history was first and foremost a
master by proxy. It was He who declared that we all are "members one
of another." Writing nothing Himself, He inspired others to write
thousands of immortal books. He was unskilled as painter, or sculptor,
or architect; yet the greatest canvases, marbles, and cathedrals since
He trod the earth have sprung directly from his influence. He was no
musician.

"His song was only living aloud."

But that silent song was the direct inspiration of much of the
sublimest music of the centuries to come. And so we might go on and on
about this Master of all vicarious masters.

Yet it is a strange and touching thing to note that even his exuberant
creativeness sometimes needed the refreshment of silent partners. When
He was at last to perform a great action in his own right He looked
about for support and found a master by proxy in Mary, the sister of
the practical Martha. But when He turned for help in uttermost need
to his best-beloved disciples He found them only negative, destructive
influences. This accounts for the anguish of his reproach: "Could ye
not watch with me one hour?"

Having never been properly recognized as such, the world's masters by
proxy have never yet been suitably rewarded. Now the world is
convinced that its acknowledged masters deserve more of a feast at
life's surprise party than they can bring along for themselves in
their own baskets. So the world bows them to the places of honor at
the banquet board. True, the invitation sometimes comes so late that
the master has long since devoured everything in his basket and is
dead of starvation. But that makes not the slightest difference to
humanity, which will take no refusal, and props the cynically amused
skeleton up at the board next the toastmaster. My point is, however,
that humanity is often forehanded enough with its invitations to give
the masters a charming time of it before they, too, into the dust
descend, _sans_ wine, _sans_ song, etc. But I do not know that it has
ever yet consciously bidden a master by proxy--as such--to the feast.
And I contend that if a man's deserts are to be measured at all by his
creativeness, then the great masters by proxy deserve seats well up
above the salt.

For is it any less praiseworthy to make a master than to make a
masterpiece? I grant that the masterpiece is the more sudden and
dramatic in appearing and can be made immediate use of, whereas the
master is slowly formed, an