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.