Passengers down the River.—Sea-nettles.—Netley Abbey and Fort.—View of the Isle of Wight.—Adventure of the Portmanteau.—Landing at West Cowes.—Crossing the Medina.—Salt Works at East Cowes.

The pier at Southampton has only been erected a few years, and it is called Victoria-pier, because it was opened by her present Majesty, shortly before her accession to the throne. Mrs. Merton and her daughter walked rapidly along it; for the bell had already rung, and the steam-packet was on the point of starting when they arrived. For a few minutes after they came on deck, they were too much hurried to observe anything particular, but Agnes had the pleasure of seeing that her dear little portmanteau was quite safe among the rest of the luggage. The day was fine, and the water sparkled in the sun-beams, as the steam-boat pursued its way rapidly down the river.

The first thing that attracted Agnes’s attention, was the appearance of some workmen who were taking up a few of the upright pieces of wood which supported the pier. These piles were bored through in several places; and Mrs. Merton asked her if she could tell the cause.

“The cause is the Pholas, or Stone-piercer,” said Agnes. “I remember, mamma, you told me all about that curious shell-fish long ago; and that the piles are now obliged to be covered with nails driven into them, to prevent them from being bored through: but I never saw any of the piles before.” She had not much time to look at them now; as, though the wind was against them, the steam-packet flew on as rapidly as the railway-train had done: and, as Mrs. Merton gave her arm to her husband, who was walking up and down the deck, Agnes knelt on the seat near the side of the vessel, to watch the little billows as they rose up rapidly, and broke against it. But her attention was soon engaged by some curious little animals which were seen in the water, and which appeared like fairy umbrellas, opening and shutting occasionally as they floated along. Some of these curious creatures were rather large, with a kind of fringe round the lower part; and others had what appeared to be a fleshy cross on their summit, which was of a bright purple. They were so numerous that Agnes thought she should like to catch one or two, and she leant over for that purpose; but her little arms were not long enough to reach the water. A young man who saw her trouble was about to assist her, when the old gentleman who had been their fellow traveller by the rail-road stopped him. “You had better not touch them,” said he; “they will sting you.”

“Sting!” cried Agnes, “can such beautiful creatures sting?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Bevan, “if you were to take them into your hand, you would find an unpleasant tingling, which would be followed by heat and pain, like the smarting produced by the sting of a nettle.”

“The vulgar people here, call them Chopped Ham,” said a young man, with a book in his hand; “and they say that the sting is the mustard that is usually eaten with Ham. In the Legends of the Isle of Wight,” continued he, glancing at his book, “this strange name is supposed to allude to a chieftain of the name of Ham, who was killed and chopped in pieces near Netley Abbey, and who has given his name, not only to Southampton, but to Hampshire.”

“I should like to get some of these curious creatures in spite of their stinging,” cried Agnes; “they are so beautiful. They look like fairy parasols, continually opening and shutting, but made of the finest gauze, and trimmed with long fringe; and see, there are some tinted with all the colours of the rainbow.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Merton, “the poet says,

“How very pretty, mamma,” cried Agnes.

“These lines are very pretty,” said Mr. Merton, “and, moreover, they have a merit not very common in poetry, for they exactly describe the sea-nettles, as they are called, with which you are so much delighted.”

“Sea-nettles!” cried Agnes, “it seems a pity that they have not a prettier name.”

“They are also called MedusÆ, or jelly-fish,” said Mrs. Merton.

“Are they alive, mamma?” said Agnes.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Merton, “and they belong to the humblest class of animated nature, called Zoophytes, which form the connecting link between animals and plants. These creatures have no head, but only a mouth, which opens directly into the stomach, and the fringe that you observe consists of numerous slender arms with which they seize their prey and which are armed with small hooks, so fine as scarcely to be seen without a microscope. It is these hooks catching the flesh which occasion the pain that is felt when they are touched.”

“If you were to take one up in your hand,” said Mr. Bevan addressing Agnes, “you could not keep it long, for these creatures decay, and, in fact, melt into water as soon as they are dead. They are only seen on fine warm days like the present; for when the weather is cold, they sink to the bottom. They are very beautiful at night, when they become luminous, and appear like a host of small stars, rising to the surface, and again disappearing, as though dancing on the sea. There are a great many different kinds, and those of the tropical regions are very large and brilliant.”

They now came in sight of Netley Abbey, and there was a great rush to see it. Agnes, however, was very much disappointed, as its appearance from the water was very different from what she had expected.

“I thought it would be something beautiful like Melrose Abbey,” said she, “and it is only like a common church.”

“What you see,” said Mrs. Merton, “is the Fort, and you cannot judge of the beautiful effect of the ruins of the Abbey unless you were on shore.”

“That fort, or castle,” said Mr. Bevan, “was erected by Henry VIII., after the spoliation of the abbey, which was built about 1238, and the name of Netley is a corruption of its old name of Lettely, which signified a pleasant place.”

“Are there many legends connected with the Abbey?” asked Agnes.

“Several,” returned the old gentleman. “Among other things it is said, that a carpenter of Southampton, named Taylor, had once bought the ruins, with a view of taking them down, and selling the materials; but a spirit appeared to him in a dream for three nights in succession, and warned him not to do so. He disregarded the warning, however, and had just taken a person to the Abbey to make a bargain with him for the frame-work of one of the old windows, when a part of the ruin fell upon his head and killed him on the spot.”

“That is a very useful legend,” observed Mr. Merton, “as it has probably served to protect the ruins.”

“No doubt it has,” returned Mr. Bevan, “as it is firmly believed. There are several other stories of money being buried, and of the guardian spirit of the abbey appearing to protect its treasures whenever they are in any danger of being found.”

“These stories,” said Mr. Merton, “are common to most old monasteries; and they have probably arisen from the popular belief that much greater wealth was possessed by the abbots at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries in the reign of Henry VIII. than was found by the commissioners, and that consequently some of it must have been hidden.”

“The most remarkable story about Netley,” said the old gentleman, “I will relate to you if you like to hear it.”

The people all crowded round him eagerly, and he began as follows: “In the ancient times, when Netley was inhabited by a community of monks, there were certain underground passages, the opening to which was only known to the abbot, the prior, and two of the oldest monks. When one of these chanced to die, the entrance to these secret passages was confided to another; but it was never known to more than four at a time, and they took a solemn oath never to reveal it. What was contained in these mysterious passages was never known. Even the rough soldiers of Henry VIII., when they demolished the monastery, respected its secret; till, at length, in modern times, a gentleman of the town of Southampton was determined to explore the subterranean vaults of Netley, and having with great pain and difficulty cleared an opening, he entered with a lantern in his hand, and a lighted candle fixed at the end of a long stick. He and his light soon disappeared, and those who had followed him to the opening remained a long time watching for his return. At length they began to grow uneasy, and they were just debating whether they should follow him, when suddenly footsteps were heard rattling along the subterraneous passages, and the gentleman rushed out, crying, ‘Block up the opening, block up the opening!’ He gazed wildly for a moment and then fell down, and instantly expired, probably from the effects of the dangerous gas which is generally found in places that have been long closed up.”

Mrs. Merton, who did not like the deep interest with which her little daughter had listened to this tale, now again directed her attention to the MedusÆ.

“We call them Portuguese men-of-war,” said one of the sailors as he passed by.

“That is curious enough,” said the old gentleman, “for there is a kind of Zoophyte which is common in the West Indies, the proper English name of which is the Portuguese man-of-war; but it is very different from these. When seen floating on the water, it looks like a little weaver’s shuttle; but it is in fact a bladder inflated with air, having a ridge down the back like a cock’s comb, beautifully tinted with rose colour, the bladder itself being of a purplish hue at both ends. Below hang a number of thread-like appendages, some of which are straight, and some twisted, and all of which are of a beautiful dark blue or purplish hue. The animal possesses the power of contracting and dilating its bladder, and raising up the narrowest part, so as to make it serve for the purposes of a sail. There is also a little hole in the narrow part of the bladder, only large enough to admit a very fine bristle; through this the animal appears to squeeze out the air when it wishes to descend.”

“I have often seen the Portuguese men-of-war,” said a naval officer who stood near them. “I dare say there are fifty sorts of these creatures in the West Indies, and there are a great many also of the MedusÆ, which are a thousand times more beautiful than those we have been looking at here.”

“There are many different kinds of sea-jellies, or bubbles,” said Mr. Merton, “in the British seas, and it is said that many kinds were found formerly, which now appear to be extinct. It is even supposed that the curious marks in the old red sandstone of Forfarshire, which are called Kelpies’ feet, are occasioned by sea-jellies having been left by the sea on the sandstone, and lain there till decayed.”

“The Kelpies were supposed to be water-spirits,—were they not?” said the young man.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Bevan: “I remember, when travelling in the Highlands, hearing many strange stories about them.”

While they were conversing in this manner, the steam-boat made rapid progress, and they now approached Calshot Castle, a fort situated on a small head-land jutting into the sea.

“That fort,” said the old gentleman, “was built in the time of Henry VIII., to protect the entrance to Southampton water; and it is still used as a garrison, though the force it contains is but small. We are now in the Solent Sea, which divides the mainland from the Isle of Wight; and there,” he continued, “is the Island itself.”

They all turned to look; and Agnes was very much astonished to find it so near.

“How do you like the Isle of Wight?” asked her mamma.

“It looks a pretty mountainous country,” said Agnes; “and more like Scotland than any thing I have before seen in England.”

“You will find it very different,” said the old gentleman, turning to Agnes, “when you see it nearer.”

“Every thing is on a much smaller scale,” said Mrs. Merton; “but there is certainly some resemblance.”

At this moment the steam-boat stopped, and the passengers were desired to walk on shore at West Cowes. Agnes was deeply interested in watching the porters, who seized the luggage, and were carrying it off without asking where it was to go to; while several sailors surrounded the steam-boat, crying out, “Want a boat, want a boat, sir,—East Cowes, sir.” As Mr. Merton was very much fatigued with his journey, Mrs. Merton’s attention was entirely devoted to him; and, telling the porter to take their luggage to the Fountain Hotel, she gave her arm to her husband, to assist him to leave the vessel. Agnes was preparing to follow them, when, to her great dismay, she saw a man seize her own dear black leather portmanteau, and toss it into a boat going to East Cowes. She positively screamed; and, running to the edge of the vessel, she cried out, “Oh! do not take that! That is mine.”

“Yours,” cried a good-natured-looking sailor, who was standing in the boat taking in the luggage; “and are you not going with this party, then?”

“No,” said Agnes, trembling and panting for breath, “I am going to West Cowes,—to the Fountain. My papa and mamma are gone there.”

“Here,” cried the sailor; “I dare say the child is right;” calling to a young sailor who stood on the deck of the steam-packet; “Take this portmanteau, and go with that little girl to the Fountain.” At this moment the mate of the steam-packet came down to see what was the matter; and, having heard Agnes’s story, he asked what name was on the portmanteau; and, finding all was right, he told the boy to take it to the Fountain: Agnes following him, in a state of great agitation, but very much pleased at having saved her property. They had scarcely stepped on shore, when they met Mrs. Merton, who, having seen her husband comfortably placed on a sofa, had become uneasy at Agnes’s not following them, and had returned to the pier in search of her. When Mrs. Merton saw her little girl pale and trembling, she was very much alarmed; but, when she heard the story, she praised Agnes for the courage she had displayed, instead of scolding her, as she had been about to do, for her delay. Agnes was, however, too much agitated to feel her usual pleasure at her mother’s praises. It was the first time she had ever acted for herself in her life; and, though she had done right, she felt the bad effect of the over excitement. Mrs. Merton now offered sixpence to the boy who had carried Agnes’s portmanteau on shore, but he refused it. “Oh! no,” said he; “the young lady is quite welcome;” and, declaring that his father would be very angry with him if he took anything, he hurried into the Fountain: and putting down his burthen in the hall, he ran off, without allowing Mrs. Merton to say another word. As the pier at West Cowes is, indeed, the yard of the Fountain Inn, Mrs. Merton and Agnes had not far to go; but, as Mr. Merton had wished to take some repose after his fatigue, Mrs. Merton satisfied herself with ordering dinner at the bar, and walked out into the little narrow streets of Cowes with her daughter.

The first object that Mrs. Merton had in view, was to order a carriage, to take them round the Island on the morrow; and, for this purpose, she went into a fruit-shop nearly opposite the front door of the inn, where she saw a ticket offering carriages for hire. Mrs. Moore, for that was the name of the greengrocer, was a very nice person; and Mrs. Merton soon made an arrangement with her, that a little open carriage should be ready for them at nine the following morning. Mrs. Merton then asked Agnes, where she would like to walk; and Agnes having expressed a strong desire to visit East Cowes, as being the place to which her portmanteau had been so nearly conveyed, Mrs. Merton asked Mrs. Moore, which was the best mode of going.

“Oh! there are two ways, ma’am,” said Mrs. Moore. “You can either go by the ferry, at a penny a piece, or you can go in a boat from the pier, and pay a shilling.”

“Oh, let us go in the ferry-boat,” cried Agnes; “I never was in a ferry-boat in my life.”

Mrs. Merton having ascertained that the ferry-boat was perfectly safe, and that respectable people frequently went by it, determined to indulge her daughter, and they set off in the direction that was pointed out to them. The walk was not a very agreeable one; it was up a narrow street, and a rather steep hill. This appeared very extraordinary both to Agnes and her mamma, as people generally descend to water. At last, however, after a very disagreeable walk, and inquiring their way several times, they began to descend the hill, and soon reached the ferry, where the boat being just ready to go, they took their seats. Agnes and her mamma were both very much amused at the old man who rowed them across.

“I thought ferry-boats had generally a rope to keep them steady,” said Mrs. Merton.

“So they have for the horse-ferries,” said the old man; “but as for this, I can row it as well without a rope as with one. But it is not everybody that can do that, that is true enough.”

As the old man spoke, he gave a vigorous pull, and as he did so, his grey hair blew back from his ruddy and sun-burnt face; while his whole figure presented a striking picture of the good effect which a life of moderate, but regular, labour in the open air has upon the human frame.

The ferry-boat was soon across the river; and when Mrs. Merton and her daughter had landed at East Cowes, and were walking on the terrace in front of the Medina Hotel, Agnes could not help observing to her mother, that she thought the old man very conceited; “and it is such a ridiculous thing for a man to be proud of, too,” added she; “rowing a common ferry-boat.”

“My dear Agnes,” said her mother in a serious tone, “I have several times observed in you a tendency to look with contempt upon persons and things that you consider beneath you. It is true that you have many advantages which this ferryman has not. Fortunately for you, your parents are rich enough to allow you teachers to instruct you, servants to wait upon you, and a variety of comforts and indulgences which this ferryman can neither enjoy himself, nor give to his children. But these are merely accidental advantages. Circumstances might arise which would reduce you in a moment to a greater degree of poverty than this man, as, in fact, if we were obliged to live by the labour of our hands, he would be far superior to us from his activity and vigour. He is, though an old man, evidently in the enjoyment of robust health and great strength; and I am quite sure if your papa and I were obliged to row a ferry-boat for our support, we could neither of us do it half so well as he does.”

“Oh! but mamma,” said Agnes, “there is no danger of our being reduced to poverty, is there?”

“Not that I am aware of,” said Mrs. Merton; “but it is impossible to say what may happen. As your papa is not in trade he is not liable to those sudden and violent changes which frequently affect the commercial part of the community; but still many things may happen that would occasion a severe reverse. You know in the time of the French Revolution, many persons of a much higher rank than ours were reduced to the greatest distress, and even Louis Philippe, the present King of the French, was obliged to teach in a school for his support.”

They had now reached a part of the beach where the pebbles were very rough, and as Agnes was much interested in what Mrs. Merton was saying, she did not pay proper attention to where she was going, and at this moment she stumbled over a piece of wood. This obliged her to look more carefully at her feet, and as the road was now become very rough, Mrs. Merton thought it better not to proceed any farther along the beach, but to return to the terrace, where the road was smooth. They did so, and had not walked far, when they saw a skate that had just been caught, lying on the beach, panting, and opening and shutting its mouth, which was in the middle of its body on the under side. Agnes shuddered as she looked at it. “I wish they would throw it back into the water, mamma,” said she.

“We can hardly expect that,” returned her mother; “but I wish the fishermen in this country would stab their fish as soon as they have caught them, as I have heard fishermen do in the east. The skate is a kind of ray, and belongs to the same genus as the Torpedo. The thornback, or maid, belongs also to this genus. Do you remember the little things, that looked like little leather purses, that we used to find among the sea-weed at Brighton?”

“Oh yes! the fishermen called them skate barrows; but you told me they were the eggs of the skate.”

They now walked on in silence for a short time, till Agnes’s attention was caught by a building which some men were busily employed in pulling down.

“What is that, mamma?” cried she: “and why are those people taking off the roof?”

Mrs. Merton pointed to a portion of the walls that remained standing, and on which the words “salt-works” might still be read.

“Salt-works!” repeated Agnes; “what is salt made of, mamma?”

“Salt,” said Mrs. Merton, “can hardly be said to be made, as it is a mineral which is formed naturally in the earth, and which we procure in three different ways. Sometimes it is dug out of the salt-mines, as at Northwich in Cheshire, and in the Austrian dominions; but this kind of salt is coarse and dark-coloured. Another way of procuring it is from salt-springs; that is, from water which has become saturated with salt in its passage through the earth, as at Nantwich and other places in Cheshire, and at Droitwich in Worcestershire; and this salt is what we have in common use. The last kind of salt is what is made from the sea-water, and most of the works that have been erected for this purpose in England are in Hampshire, particularly in the Isle of Wight.”

“And how do they get the salt out of the salt-water?” asked Agnes.

“By boiling it,” said her mother, “in large shallow pans, such as that which you see before you.”

While they were examining the pans, Agnes asked her mother a great many questions respecting the salt-works, and Mrs. Merton told her, that the salt obtained from sea-water is of so much coarser kind than that obtained from the salt-springs, that it is principally used for curing meat, and for manuring the land.

“Ah!” said Agnes, “that reminds me of a question that I have often wished to ask you, mamma. When I was at Shenstone, my cousin George told me that salt would be excellent manure for my plants, and I put some on my annuals, which were just coming up, and, would you believe it, mamma, it killed them every one.”

“That,” said Mrs. Merton, “was because the manure was too strong for them, and you no doubt put a great deal too much. Salt, to do good to plants, should be given to them in very small quantities, as, though all plants require some mineral substances to be mixed with their food to keep them in health, it is in such small quantities that in some plants it is only in the proportion of one to four thousand; and where mineral substances are required in the greatest quantity for the nourishment of a plant, it is only in the proportion of about ten to one thousand.”

“I do not think I quite understand that, mamma,” said Agnes.

“Well,” returned Mrs. Merton, “at any rate you will remember, that though a very small quantity of salt may be useful to plants, a large quantity will kill them, and that, consequently, it is much safer for inexperienced gardeners not to give them any.”

“I remember once being told that all the places that produce salt end in wich; but the name of this place is Cowes.”

“I have heard that the word wich is derived from the Saxon, and that it signifies a salt-spring,” said Mrs. Merton, “but of course that does not apply to salt procured from the sea.”

Mrs. Merton and her daughter had now reached the beach, and ordering a boat from one of the boatmen lounging about, they stepped into it to return to West Cowes.

“But, mamma,” said Agnes, who was still thinking of the salt-works, “is this the water they use for making salt? This is the Medina, and not the sea, and the Medina is a river, is it not?”

“This part of the Medina,” said Mrs. Merton, “is what is called an estuary; that is, an arm of the sea mixed with the waters of a river; the water of this estuary is salt, and affected by the tides as far as Newport.”

“What makes the waters of the sea salt?” asked Agnes.

“That is a very difficult question to answer,” said her mother, “but it is supposed that rivers carry salt from the earth they run through, into the sea; and as the water in the sea is continually being evaporated by the heat of the sun, the quantity of salt, in proportion to the quantity of water, soon becomes much greater in the sea than in the river, and hence the water becomes much salter.”

“Why, mamma,” cried Agnes, “that is just what is done in the salt-pans.”

“You are right,” returned her mother. “The salt manufacturers observing the process of nature, have imitated it as well as they could, by applying artificial heat to evaporate the water. What is called bay-salt, is formed by the sea-water left in the clefts of the rocks by the tide evaporating naturally, and leaving a saline crust behind; and this salt takes its name from the sea-water being frequently thus left in bays. But see, here is the Fountain Inn, where I have no doubt your papa is waiting dinner for us.”