And is there really nothing better to do—no better _regime_ to go through, than the daily repetition of the monotonous programme of entertainment thus playfully described and ridiculed? Surely the visitor at the sea-side is in reach of something more pleasant and profitable than such a routine! Do not the sublime aspects of the ocean—the sound of its deep, ceaseless voice—the eternal on-coming of its waves, now in calm undulations, and now in hurtling wildness against the base of those cliffs whose white brows are wreathed with perennial flowers—suggest other matters both for reflection and amusement? Surely the very whispering of the breeze that has travelled so far over that vast moving surface of the fathomless deep, and which seems muttering of its mysteries, while laden with its sweet saline odour—“_ce parfum acre de la mer_,” as Dumas has termed it—might lead us towards other and higher trains of thought. Surely those voices in the wind, mingling with the strange murmur of the waves as they break in cadenced regularity upon the shore, rouse, in the feelings of those who hear them for the first time, or after a long absence, strange sensations of admiration, and curiosity, and wonder. But no; to most of the idle crowd those sights and sounds are invisible and unheard. Their ears have not been tutored to understand the word-music of Nature’s language, nor to read the brightly-written signs on its mighty page. To appreciate Nature, as well as Art, the mind requires a special education, without which the eye and the ear perceive but little of the miracles passing before them. To the eye of the common observer, the farthest field in the landscape is as green as the nearest, in the scene outspread before him; while to the practised glance of the accomplished artist, every yard of distance lends its new tone of colour to the tints of the herbage, till, through a thousand delicate gradations, the brightest verdure at last mingles with the atmospheric hue, and is eventually lost in the pervading azure. If, then, the ordinary aspects of Nature may not be fully interpreted by the untutored eye, how should her more hidden mysteries be felt or understood, or even guessed at? And, in fact, they are not, or the visitor to the sea-side, looking over that wide tremulous expanse of water that covers so many mysteries, would feel, like the child taken for the first time within the walls of a theatre, an intense anxiety to raise the dark-green curtain which conceals the scene of fairy wonders he is greedily longing to behold and enjoy. But the lounger at the sea-side does not guess at the wonders concealed by the dark-green curtain of the ocean, and, consequently, never dreams of wishing to peep beneath its waving folds, to gratify a curiosity which, in fact, does not exist.