds, and some of Elder Jabson's “souls,” staring
out, wild and savage, through uncut hair, bronzed cheeks,
and shaking about in rags and dirt.

No. 6 was a rookery,—music and dancing, drinking and
swearing, the Satyrism and Bacchantism of modern civilization.

Our Heroes stood their ground at all points, patiently
investigated, kindly counselled, and carefully remembered.
Sometimes the Elder prayed. Nefon had with him tracts,
little picture-books, and embellished cards, which he distributed.

They made due report of proceedings. The Club was
surprised, horrified; they inquired, What shall be done?
They passed resolutions; they adopted plans; and all with
an honest purpose at the bottom.

Committees were sent out by twos; not Knuckle Lane
alone, but other similar spots were visited. They explored

the shores of the River, picking their way through drift-wood,
hulks of boats, drag-nets, hog-styes, hen-coops, and
went up the bank to tenements that hang down from many
stories above, where the freshet and the cholera sometimes
enter,—where squalidness and destitution are always
entering,—where children, like bank-swallows, are seen
entering,—inhabited by Canadian French, and Connaught
Irish. They traversed the Pebbles. They searched the
purlieus of hotels and stables. Eating-houses on the wharves,
and boarding-houses in the same vicinity, were remembered.
They risked the most in the rum-shops. It was voted that
two members of the sacred band should sit out an evening
in these retreats. The thing was done. They entered the
curtained door, took chairs in the midst of that congregation,
saw what was done, heard what was said,—staid from
eight o'clock till midnight. Some members of the company
chose gambling-rooms, dancing-halls, and the gallery of the
Theatre, for their field; others frequented the circuses and
menageries, and entertainments promised by negro mimics,
mesmeric mountebanks, and jugglers of all sorts. Some
spent a portion of the Sabbath at the various Lazy Poles,
and Paradises, and the Islands. The Alms-house and Jail
were rummaged.

Not that this was done at once. Summer hardly sufficed,
and winter was upon them before even their preliminary
operations were concluded.

But Knuckle Lane flourished. Judge Burp joined the
society. Alanson M. Colenutt, the millionnaire, signified
his approval. The Editor of the Dogbane said in his office,
one day, in the presence of a large number of most notable
and keen-sighted Phumbicians, in an earnest but whispered
under-tone, swaying a great newspaper in both hands, he
believed it was a good thing. “I say it,—I will say it; I

say it not as a Phumbician, but as a man, — I believe it is
a good thing.” Tode sprang from his chair, and leaving the
office, said, “Stop my paper!” “Mr. Tode,” cried the
Editor, “I am a Phumbician; every drop of blood in my
veins boils with Dogbanian fire. I know what is due to our
cause. If they dare to meddle with that, and bring the curs
about our ears, — if a single whelp is heard to bark in consequence
of their movements, — no indignation, no scorn,
no blasting, is too great for them!” Tode resumed his
seat.

It was rumored, the same day, on the opposite side of the
River, that the Dogbane had caved in, having announced in
favor of Knuckle Lane, and was making capital out of the
new enterprise. The Catapult wauled, “What if some
poor man's dog was saved, — it was his comfort and defence;
— he shared with the faithful creature his bread and
butter: and when he dies, who watches his grave, — who,
if we may so say, sheds a tear for the departed? — who,
who, but his dog? But that is not it; we warn our readers,
it is not hatred to dogs that inspires the cunning of our
amiable contemporary; — it is a covert design to encourage
amongst us that spawn of perdition, the cats. The meat
that was conveyed by worthy members of this Club to a certain
poor family is known to have been fed out to a cat!
Driblets and bones, they say! But driblets and bones are
nutritious. Cats are the mothers of Kittens!! This is
a momentous truth, and one we hope the people will duly
ponder.”

A deputation, consisting of the most respectable members
of Knuckle Lane, headed by Judge Burp, visited both
offices, and explicitly assured the editors that Knuckle
Lane had nothing to do with Phumbics; and the matter
was dropped from the public prints.

It went on, however, in the hearts of the people. It
gained the affections, and silenced the scruples, of multitudes.

Richard was indefatigable. He had not so much leisure
as many, but he had faith and patience. One evening every
week, and, in emergencies, two, he assigned to Knuckle
Lane.

In these visits he was often aided and directed by Cornelius
Wheelan, whom he had rescued from the Grotto and
ruin, and who, so to say, having been pickled in vice and
crime, took a long time to freshen; but as it is said beef
freshens better in salt water than fresh, so it seemed to take
all this man's humors out of him to go around among his
old associates and haunts; — and he became not only a better
man, but useful to those who were better than he, and
also to some that were worse.

Richard's special beat was the New Town; yet sooner or
later, he visited almost the whole of the city. He went
down among the roots of many of its evils. He got into
the bosom, and, so to say, blossom, of much of its sorrow.
He sat by the bed-side of its remorse. He made himself at
home in its dens of iniquity.

It was a rule of Knuckle Lane to give no offensive publicity
to discoveries they might make. As the historian of
the society, we are bound by the same reserve, and cannot
relate all that fell under the observation of our friend, albeit
they were matters of interest and moment, both to him and
his co-laborers.

We shall briefly advert to one or two results. The Club
had gathered facts and statistics enough, — the map of the
thing was definitely drawn and pretty deeply colored before
their eyes. Some were overwhelmed, — some disheartened,
— but the majority seemed to derive illumination from afar,

and clearness, on the whole, came to the relief of obscurity.

Knuckle Lane, having disentangled itself from Phumbics,
came near falling out with Polemics. What was the Church
to it, and it to the Church? — that was the question. One
or two Clergymen said it interfered with their labors, —
usurped the prerogative of the Church, and drew off communicants.
But Clergy and Laity, on the whole, favored it.
Still, among the adherents of the cause, the inquiry arose,
Shall the Church go to Knuckle Lane, or Knuckle Lane
come to the Church? But Knuckle Lane was too dirty and
too ragged to go to the Church. Shall the Church wash and
clothe it? It may not stay washed and clothed. Shall the
Church support external Knuckle Lane organizations? Not
agreed. Prosecute the rum-shops? General shaking of
heads. Knuckle Lane itself would take it in dudgeon.
Furthermore, the Church is represented partly in Victoria
Square, and La Fayette-street. What have these to do
with Knuckle Lane? Shall these streets go down to
Knuckle Lane? Shall Knuckle Lane, the Docks, the Stables,
the Islands, go up to Victoria Square? “Rather
a tight squeeze,” said Nefon. “In plain language,” observed
Mr. Cosgrove, Carpenter, “shall the Redferns and
the Fuzzles meet in one another's parlors and kitchens?”
“In the existing state of human society,” said Judge Burp,
rubbing the palms of his hands, “I should deem it impracticable.
I doubt if Mrs. Redfern and Mrs. Fuzzle, on first
introduction, would not deem it a very awkward and disagreeable
piece of business.”

Why should not Victoria Square deputize its interest in
Knuckle Lane? “A good plan,” whispered Mr. Lawtall,
Pianoforte-maker, to Nefon. — Nefon drew his hand hard
over his face, and was still. — Create deputy almoners of its

bread, deputy carriers of its compliments, deputy communicators
of its instruction? But who shall bring back the
thanks, the love, and the evidences of good, from Knuckle
Lane to Victoria Square? Shall Knuckle Lane have its
deputies, too? Shall the whole business of Christian intercourse
and human duty be a matter of delegation? Shall
the Redferns, and the Tillingtons, and the Tissingtons, of
Victoria Square, — shall Governor Dennington, and Mayor
Langreen, and Judge Burp, of the city generally, — be doing
and acting, — sending bread, and sympathy, and encouragement,
to the Fuzzles, and Whimps, and Slavers, of Knuckle
Lane, and these parties never see each other? Shall the
Widow Droop, who lives by the Pebbles, receive a basket of
meat, a bed coverlid, a jacket for her boy, from the Mayoress,
and never see the Mayoress, — never give vent to her
glad feelings, which else are quite a-bursting her, — never
kiss the hand that is so open and soft? Shall the warmhearted
Mayoress even not know where her beneficence goes,
or whom it blesses? — Great commotion, and a deal of
anxiety. — How shall the rich and poor meet together, and
the Lord be the Maker of them all? “That is the question,”
said Nefon. “That points to the ring-bolt, I tell you!”

A plan was proposed and achieved somewhat in this
wise.

A building was erected, called the Griped Hand, from a
device of that sort, cut in stone, over the entrance. It was
a three-story house, and divided into a Coffee-room, a Reading-room,
and an Assembly-room. It was a large building,
of freestone, tastefully designed, and standing in a convenient
spot. It was a contribution of the Church, Victoria
Square, and other parts of the city, or of various individuals
in the city, — or, more systematically, of Religion, Wealth,
and Common Sense, — to Knuckle Lane. The Coffee-room

supplied cheap refreshments of various kinds; the Reading-room
was well stocked with newspapers, magazines, and
comprised also a library; the Assembly-room was devoted
to miscellaneous gatherings, collations, reunions, lectures,
etc., etc.

All who were able paid something for its privileges; those
without means were admitted gratuitously. Its ultimate
support was chargeable to the charities of the Churches and
individuals.

At the dedication, Dr. Broadwell preached an eloquent
discourse, and the combined Church choirs added excellent
music.

The people of Woodylin were invited to unite freely in
the Griped Hand, and what it could afford. Members of the
holy brotherhood visited Knuckle Lane, and other places,
and extended the graciousness of the Griped Hand to those
people.

Would Fuzzle enjoy his evenings as well at the Griped
Hand as in Quiet Arbor? He did. Sailors, stevedores,
river-drivers, teamsters, came to the Griped Hand for their
cups of tea and coffee. Victoria Square and Knuckle Lane
did meet in the Assembly-room of the Griped Hand. Evelina
Redfern and Sally Whimp did shake hands, and converse
together, and appear like two Christians, at a Fourth of
July pic-nic in the same room; and Evelina and Sally
bowed in the street the next day, and certain people did not
know where it would stop, this intimacy of those two; indeed,
it would probably go on through this world into the next.

“Victoria Square is on the way to Knuckle Lane, and
Knuckle Lane is moving towards Victoria Square, actually!”
So Nefon exclaimed, thrusting down his right fist
emphatically on the counter, — his store full of people, —
and no man dared say aught against it.

The Church lost nothing. Indeed, the whole world
belongs to the Church, through Christ Jesus, and has been
bought with a great price, and paid for; but how many
briers and thorns, how much sour bog, how much gravelly
drift, there is on the farm! The Church gained in the improvement
of Knuckle Lane. It was so much muck, and
decayed vegetation, and corrupted life, hauled out and
mixed with Gospel lime and sunlight, and Woodylin culture;
and it became excellent soil — and it was all clear gain to
the Church.

The rich and the poor met together; benefactor and beneficiary
looked each other in the face. The willing hand and
the relieved want poured out their feelings in common; the
sick man saw his kind physician; penury and hopelessness
beheld the eye that had been moved to tears over the story
thereof. And were not many glad to see the Lady Caroline,
so free-hearted, so ready to do, so anxious to know
what she could do? Many knew how she went up to Bill
Stonner's when nobody else would go, and staid by that
disease when nobody else would stay. She was the woman
that many had heard of, and she was sometimes pointed out
as the woman that was not afraid of Bill or Chuk, or sickness
or death; and the Fuzzles, and Whimps, and Slavers,
stood in awe of her, as a god. Were n't they glad to speak
with her, and see her smile, and to have her elegance, and
wealth, and fashion, about them, as an atmosphere which
they could breathe, — as a little garden right in the midst of
their bleakness and meanness, where they could play, and
pluck a flower or two? — and this they had at the Griped
Hand. Then how many crowded about Helen the Good,
with eyes, and hands, and hearts, all brimming with delight.

What of Religion? There are Churches enough in the
city, and preachers enough; let Knuckle Lane go where it

chooses. So it was decided. After meeting in the Griped
Hand, and getting better acquainted, and loving each other
more, Knuckle Lane was more ready to worship with Victoria
Square. “Our Church is open to all,” said Dr.
Broadwell; and so said Parson Smith, and so said Elder
Jabson.

What of Education? There is plenty of public schools;
let Knuckle Lane, and the Islands, be drawn into them.

Well, in process of time it was found the rum-shops were
a good deal thinned out. The Coffee-room, and kindness,
and cordiality, had superior attractions. “Men have feelings
as well as appetites, and a longing for home amidst all
dissipation,” Richard used to say, quoting from Pastor
Harold. Then he added, — this he got too from the same
reverend source, — what St. Pierre relates, how the European
settlers in the Isle of France said they should be happy
there if they could see a cowslip or a violet. Let us send,
he said, to these wanderers from virtue and peace, a cowslip
and a violet.

The Theatre lost some of its charms, and much of its perniciousness.
The Griped Hand furnished cheap amusements
for the poor. Knuckle Lane would be amused, and
cannot we amuse it? So asked Benjamin Dennington.
“Happy and good, — good and happy!” cried Munk.
Elder Jabson started, but Nefon held him to his seat.
“Can't go, my man, can't go; it is rather hot for you, I
know, but you must stand fire.”

Popular lectures were had in the Assembly-room, and
singing concerts; panoramas and wax-work were exhibited;
that large class of people who itinerate through the
country with their wisdom and their shows found it for their
interest to employ the same Hall, where indeed Knuckle

Lane was admitted ad valorem, while Victoria Square paid
enough to keep the revenue good.

Did this redeem Knuckle Lane? It went some ways
towards redeeming what was redemptible in it. Would any
one refuse the blessings of the Griped Hand? He must
indeed be reprobate. Did it Christianize the Church and
Victoria Square? It helped their Christianization.

Were there no drawbacks? Yes, a plenty. One or two
of the Clergy and their people drew back. They said
there was no religion in it, — that to introduce the subject
of Knuckle Lane and the Griped Hand into their pulpits
was a desecration, — that they ought to preach the Gospel,
and not exciting topics, etc., etc. I need not enumerate all
they said. Miss Fiddledeeanna Redfern drew back; —
did n't she, when her sister Evelina came in from the picnic
aforesaid? And when she knew her sister had shaken
hands with Sally Whimp, very facetiously she seized the
tongs and made as if she would throw her sister's glove into
the fire. Mrs. Mellow drew back, because she said the
friends of the enterprise, in their distribution of tracts,
refused to accept those of which she was agent; while, in
fact, they only said they did not wish to be confined to them.
But the knowing ones declared the true cause of this lady's
opposition lay in an unwillingness to have her children meet
with Knuckle Lane children at a juvenile celebration to be
given at the Griped Hand. Zephaniah O. Tainter, Jr., general
clacquer and spy of the Catapult club, held back, because
he said he could see a cat in this Knuckle Lane meal.
Mary Crossmore, nurse, ditto, because this movement had
fished up two or three excellent nurses out of Knuckle Lane,
and her business might fall off. Mr. Squabosh, Superintendent
of Sewers and Drains, ditto, because it would
interfere with his contract. Mr. Catch, philosopher, suspended

opinion until it should be ascertained whether it
recognized the true theory of capital and labor. Mr.
Gresney, reformer, could not assent to it, because it did not
begin with the distinct enunciation of a principle. The
Man of Mind stood at the corners of the streets and looked
wise.

But why recount expressions and feelings that would fill
a volume, and which would reduce Richard Edney and the
Governor's Family to a very small space in their own book,
and which, in truth, gave Richard and his friends trouble
enough, without being employed to obscure the narration of
events in his story.

What did the Knuckle Lane adventure determine? Not
whether the Knights Templars were guilty, nor who wrote
Ossian, nor whether mankind have more than one origin.
It did determine this to the mind of Richard, and others,
— that by resolutely undertaking to do good, something
might be done.

These matters, connected indeed with Richard, are yet
somewhat in anticipation of his story. They were two or
three years in progress, and during these years Richard
had other matters to attend to, and to these we must recur.