Farther on we come to long ranges of spacious workshops, crammed with machinery of the latest types propelled by engines both ancient and modern. By means of these, thick metal plates and beams are shaped and fashioned as easily as wood in a carpenter's shop. Here lies a massive bronze casting weighing many tons, destined to form the ram of H.M.S. Renown; yonder a metal plane shaves off golden spirals, much like the 'corkscrew' curls of other days, from a plate of solid brass. In another direction a strapping mechanic is bringing a steel plate to the requisite curve, by means of herculean blows from a heavy sledge.
Pass we now to the iron foundry, where a gang of workmen are about to draw the glowing metal from the furnace. The scintillating mass is hitched on to a movable crane, and borne away to be manipulated between a pair of massive metal rollers. After several successive squeezes, it emerges in the form of a huge armour plate.
Now, too, the Nasmyth hammer is much en évidence, its mighty strokes shaking the solid ground as we approach; yet so docile is the monster that the engineer cracks a nut beneath it, to the no small astonishment of the visitors.
Nor must we omit a peep at the wood-working shops, where the circular saw sings at its work the live-long day, shearing the roughest logs into comely planks with wonderful precision, while skilful hands fashion and frame the various parts required.
All these multifarious handicrafts, carried on in extensive and inflammable structures, necessitate an efficient fire-extinguishing apparatus. This is maintained in a separate building, and is kept in apple-pie order, ever ready to fight the flames in case of an outbreak of the devouring element.
Resuming our peregrinations 'in search of the picturesque,' we now bid farewell to the county-town of Pembroke. At Hobb's Point a grimy little steamboat, that years ago plied on the Thames, ferries the traveller across to the railway pontoon at New Milford, whence we entrain en route for Haverfordwest.
Rail and river keep company for a time through a pleasant, undulating country, with copsewood feathering down to the water's edge. Presently we pass close to Rosemarket, a primitive-looking village where, in the days of the Stuarts, dwelt a certain fair maid named Lucy Walters.
