Caesar and Napoleon and Alexander have to take a back seat. The
greatest military genius our world ever produced was a brick-layer
from somewhere back of Boston--died during the Revolution--by the
name of Absalom Jones. Wherever he goes, crowds flock to see him.
You see, everybody knows that if he had had a chance he would have
shown the world some generalship that would have made all
generalship before look like child's play and 'prentice work. But
he never got a chance; he tried heaps of times to enlist as a
private, but he had lost both thumbs and a couple of front teeth,
and the recruiting sergeant wouldn't pass him. However, as I say,
everybody knows, now, what he WOULD have been,--and so they flock
by the million to get a glimpse of him whenever they hear he is
going to be anywhere. Caesar, and Hannibal, and Alexander, and
Napoleon are all on his staff, and ever so many more great
generals; but the public hardly care to look at THEM when HE is
around. Boom! There goes another salute. The barkeeper's off
quarantine now."


Sandy and I put on our things. Then we made a wish, and in a
second we were at the reception-place. We stood on the edge of the
ocean of space, and looked out over the dimness, but couldn't make
out anything. Close by us was the Grand Stand--tier on tier of dim
thrones rising up toward the zenith. From each side of it spread
away the tiers of seats for the general public. They spread away
for leagues and leagues--you couldn't see the ends. They were
empty and still, and hadn't a cheerful look, but looked dreary,
like a theatre before anybody comes--gas turned down. Sandy says,-
-