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.”
[Illustration:
_Fig. 1._
MEDUSA, OR SEA-NETTLE.
]
“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,
——‘There’s not a gem
Wrought by man’s art to be compared to them;
Soft, brilliant, tender, through the wave they glow,
And make the moonbeam brighter where they flow.’”
“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.”
[Illustration:
_Fig. 2._
SEA-JELLIES (_Acalepha_).
]
“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.
[Illustration:
_Fig. 3._
THE PORTUGUESE MAN-OF-WAR.
]
“_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.”