A New Aristocracy

by Alice E. Bartlett

To Gilbert the winter had been a revelation of suffering and vice that had only stirred deeper the pool of the living faith within his heart. In his vocation as peddler he had found access to much of the hidden life of poverty and crime which escapes even the most far-sighted general observers. Wherever he had been able to pierce the strata of callousness which the severest forms of poverty invariably create, he had found the same helpless appeal that has for so many generations sounded down the aisles of time—give us something to hope for, believe in, trust in! Something palpable that we can touch, feel, and know. Inquiry as to churches surrounding them usually elicited a shrug of the shoulders and the reply: “They are not for such as me. If I dares to go, they talks about a far-off God that I doesn’t understand, and hitches their fine clothes away from me as if my rags would pisen ’em!”

The more that Gilbert came to know the impulses stirring in these benumbed hearts, the more he and Margaret felt the need of establishing a ground of intercommunication between them. To be able to meet these wretched mortals upon their own plane and lead them along, by paths they could understand, up to the great truths of time and eternity, and to make palpable to them that God’s love is not a mere abstraction, but a revivifying, humanizing influence—what dearer work could one ask? And yet how was it possible in their straightened circumstances to make even a beginning of this work? Elsie’s fertility of resource solved the problem.

“Make the Busy Fingers Club a factor in the case. Let them hold their long-talked-of bazaar, rent the necessary room, and christen the project ‘The Children’s Home Meeting.’ Then let Gilbert go among his poor, tell them of the wonderful violinist and improvisator, Antoine Minaud, and promise them a free concert on some Sunday night. After the concert, have a few moments for social intercourse, in which all four of the principal instigators and abettors in the scheme endeavor to make the acquaintance of those in the room, and then let Gilbert or Margaret give them a few—only a few—of the simple truths of every-day living and learning. It is a very simple beginning,” added Elsie dubiously.

“And for that reason the best,” said Margaret decidedly.

The members of the little club were enthusiastic abettors of the scheme as outlined to them by Margaret and Elsie. The name which Elsie had so happily bestowed upon the project instantly won upon their regard and made them noisy advertisers of their work throughout the neighborhood. The rooms of a member occupying the lower floor of the tenement-house were secured for the use of the bazaar, and what audience the handiwork of the little folks did not attract, the music of Antoine’s violin succeeded in catching and holding. Altogether the bazaar was pronounced a success by its delighted originators, and at its close there was money enough to pay the rent of the hall for one night and possibly two. Then came the work of training the children for the concert. Elsie took especial care that every song should breathe the tenderness, the mercy, the helpfulness of divine love, and the sweet, clear voices of the children, trained to the subtile sympathy of expression by her innate appreciation, made many of the songs long to be remembered.

It was a curious and motley throng that assembled in the hall one Sunday night in response to Gilbert’s invitation, as he stood at the door and took every comer by the hand. Women with shawls over their heads, with babies asleep on their breasts, men with hats pulled low over eyes that cast furtive glances of unrest and suspicion, brazen-faced and gaudily-dressed creatures with their calling stamped upon their countenances, ragged and barefooted children, pale-faced and distorted cripples, came slowly and half-reluctantly into the room. It was something so new, so unlike anything they had ever been offered, that they were more than half afraid it was a trap, and that it would end in their being preached at, told how vile they were, and warned to flee from the wrath of an angry and a jealous God. They had heard these words so many times and had felt, deep within disquieted and tumultuous bosoms, the wide gulf between the prosperous promulgators of the church and their own degraded and unhappy condition. Yet somehow they all trusted Gilbert; there was something in the clear, earnest, boyish face that won the most suspicious nature, and it was because they had felt that he was truly their friend that they had ventured to come. The hall was a barren, smoke-begrimed, illy-ventilated room, but Elsie and the children had made what effort they could with meagreness of material to brighten it up. Above the platform, where stood Elsie’s organ and where the semicircle of children was ranged, those in the audience who could read beheld in large letters, “Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so unto them.” Over the windows hung gay cotton banners bearing such inscriptions as “Love is lord of all.” “A cup of cold water to the thirsty.” “A kind word maketh the heart glad.” “A true heart is one of earth’s jewels.” “A little child shall lead them.”

Antoine’s violin caught the inspiration of the hour and spoke in almost human tones the pathos, the prayer, and the hope of each bosom. The airs were those of simple, well-known hymns, many of them so familiar as to be almost household words, and when in response to Gilbert’s invitation the audience arose and sang the choruses, there were not many lips that remained motionless. They had doubtless heretofore been hummed many times by the same careless, unthinking voices; now they seemed to strike deep into some inner fibre of feeling, and many a furtive tear rolled from beneath quivering and downcast lashes. The children sang, as Elsie declared, “like little angels;” but the crowning event of the evening was Antoine’s improvisation. Advancing to the center of the platform on his one crutch, he began in a low, plaintive, and touchingly-sweet voice:

“My heart is sair wi’ muckle woe,

God knows! God knows!

I ken nae mair the way to go,