The extensive plantations spread over several bold hills westward of the Neath river, whose broad translucid stream here emerges in a fine sweep between high woody banks, partly broken into naked cliffs, and soon unites with the sea. From a delightful shady walk impendent over the stream, we branched off into an “alley green” that led us up a steep hill covered with large trees and tangled underwood: the ascent was judiciously traced where several bare craigs projecting from the soil formed an apposite contrast to the luxuriant verdure that prevailed around. On gaining the summit the charms of Briton ferry disclosed themselves in “An ample theatre of Sylvan grace” of more than common beauty; beyond which the Bristol channel, bounded by the aerial tint of its opposite coast, formed the distance. But from a roaming prospect the eye gladly returned to repose on the local beauties of the scene; the tufted knoll, the dark glade, and the majestic river. In returning, we passed the mansion, a very ordinary building; but paused on the neat simplicity of the village-church adjoining, and its well-ordered cemetery. The custom of planting ever-greens over the graves of departed friends, and bedecking them with flowers at certain seasons of the year, is, here attended to with peculiar care; and to this pleasing tribute of affection, characteristic of Wales, David ap-Gwillim, a Welch bard who flourished about the middle of the fourteenth century, thus sweetly alludes in one of his odes: “O whilst thy season of flowers, and thy tender sprays thick of leaves remain; I will pluck the roses from the brakes; the flowerets of the meads, and gems of the woods; the vivid trefoils, beauties of the ground, and the gaily smiling bloom of the verdant herbs, to be offered to the memory of a chief of fairest fame: Humbly will I lay them on the grave of Ivor!” Shakspeare also, with exquisite tenderness: “With fairest flowers while summer lasts I’ll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack The flower that’s like thy face, pale Primrose; nor The azur’d Harebell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of Eglantine, whom not to slander Outsweeten’d not thy breath.” Highly pleased with Briton ferry, we proceeded along the coast, and passed through the little town of ABERAVON. Its copper and tin works added no charms to the verdant fertility of this part of the country, which appeared ornamented with several gentlemen’s seats, and well planted hills; but, grandly rising above comparison, “the mighty hill of MARGAM,” a steep mountain entirely shaded with oaks from the base to its “cloud-cap’t” summit, arrested our chief attention. [Picture: Margam Abbey]