On 15th heavy rain. After crossing ye Towy we looked back upon the town, which appeared prettily situated, but the weather was so bad it was impossible to see any object. The inhabitants were not surprised at the infamy of the weather; they said it was nothing unusual. Finding no horses at Neath, we were compelled to remain. We walked to see the ruins of a small castle; the castle is not remarkable except for the beauty of its situation, and probably was raised by some of those Norman Barons who followed the fortunes of Fitzhamon, the conqueror of Glamorganshire. The inn is kept by an Italian, who, tho’ he left the happy climate in which he was born at nine years old, yet retains enough of national _tournure_ to be known amongst a multitude of red-faced ale-drinkers as an alien. There is an archness, not to say roguery, which, such as it is, is a thousand times better than the stupidity and sulkiness and _dubious honesty_ of the British countenance in common life. On ye 17th we passed thro’ Margam, a possession of Mr. Talbot’s. There in his park are the beautiful remains of the Priory, about which I must look in Grove and Camden. He pulled down the mansion, but has built a magnificent greenhouse for the preservation of some orange-trees which belonged to William III.[2] The architecture is Grecian, which, close to a fine Gothic edifice, denotes more his adherence to the fashion of the times than his judgment in conceiving an appropriate decoration, as the two styles clash and diminish the beauty of both. Not that I am an enthusiastic admirer of Grecian architecture in any way but in a temple. There, indeed, the fine column, its slim shaft, rich architrave, cornice, and volute, surmounted with a graceful pediment, create a species of beauty which no other can. Indeed the circular arch, as in the Pont de Garde, where they form a bridge and aqueduct by several tiers one above the other, is very grand; otherwise, in vast works, I like the Gothic architecture, which, to use an affected phrase, is more _impressive_ in lofty structures. Mr. Talbot married a cousin of Ld. H.’s, a daughter of Lord Ilchester’s.[3] It was a strange match, she about sixteen, he sixty; as yet, however, the disproportion has not affected their felicity. They live happily; a good deal in the country. [Sidenote: CARDIFF] Arrived at Cardiff after dark. Received a note from Ly. Plymouth[4] to tell me she was there; came the next morning, 18th, to breakfast. She is scampering upon a blood horse, followed by an attorney, over her son’s estates, settling his affairs. She complains of having found everybody formerly employed rogues, from whence one may presume she has fallen into the hands of some very great one. The Castle is very handsome; in the area Ld. Bute has built a modern castellated house, preserving in the centre one or two of the old towers.