have some money." The viaticum is the
tramp-money that may be claimed from his
guild by the travelling workman. Germans,
like other people, like to take pills gilded, and
so we cloak the awkward incident of poverty
under a Latin name.

Lübeck being in sight we sat down upon a
grassy bank to make our toilet. A tramper's
knapsack always has little pouches at the
side for soap, brushes, and blacking. We
were not so near to the tall steeples as we
thought, and it took us a good hour and a
half before we reached the city gates. The
approaches are through pretty avenues of
young trees and ornamental flower-pots. The
town entrance at which we arrived was
simply a double iron gate, like a park gate in
England. As we were about to pass in, the
sentinel beckoned and pointed us towards a
little whitened watchbox, at which we
stopped to hand our papers through a pigeon-
hole. In a few minutes the police officer
came out, handed to me my passport with
great politeness, and in a sharp voice bade
the tinman follow him. Such is the difference
between a passport and a wander-book. I,
owner of a passport, might go whither I
would: tinman, carrying a wander-book,
was marched off by the police to his appointed
house of call. I took full advantage of my
liberty, and as became a weary young man
with two gold ducats in his fob, went to
recruit my strength with the best dinner I
could get. Having taken off my knapsack
and my blouse, I soon therefore was indulging
in a lounge upon the sofa of one of the best
hotels in the sleepy and old-fashioned free
city of Lübeck.

WHAT SAND IS.

SAND is sand. Everybody knows what
sand is.

Yes, but all sand is not the same sand.
Neither is dust necessarily sand. The sand of
the desert on the Isthmus of Suez is firm and
flinty, totally distinct from dust; the silver
sand of Berkshire, used by gardeners to mix
with peat, and so propagate their cuttings, is
soft and fine. On the French coast, between
Capes Blanez and Grisnez, there is sand
which is almost impalpable to the touch; it
feels like rubbing so much grease between
your fingers. There are glittering, micaceous
sands; rich, golden sands; green sands, whose
coloured grains consist chiefly of silicate of iron,
from the Isle of Wight; sands specially suited
to the manufacture of glass, from their purity;
and even artificial sands, to furnish the hour-
glass with its memento mori. The Cornish
coast can probably boast of a greater variety
of sea-sands than any other county in Great
Britain; in almost every cove the sand is
different.

And how did they become sands? All
nearly in the same way. If we were at
John o'Groat's House, and could peep behind
some rocks that fringe the shore close by, we
should see some small beds of light-yellow,
coarse sand, heaped up by the waves in out-
of-the-way corners. Take up a handful, and
it is nothing else but little bits of broken
shells, which have been battered and bruised
against the hard cliffs, and against each other,
till they can hold together no longer. It is
shell sand. They have the same thing in
Cornwall. The sand of Treenan Cove, of
Whitesand Bay, and also of the vast tracts
on the north coast, is composed of broken
shells, and is used for manure more generally,
perhaps, than it would otherwise be, from the
want of lime in the neighbourhood.

Look at a portion of this Norfolk sea-sand
with a strong magnifier: it is very beautiful,
as well as very curious. The fragments are
not all of the same size, nor shape, nor colour.
Some are perfect little grey flint pebbles, like
their less advanced, though larger, brethren
on the beach; others glitter like fragments
of flint-glass: and they are mostly rounded,
as if by the action of water. Here are some
specimens of cornelian, there of quartz, or
silex in its purest form. Before looking
through the glass, one has no idea what a
droll mineralogical collection a pinch of sea-
sand contains. Try it in the sunshine, and
you have a brilliant raree-show. The
microscopic creatures, which inhabit the sands,
have an interminable range of transparent
grottos and crystal palaces in which to divert
their leisure. The Berkshire silver sand is
much the same thing, only on a smaller
scale, and containing a larger proportion of
quartz. In Cornwall, too, the sand of any
particular shore, cove, or bay, has generally
one special shade of colour; and a microscope
shows it to be of the same substances as
compose the adjacent cliffs and form the strata
under the sea, upon which the waves are
perpetually at work, driving to the shore
and depositing there what they fret or wash
from off those strata. Thus, the sands at
Chyandower, near Penzance, and thence to
Marazion, are of a pale blue colour, like the
rocks at Chyandower and the shingle on the
strand. We have a variety of sands in
Norfolk; but the sandy beach, on which I
will suppose you to be listening to my second
course of sea-side gossip, tells its own history.
Here are stones as large as an ostrich's egg,
diminishing through minor sizes into coarse
shingle, and that gradually passing into true
sea-sand. The series is as perfect as any of
those which demonstrated the progress from
the raw material to the manufactured article,
in the Great Exhibition.

The manner in which the insatiable maw
of the devouring sea is incessantly supplied
with provender by the falling cliffs of East
Anglia—(oblige me by opening your Atlas at
the maps of Norfolk and Suffolk before reading
many sentences further),—resembles, to
my mind, nothing so much as those convenient
racks in a stable, in which, as fast a horse eats