look at the scenery. Yet when one comes to reflect upon the nature of an

oyster, it seems plain that he does not care for scenery. An oyster has

no taste for such things; he cares nothing for the beautiful. An oyster

is of a retiring disposition, and not lively--not even cheerful above the

average, and never enterprising. But above all, an oyster does not take

any interest in scenery--he scorns it. What have I arrived at now?

Simply at the point I started from, namely, those oyster shells are

there, in regular layers, five hundred feet above the sea, and no man

knows how they got there. I have hunted up the guide-books, and the gist

of what they say is this: "They are there, but how they got there is a

mystery."

Twenty-five years ago, a multitude of people in America put on their

ascension robes, took a tearful leave of their friends, and made ready to

fly up into heaven at the first blast of the trumpet. But the angel did

not blow it. Miller's resurrection day was a failure. The Millerites

were disgusted. I did not suspect that there were Millers in Asia Minor,

but a gentleman tells me that they had it all set for the world to come

to an end in Smyrna one day about three years ago. There was much

buzzing and preparation for a long time previously, and it culminated in

a wild excitement at the appointed time. A vast number of the populace

ascended the citadel hill early in the morning, to get out of the way of

the general destruction, and many of the infatuated closed up their shops

and retired from all earthly business. But the strange part of it was

that about three in the afternoon, while this gentleman and his friends

were at dinner in the hotel, a terrific storm of rain, accompanied by

472

The Innocents Abroad