GOING TO OSTIA.
While Rollo was at Rome, he made the acquaintance of a boy named Copley.
Copley was an English boy, and he was about a year older than Rollo.
Rollo first saw him at the door of the hotel, as he, Copley, was
dismounting from his horse, on his return from a ride which he had been
taking into the country. He had been attended on his ride by a servant
man named Thomas. Thomas dismounted from his horse first, and held the
bridle of Copley's horse while Copley dismounted.
"There!" said Copley, walking off with a very grand air, and leaving his
horse in Thomas's hands; "take the horse, Thomas, and never bring me
such an animal as that again. Next time I ride I shall take Jessie."
"But Mr. William has forbidden me to give you Jessie," said Thomas. "He
says she is not safe."
"It's none of his business," said Copley. "He thinks, because he is a
little older than I am, and because he is married,--though he has not
been married much more than a month,--that he has a right to order me
about just as he pleases. And I am determined not to submit to it--would
you?"
These last words were addressed to Rollo. Copley had been advancing
towards the door of the hotel, while he had been speaking, and had now
just reached the step where Rollo was standing.
"Who is he?" asked Rollo. "Who is William?"
"He is my brother," said Copley; "but that has nothing to do with it."
"Are you under his care?" asked Rollo.
"Why, I am travelling with him," said Copley; "but he has no business on
that account to lord it over me. I have as good a right to have my way
as he has to have his."
Some further conversation then followed between Copley and Rollo, in
which the former said that he had been for several weeks in Rome, in
company with his brother. He had an uncle, too, in town, he said, at
another hotel.
"But I stay with my brother," said Copley, "because he is going to make
a longer journey, and I want to go with him."
"Where is he going?" asked Rollo.
"Why, we have engaged a vetturino," replied Copley, "and are going to
travel slowly to Florence, and from Florence into the northern part of
Italy, to Milan and Venice, and all those places. Then, afterwards, we
shall go over, by some of the passes of the Alps, into Switzerland. I
like to travel in that way, I have so much fun in seeing the towns and
the country. Besides, when we travel with a vetturino, I almost always
ride on the outside seat with him, and he lets me drive sometimes."
"Then your uncle is not going that way?" said Rollo.
"No," replied Copley; "he is going directly home by water. He is going
down to Civita Vecchia, to take the steamer there for Marseilles, and I
don't want to go that way."
Copley then asked Rollo to go out into the Corso with him. He said that
he saw a shop there, as he was coming home, which had a great display of
whips at the window, and he wanted to buy a whip, so that when they set
out on their journey he could have a whip of his own.
"The vetturino never will let me have _his_ whip," said he. "The lash is
so long that he says I shall get it entangled in the harness. That's no
reason, for he is always getting it entangled himself. But that's his
excuse, and so I am going to have a whip of my own."
"Well," said Rollo, "I rather think I will go with you; but you must
wait here for me a minute or two. I must go up to my room first; but I
will come directly down again."
Rollo wished to go up to his room to ask his uncle's permission to go
with Copley. He made it an invariable rule never to go any where without
his uncle's permission. Mr. George was always ready to give permission
in such cases, unless there was some really good and substantial reason
for withholding it. And whenever Mr. George withheld his consent from
any of Rollo's proposals, Rollo always submitted at once, without making
any difficulty, even when he thought that his uncle was wrong, and that
he might have consented as well as not.
It was not altogether principle on the part of Rollo, that made him
pursue this course; it was in a great measure policy.
"I like travelling about the world with uncle George," he used to say to
himself, "and in order that I may travel with him a great deal, I must
make it for his interest to take me. That is, I must manage so that he
will have a better time when I am with him, than when he goes alone; and
in order to do this, I must take care never to give him any trouble or
concern of any kind on my account. I must comply with his wishes in
every thing, and be satisfied with such pleasures and enjoyments as he
fully approves."
Rollo did not think of this altogether of himself. It was his father
that put the idea into his mind. He did it in a conversation that he had
with Rollo the day before he set out on the journey.
"Rollo, my boy," said he, "in going on this journey into Italy with your
uncle George, there is one danger that you will have to look out for
very carefully."
"Getting robbed by the brigands?" asked Rollo.
"No," said Mr. Holiday; "it is something very different from that, and a
great deal worse. That is to say, the evil that you have to fear from it
is a great deal worse than any thing that would probably happen to you
by being robbed. The danger is of your having too much independence, or,
rather, a wrong kind of independence. What is independence?"
Rollo reflected a moment in order properly to frame his answer to his
father's question. He thought he knew very well what the meaning of the
word _independence_ was, but he did not readily know how to clothe the
meaning in language. At last he said that he thought independence was
doing what you thought was best yourself, without regard to what other
people thought.
"Very well," said his father. "That's a pretty good definition of it.
And now, do you think it is a good quality, or a bad quality?"
"A good quality," said Rollo; "that is, I suppose it is good," he added,
hesitatingly, "but I don't know."
"It depends upon circumstances," said Mr. Holiday. "Should you think
that firing his gun when _he_ thought best, instead of when the
_captain_ thought best, was a good thing in a soldier, on the field of
battle?"
"No, sir," said Rollo.
"And so, would the independence of the colonel of a regiment," continued
Mr. Holiday, "in marching when he thought best, instead of when the
general ordered him, be a good quality or a bad quality?"
"Bad," said Rollo; "very bad indeed."
"Independence is an excellent quality in its own right and proper
sphere," said Mr. Holiday; "but when it takes the form of disregarding
or rebelling against right and proper authority, it is a very bad
quality. It cannot be tolerated. If it were allowed generally to prevail
among mankind, the whole world would be thrown into confusion, and
nothing could go on. This is now the kind of independence that you must
guard against. You are growing up rapidly, and increasing in strength
and knowledge every day. You are becoming a young man, and in a great
many of the situations in which you are placed, you are fully competent
to take care of yourself. Still you are what the law calls a minor. That
is, you have not arrived at an age when you can safely be your own
master, and support and take care of yourself. Consequently, the law
makes it your father's duty, for some years to come, to furnish money
for your support, and to provide for you all necessary protection. And
the same law makes it your duty to be under my direction, to conform
your conduct to my judgment; or, in other words, to do, not as _you_
think best, but as I, or whomsoever I may delegate to act in my stead,
thinks best. This is reasonable. As long as a boy depends upon his
father for the means of his support, it is right that he should act as
his father's judgment dictates. It will be time enough for him to expect
that he should act according to his own judgment, in his conduct, when
he is able to earn his own living, and so release his father from all
responsibility on his account. In a word, the pecuniary responsibility
of the father, and the moral obligation of the son, go together."
"Yes, father," said Rollo; "I think that is all true."
"And now," continued Mr. Holiday, "I put you, for this journey, under
your uncle George's care. I delegate my parental power over you to him.
It is your duty, therefore, to obey him in all things, and to comply
with all his wishes, just as you would if I were in his place."
"Yes, father," said Rollo, "I will."
"Besides being your duty," added Mr. Holiday, "it is greatly for your
interest to do so. If you begin to show your independence, as it is
sometimes called, and insist on doing what you think is best, instead of
what he thinks is best, so as to cause him trouble, and make him feel
anxious and uneasy on your account, you will spoil the pleasure of his
journey, and he will not wish to take you with him again."
Mr. Holiday had some further conversation with Rollo on the subject, and
the effect of what he said was to lead Rollo to think more than he
otherwise would have done on the proper course which a boy ought to
pursue when travelling under the charge of his uncle, and he resolved
that he would, in all cases, not only obey implicitly his uncle's
commands, but that he would comply readily and cordially with his
wishes, whenever he could ascertain them.
Accordingly, in this case, he would not go even out into the Corso
without first going up to obtain his uncle's permission. He opened the
door of the room, and found his uncle there, writing a letter.
"Uncle George," said he, "here is a boy down below, who asks me to go
out into the Corso with him."
"What boy is it?" asked Mr. George.
"I don't know what his name is," said Rollo. "He is an English boy, I
suppose. He just came in from taking a ride on horseback."
"How long shall you probably be gone?" said Mr. George.
"I don't know," said Rollo, hesitating. "Perhaps about half an hour."
"Very well," said Mr. George; "you can be gone two hours if you choose.
If you form any plan that will require more time than that, come home
first and let me know."
So Rollo went down stairs again, and having joined Copley at the door,
they went together out towards the Corso.
In the mean time, Copley's brother William and his wife were waiting in
their room for Copley to come up. They knew at what hour he would return
from his ride, and they had formed a plan for going in a carriage out
upon the Appian Way, to see some ancient ruins there. They knew very
well that Copley would not care any thing about the ruins, but he always
liked to go with them when they took drives in the environs of Rome. The
special reason why Copley was so much interested in going on these
excursions was, that he was accustomed, in such cases, to sit on the
front seat with the coachman, as he did when travelling with the
vetturins, and sometimes he obtained permission to drive a little, by
secretly offering the coachman a piece of money. Mr. William had charged
his brother to come up to the parlor as soon as he came home from his
ride, and Copley ought to have done so. But it was never Copley's
practice to pay much heed to requests of this kind from his brother.
Mr. William, having waited for some time after he had seen the two
horses arrive at the door, wondering all the time why Copley did not
come up, went down to the door to inquire what had become of him. The
concierge informed him that Copley had gone away with another boy, out
to the Corso. So Mr. William ordered the carriage, and he and his wife
went away on their excursion alone.
Rollo and Copley had a very pleasant walk along the Corso. They were
obliged, however, to walk in the middle of the street, for the
sidewalks were so narrow and so irregular in shape, sometimes growing
narrower and narrower, until at length there was scarcely any thing but
the curb-stone left, that Rollo and Copley could not walk upon them.
At last, however, they came to the place where Copley had seen the
whips. Copley had plenty of money, but I do not know how he would have
managed to buy one of the whips, if Rollo had not been with him; for the
man who had them to sell could only speak French and Italian, and Copley
did not know either of these languages. He had been studying French, it
is true, for several years in school, but he had taken no interest in
learning the language, and the little knowledge of it which he had
acquired was not of such a character as to be of any use to him. As to
the Italian, he knew nothing at all of it.
Accordingly, Rollo acted as interpreter.
"I might have brought our courier with us," said Copley, "only it is
such a bore to have him about; and you do just as well."
After having bought the whip, Copley proposed that they should go to the
diligence office and see if there were any diligences there about
setting out on their journeys. The diligence office which Copley
referred to was not in the Corso, but in another street, at right angles
to it. When the boys reached the office, they found that there were no
diligences there; so they rambled on without much idea of where they
were going, until at length they came to the river, near one of the
bridges leading across it. A short distance below the bridge, there was
a small steamboat coming up the river.
"Ah, look there!" said Copley. "There's a steamer coming! Where do you
suppose that steamer is coming from?"
"It is coming from Ostia, I suppose," said Rollo. "At any rate, I know
that there is a steamer that goes to Ostia."
"Let us go there," said Copley. "Where is Ostia?"
"It is at the mouth of the river," said Rollo. "You may know that from
the name. _Ostia_ is the Latin word for _mouth_."
"I hate Latin," said Copley.
The little steamer came rounding up to a pier not far below the bridge.
Copley and Rollo leaned over the parapet, and looked to see the
passengers get out; but there were very few passengers to come. The boys
then went down towards the pier, and on inquiring of a gentleman whom
they saw there, they found that the boat went down the river to Ostia
every morning, and returned every night, and Copley immediately
conceived the idea of going down in her.
"Let's go down to-morrow," said he. "It is just far enough for a
pleasant sail."
Rollo's imagination was quite taken with the idea of sailing down to
Ostia. There seems to be something specially attractive to boys in the
idea of sailing down to the mouths of rivers. It is so pleasant to watch
the gradual widening of the stream, and to meet vessels coming up, and
to see the fishermen's boats, and the nets spread on the land, and the
little inlets, with the tide flowing in and out, and other indications
of the approach towards the sea. Besides, Rollo wished very much to see
what sort of a place Ostia was.
However, he would not positively promise to go. He said he should like
to go very much, but that he could not decide the question until he
should go home.
"I must see uncle George first," said Rollo. "It is possible that he may
have formed some engagement for me to-morrow."
"O, never mind what engagement he has formed," said Copley. "Tell him
that you can't go with him, because you have agreed to go down the river
with me."
"No," said Rollo, shaking his head.
"Why, what a little fool you are!" said Copley.
After remaining some time on the bridge, looking at the steamer, the
boys returned home. Rollo took care to arrive at the hotel before the
two hours were expired. Mr. George had just finished his letter, and was
folding it up and sealing it.
"Well, Rollo," said Mr. George, "have you had a pleasant walk?"
"Very pleasant, indeed," said Rollo. "We walked in the Corso till Copley
had bought his whip, and then we went on till we came to the bridge, and
there we saw a steamboat which goes to Ostia and back. Copley wants me
to go down with him in her to-morrow. We shall get back about this time,
I suppose."
Mr. George was at this time just writing the address on the back of his
letter. He did not say any thing, but Rollo observed a very slight and
almost imperceptible shaking of his head.
"You don't like the plan very well, uncle George," said Rollo.
"Not very well," said Mr. George. "I feel a little afraid of it."
"Then it is of no consequence," said Rollo. "I don't care a great deal
about going."
Most boys, perhaps, under these circumstances, would have asked why, in
order that, after hearing their uncle's objections to their plans, they
might argue against them. But Rollo knew very well that this would be
very bad policy for him.
"If uncle George finds that he has a long argument to maintain against
me, every time that he refuses me any thing," said he to himself, "he
will soon get tired of having me under his care."
So he acquiesced at once in what he perceived was his uncle's opinion,
and resolved to tell Copley, when he saw him, that he could not go to
Ostia.
Copley was to have called that evening at Rollo's room, to obtain his
answer; but on further reflection, he concluded not to do so.
Indeed, he had a secret feeling that neither Rollo's uncle nor his own
brother would approve of the plan of two such boys going alone, in such
a country, on an expedition which was entirely outside of the usual
range of tourists and travellers. That this expedition _was_ outside the
range was evident from the character of the steamboat that the boys had
seen, which was evidently not intended for the conveyance of ladies and
gentlemen, but of people of the country--and those, moreover, of the
lowest class.
So Copley concluded that if he were to go at all to Ostia, it would be
necessary for him to go by stealth, and he resolved not to say any
thing about his plan to his brother or sister. He was very sure, too,
that Rollo would fail of obtaining his uncle's consent. So he concluded
to say no more to Rollo on the subject, but instead of that, he proposed
the plan to another boy of his acquaintance, who lodged with his friends
at another hotel.
"The best way will be," said he, when he made the proposal, "for us not
to tell any body where we are going."
"Then they'll wonder where we are," said the boy, "and be frightened
half to death about us."
"But we can leave word when we go, with the porter of the hotel, or the
concierge," said Copley, "that we have gone down the river in the
steamboat, and shall not be back till night."
"Good," said the other boy; "that's what we'll do."
Accordingly, the next morning, the two boys left word at their
respective hotels where they were going, and set forth. They stole away
very secretly, and after running round the corner, they crept along
close to the wall of the hotel, until they thought they were at a safe
distance. They reached the boat in good season, went on board, and in
due time set sail.
About ten o'clock, when the two boys had been gone about an hour, Mr.
William began to miss his brother, and to wonder where he had gone. So
he rang the bell, and his courier came into the room.
"Pacifico," said Mr. William, "do you know where Copley is?"
"No, sir," said Pacifico; "I did not see him from since it was nine
o'clock."
"Go down below," said Mr. William, "and inquire of the concierge and the
porters if they have seen him, or know where he is."
Mr. William followed Pacifico as he went out, in order to speak a moment
to a friend of his who occupied the next apartment. As he came back he
met Pacifico at the head of the stairs, and received his answer there.
The answer was, that Copley had gone down the river to Ostia with
another boy.
Mr. William was greatly astonished to hear this. He, however, said
nothing to Pacifico, but after pausing a moment, as if reflecting upon
what he had heard, he went back into his own apartment.
"Maria," said he, addressing his young wife, "where do you think Copley
has gone?"
"I cannot imagine," said Maria.
"He has gone down the Tiber in the steamer to Ostia," replied Mr.
William.
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Maria, in astonishment.
"Yes," said William; "and I am very glad of it."
"Glad of it?" repeated Maria, surprised more and more.
"Yes," said Mr. William; "for it decides me what to do. I shall send him
home with his uncle. I have been half inclined to do this for some time,
and this settles the question. It destroys all the peace and comfort of
our journey to have a boy with us that is determined to have his own
way, without regard to the inconvenience or anxiety that he occasions
me."
"But how will you manage to get him to go with his uncle?" said Maria.
"He will refuse to go, and insist on accompanying us, for his uncle is
going directly home, which is what he does not wish to do."
"I'll manage that," said Mr. William. "I'll take a hint from his own way
of proceeding. I will go off and leave him."
"O husband," said Maria, "that will never do."
"You'll see how I will manage it," said Mr. William.
So saying, Mr. William rang the bell. Pacifico immediately appeared.
"I wish to write a letter," said Mr. William. "Bring me some paper, and
pen and ink."
Pacifico brought the writing materials, and laid them on the table.
"I have concluded to leave town this afternoon," said Mr. William, as he
took up the pen and began to make preparations to write. "I intend to go
as far as Civita Castellana to-night. We will set out at two o'clock. I
wish you to go and find our vetturino, and direct him to be here half an
hour before that time with the carriage, to load the baggage. He knows
that we were going soon, and he will be prepared. In the mean time you
may get our baggage ready. Copley's trunk, however, is not to go. Pack
that, and send it by a porter over to the Hotel d'Amerique. I am going
to leave him there under the care of his uncle."
"Very well, sir," said Pacifico; "I shall do it."
Pacifico retired, and Mr. William proceeded to write his letter. When it
was finished, he read it to his wife, as follows. It was addressed to
his father in England.
"ROME, June 20, 1858.
"DEAR FATHER: We are all well, and, on the whole, have enjoyed our
residence in Rome very much. We are now, however, about ready to leave.
We set off this afternoon for Florence and the north of Italy.
"I have concluded, all things considered, to let Copley return to you
with his uncle. Though a pretty good boy in other respects, he does not
seem to be quite willing enough to submit to my direction, to make it
pleasant for me, or safe for him, that we should travel together. I will
not say that it is his _fault_ altogether. It is perhaps because there
is not difference enough in our ages for him to feel that I ought to
have any authority over him. At any rate, he is unwilling to acknowledge
my authority, and he takes so many liberties that I am kept in a
constant state of anxiety on his account. Besides, I do not think that
it is safe for him to be so much at his own disposal. This country is
full of thieves, brigands, and rogues, of the most desperate and
reckless character; and young men sometimes suffer extremely in falling
into their hands. Copley is not aware of the danger, and he thinks that
the restraints which I feel compelled to impose upon him are unnecessary
and vexatious. Often he will not submit to them. To-day, he has gone
down the river on board one of the country steamers, without saying any
thing to me about it; and, though I do not suppose he will get into any
difficulty, in making such an excursion, still the fact that he takes
the liberty of doing such things keeps me continually uneasy about him,
and there is danger that, sooner or later, he will get into some serious
trouble.
"I have, accordingly, concluded to leave him under uncle's charge, with
a view of having him return with uncle to England, by way of the
Mediterranean. Uncle will leave here in a few days, and you may
accordingly expect to see Copley at home again in the course of a week
after receiving this.
"With love from Maria and myself for all at home, I am your dutiful son,
"WILLIAM GRANT."
Mr. William sealed his letter, and then took it down to the "bureau," as
the hotel office is called, where he left it with the secretary of the
hotel, to be sent to the post office.
He then went out at the front door of the hotel to the public square
before it, and there taking a carriage, he ordered the coachman to drive
to the Hotel d'Amerique. When arrived there, he went to his uncle's
apartment, and explained the plan which he had formed, and the reason
for it. His uncle said that he would very readily take Copley under his
charge. Mr. William then said that he was intending to leave town that
day, but he should leave Thomas at his hotel to wait for Copley, and
bring him over to the Hotel d'Amerique as soon as he returned.
This arrangement was carried into effect. Mr. William directed Thomas to
remain in town, to take care of Copley on his return from Ostia, and
deliver him safely into his uncle's hands. It occasioned Mr. William no
inconvenience to leave Thomas behind for a day, since, though Thomas
usually travelled in the same carriage with the family, the vetturino
himself always drove. Thomas, together with Pacifico, the courier, rode
on an outside seat in front, while Copley sometimes rode inside, though
more frequently on the driver's seat, by the side of the vetturino.
"Thomas," said Mr. Grant, in giving Thomas his instructions, "I am going
to set out on my journey this afternoon, but I shall leave you behind,
to come on to-night by the diligence. You will find me at the Hotel of
the Post, at Civita Castellana. I wish you to wait here until Copley
comes home, and then tell him that I have gone out of town, and shall
not be back to-night, and that he is going to spend the night at the
Hotel d'Amerique with his uncle. Do not tell him where I have gone, nor
that you are coming after me. His uncle will tell him all to-morrow
morning."
In the mean time, while these occurrences had been taking place at the
hotel, Copley and his companion had been sailing down the river on board
the little steamboat. They had, on the whole, a pretty pleasant time,
though they were somewhat disappointed in the scenery on the banks of
the river. The country was perfectly bare of trees, and destitute of all
cultivation. There were no villages, and scarcely a human habitation to
be seen. The boys, however, met with no trouble, and returned safely
home about four o'clock.
Copley found Thomas waiting for him at the hotel door.
"Mr. Copley," said Thomas, as Copley advanced towards the door, "your
brother has gone out of town, and will not be back to-night, and I was
to wait here for you, and tell you that you were to go and spend the
night at your uncle's apartment at the Hotel d'Amerique."
"Good!" said Copley. He felt quite relieved to find that his brother had
gone away, as he thus escaped the danger of being called to account for
his misdemeanor.
"Where has he gone?" asked Copley.
"I can't say," said Thomas; "but perhaps your uncle can tell you."
By the phrase "I can't say," Thomas secretly meant that he was not at
liberty to say, though Copley understood him to mean that he did not
know.
"Very well," said Copley; "I don't care where he has gone. It makes no
difference to me."
Copley found that it did make some difference to him, when he learned,
the next morning, that his brother had set out on his journey to the
north of Italy, and to Switzerland, and had left him behind to return
home at once with his uncle by sea. His uncle did not tell him that
night where his brother had gone, for fear that Copley might make some
difficulty, by insisting on going on after him in the diligence with
Thomas. Accordingly, when Copley asked the question, his uncle only
answered vaguely, that his brother had gone out somewhere into the
environs of Rome. The next morning, however, he handed Copley a note
which his brother had left for him, which note Copley, on opening it,
found to be as follows:--
"WEDNESDAY MORNING.
"DEAR COPLEY: I have concluded to set out this afternoon on my journey
north. I am sorry that you are not here to bid me good by. I did not
know that you were going down the river.
"It must be hard for a boy as old as you to be under the command of one
who is, after all, only his brother,--and not a great many years older
than he is himself,--for I am not quite ten years older than you. I know
you have found this hard, and so I have concluded that you had better
return home with uncle. One of these days, when you grow up to manhood,
you can make a journey into Italy again, and then you will be your own
master, and can do as you please, without any danger. Wishing you a very
pleasant voyage,
"I am your affectionate brother,
"WILLIAM GRANT."
Copley's indignation and rage at reading this letter seemed at first to
know no bounds. He was, however, entirely helpless. His brother had
gone, and he did not even know what road he had taken. Thomas had gone,
too, so that there was no help for him whatever.
In two days after that, he went with his uncle to Civita Vecchia, the
port of Rome, on the Mediterranean, and there embarked on board the
steamer "for Marseilles direct," and so returned to England.