Sir John Rennie, who designed and built the massive range of the Victualling Yard, built for all time. There are fifteen acres of it; comprising cattle-lairs and cold-meat stores, gigantic corn and flour stores, bakeries, rum stores, and dozens of other departments from which the Navy is supplied.
Beyond the yard, the long creek9, infinitely10 muddy, of Stonehouse Lake opens out, and, across the entrance, the military headquarters, Mount Wise; semi-rural in appearance, its grassy11 slopes crowned by signalling station and semaphore. The name of “Mount Wise,” is no satirical nickname holding up to ridicule12 the invincible13 incapacity of the War Department, but a survival from the time of Charles the Second, when the Wise family owned the place. Another survival here is the wooden signal semaphore, last of a line of thirty-two that formed a “telegraphic” communication between Plymouth and London in the days before the electric telegraph was invented. To apply the term “telegraph” to a series of wooden semaphores sounds grotesque14, but it is on record that the arrival of Napoleon as a prisoner in Plymouth Sound, in 1815, was “telegraphed” to London in fifteen minutes.
Here we are come to the great dockyard, forming, with its recent extension at Keyham, a continuous frontage facing the Hamoaze, of over two miles. I suppose there are some five thousand[297] men employed here by the Government in the building and repairing of ships: a vast development since 1691, when “Plymouth Dock,” was first established. “Plymouth Dock,” the neighbourhood remained until 1824, when the town that had sprung up around the dockyard received the newly-coined name of “Devonport.”
The steamers call at North Corner, hard by the dockyard, where the grim streets of Devonport, rich in pawnbrokers’ shops and public-houses, dip down to the water, and dozens of naked boys splash about on summer days in a longshore mixture of sea water, mud, orange-peel, corks15, and all the miscellaneous flotsam and jetsam of a great town.
North Corner is a busy place, and from the steamer pontoon you look out upon all the activities of the Hamoaze, with perhaps a great modern battleship close inshore, come home, weather-stained, from a long commission, and flying, from her topmost truck, for all to notice, the paying-off pennon; a ribbon of amazing length, reaching to the waterline. Sailors, overjoyed to be home again, come ashore16 with kitbags like great bolsters17 on their shoulders, and look so bronzed, healthy and happy that you are struck with astonishment18 when, in some lowering, beetle-browed waterside tavern19, you hear them grumbling20 and advising civilian21 and shore-going friends, with blazing emphatics, “Don’t you never wear three rows of tape round your neck,” which is a highly technical way of saying, “Don’t join the Navy,” the blue-jacket’s[298] jumper being ornamented22 with three thin white lines.
“A.B.’s no bloomin’ catch. All right for petty orf’cer or articifer, fine thing to be a snotty, or a lewtenant, an’ finer to be captain, or one o’ them admirals what ye see in the photograph shops, cuddlin’ their telescopes under their arms, and lookin’ as if they’d just come out o’ Sunday School; but—well, here’s yours, my sonny.”
Past North Corner and the steam-ferry across the Hamoaze to Torpoint in Cornwall, you come to Bull Point, where the explosives live, and to the poor discarded ships of the Navy.
Here are tiers of vessels23; steel-built cruisers, gunboats, torpedo24 craft, and what not, at their last moorings, and presently to be sold out of the navy for the price of an old tin kettle.
There is nothing more pitiful in all this world of activity than the sight of these discarded ships of our modern navy. The old wooden men-o’-war, out-of-date long generations ago, are still things[299] of a worshipful nobility. Even the blackened coal-hulks and the floating station of the Harbour Police have the remains25 of a majestic26 presence; but the obsolete27 cruisers and other vessels of the present iron age are dreadfully abject28 and mean. They have been in every clime, and on many a distant station have upheld the dignity of the Empire, and so have a claim upon our respect; but no worn-out boiler29 or discarded kitchen-range, among the rubbish-heaps of a builder’s yard, looks so utterly30 and unromantically sordid31. For myself, I want to be impressed; I acutely wish to read romance and the pathos32 of neglect into these discarded things of iron and steel, that have carried the King’s commission over all the seas of the habitable globe and are now struck off the effective list, even though they be not more than twenty years old; but I find it impossible. I could as easily—nay, could with greater ease—drop a salt tear over the old kitchener that has cooked me many a dinner, and now lies rusting33 in the garden.
The ships look so small; and their sides and decks are red with rust-stains. When quite deserted34 they are even more than abject, and resemble floating scrap-heaps, but when some solitary35 figure of a marine36 is perceived, in charge, pipe in mouth, and clad in the extraordinary deshabille of undress that only a soldier will descend37 to when removed from the eye of command, and with intimate articles of his underclothing drying in the sun, they wear the look[300] of sea-going slums. Figures and statistics do not commonly impress me; you can make so much play with an extra o or two, but here are cruisers that have cost £150,000 a-piece which will each fetch at auction38 only a trifling39 £5,000, and for the mere1 look of them, would seem to be extravagantly40 dear at £500; and when I think of these things, I am very much impressed indeed.
The Hamoaze between St. Budeaux on the Devonshire, and Saltash on the Cornish, shores, becomes the Tamar, and narrows to something a little less than half a mile wide. It is spanned here by the famous Saltash Bridge, built by Brunel to carry the railway across, and opened in 1859. For eleven miles above the bridge, the Tamar is navigable at high tide by small steamers, past Cargreen, to Calstock, and past Morwellham Quay41, to Weir42 Head. Beyond, where New Bridge carries the highway across, Devon and Cornwall join hands.
点击收听单词发音
1 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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2 pier | |
n.码头;桥墩,桥柱;[建]窗间壁,支柱 | |
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3 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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4 granite | |
adj.花岗岩,花岗石 | |
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5 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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6 stony | |
adj.石头的,多石头的,冷酷的,无情的 | |
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7 inception | |
n.开端,开始,取得学位 | |
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8 manor | |
n.庄园,领地 | |
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9 creek | |
n.小溪,小河,小湾 | |
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10 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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11 grassy | |
adj.盖满草的;长满草的 | |
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12 ridicule | |
v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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13 invincible | |
adj.不可征服的,难以制服的 | |
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14 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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15 corks | |
n.脐梅衣;软木( cork的名词复数 );软木塞 | |
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16 ashore | |
adv.在(向)岸上,上岸 | |
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17 bolsters | |
n.长枕( bolster的名词复数 );垫子;衬垫;支持物v.支持( bolster的第三人称单数 );支撑;给予必要的支持;援助 | |
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18 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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19 tavern | |
n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
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20 grumbling | |
adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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21 civilian | |
adj.平民的,民用的,民众的 | |
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22 ornamented | |
adj.花式字体的v.装饰,点缀,美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23 vessels | |
n.血管( vessel的名词复数 );船;容器;(具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的)人 | |
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24 torpedo | |
n.水雷,地雷;v.用鱼雷破坏 | |
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25 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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26 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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27 obsolete | |
adj.已废弃的,过时的 | |
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28 abject | |
adj.极可怜的,卑屈的 | |
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29 boiler | |
n.锅炉;煮器(壶,锅等) | |
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30 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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31 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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32 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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33 rusting | |
n.生锈v.(使)生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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34 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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35 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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36 marine | |
adj.海的;海生的;航海的;海事的;n.水兵 | |
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37 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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38 auction | |
n.拍卖;拍卖会;vt.拍卖 | |
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39 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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40 extravagantly | |
adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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41 quay | |
n.码头,靠岸处 | |
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42 weir | |
n.堰堤,拦河坝 | |
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