The Adventures of Harry Revel | Page 2

by heart-breaking practice. Yet we
preferred them. If it did nothing else, the Genevan Hospital, by
Plymouth Dock, taught us to suit ourselves to the world as we found it.
I do not remember that we were unhappy or nursed any sense of injury,
except over the porridge for breakfast. The Rev. Mr. Scougall, our
pastor, had founded the hospital some twenty years before with the
money subscribed by certain Calvinistic ladies among whom he
ministered, and under the patronage of a Port Admiral of like belief,
then occupying Admiralty House. His purpose (to which we had not the
smallest objection) was to rescue us small jetsam and save us from
many dreadful Christian heresies, more especially those of Rome. But
he came from the north of Britain and argued (I suppose) that what
porridge had done for him in childhood it might well do for us-- a
conclusion against which our poor little southern stomachs rebelled. It
oppressed me worse than any, for since the discovery of my
sleep-walking habit my supper (of plain bread and water) had been
docked, so that I came ravenous to breakfast and yet could not eat.
Nevertheless, I do not think we were unhappy. Perhaps we were too
young, and at any rate we had nothing with which to contrast our lot.
Across the roadway outside lay blue water, and of this and of roving
ships and boats and free passers-by glimpses came to us through the
wicket when Mr. George, the porter (we always addressed him as "Mr."
and supposed him to resemble the King in features), admitted a visitor,
or the laundress, or the butcher's boy. And sometimes we broke off a
game to watch the topmasts of a vessel gliding by silently, above the
wall's coping. But if at any time the world called to us, we took second
thoughts, remembering our clothes.
We wore, I dare say, the most infernal costume ever devised by man--a
tightish snuff-coloured jacket with diminutive tails, an orange waistcoat,
snuff-coloured breeches, grey-blue worsted stockings, and square-toed

shoes with iron toe-plates. Add a flat-topped cap with an immense
leathern brim; add Genevan neck-bands; add, last of all, a leathern
badge with "G.F.H." (Genevan Foundling Hospital) depending from the
left breast-button; and you may imagine with what diffidence we took
our rare walks abroad. The dock-boys, of course, greeted us with cries
of "Yellow Hammer!" The butcher-boy had once even dared to fling
that taunt at us within our own yard; and we left him in no doubt about
the hammering, gallant fellow though he was and wore a spur on his
left heel. But no bodily deformity could have corroded us as did those
thrice-accursed garments with terror of the world without and of its
laughter.
Of a world yet more distant we were taught the gloomiest views. Twice
a week regularly, and incidentally whenever he found occasion, Mr.
Scougall painted the flames of hell for us in the liveliest colours. We
never doubted his word that our chances of escaping them were small
indeed; but somehow, as life did not allure, so eternity did not greatly
frighten us. Meanwhile we played at our marbles. We knew, in spite of
the legend over the gateway, that at the age of ten or so our elder
companions disappeared. They went, as a fact, into various trades and
callings, like ordinary parish apprentices. Perhaps we guessed this; if so,
it must have been vaguely, and I incline to believe that we confused
their disappearance with death in our childish musings on the common
lot. They never came back to see us; and I remember that we were
curiously shy of speaking about them, once gone.
From Miss Plinlimmon's window above the eaves I could look over the
front wall on to an edge of roadway, a straight dock like a canal--
crowded with shipping--and a fort which fired a gun in the early
morning and again at sunset. And every morning, too, the drums would
sound from the hill at our back; and be answered by a soldier, who
came steadily down the roadway beside the dock, halted in front of our
gates, and blew a call on his bugle. Other bugle-calls sounded all
around us throughout the day and far into our sleep-time: but this was
the only performer I ever saw. He wore a red coat, a high japanned hat,
and clean white pantaloons with black gaiters: and I took it for granted
that he was always the same soldier. Yet I had plenty of opportunities

for observing him, for Miss Plinlimmon made it a rule that I should
stand at the window and continue to gaze out of it while she dressed.
One day she paused in the act of plaiting her hair. "Harry," said she,