The afternoon was waxing apace—­we had lost time in attending to our horses, for ostler there was none—­and in musing amongst the simply decorated graves in the humble churchyard;[9] after discussing with great relish our repast of eggs and bacon, and Welsh ale, the best the village afforded, (by the way, we shall not readily forget the fluster of our Welsh hostess when we talked of dining on our arrival at the little hostelrie) we then rode down to the sea-shore, intending to cross the sandy beach of Oxwich, which extends several miles, on our return to the Gower Inn.  The tide flows with great rapidity on this coast, and it had already advanced to the foot of a stupendous headland, which juts into the beach about half way.  We waded our horses through the surf—­but how can we do justice to the splendour of the scenery around us.  The alternations of stern and savage beauty—­the gigantic masses of “fantastic cliffs,” and caverns, that have stood the combat of the mighty Atlantic for countless ages?  Oxwich is almost unknown to the traveller, and there are few coast scenes in these islands that surpass it in beauty.  We lingered long on the shore.  There is a perpetual “jabble” against the cliffs on this coast—­and we have seldom met with a soul save an aged and solitary fisherwoman—­a study for a Bonington—­pursuing her precarious calling of crab or shrimp fishing, or of pulling lobsters from their retreats in the savage cliffs.

[9] See Mirror, vol. xvi. p. 253.

                         A holy peace,

Pervades this sea-shore solitude—­The world
And all who love that world, are far away. 

          
                                                      N.T.  CARRINGTON.

It was getting dusk when we ascended from the shore, on our way homewards, past the wild—­the truly shattered, and desolate ruins of Pennard Castle; which bear, we think, decided marks of having been erected long prior to the Norman era.  The country people tell you its origin was supernatural; and some writers ascribe it to that great castle-builder, Henry de Newburgh.  Pennard stands in a situation of extreme beauty, and deeply rivets the attention: 

“The stones have voices, and the walls do live,
It is the House of Memory!”
MATAIRE.

Our favourite mare and her companion were in high spirits, (horses are generally so on returning) exhilarated by the rapid motion; and our hearts elate with the “songs of spring,” we returned home on as sweet an April evening as ever blessed man.

Another interesting excursion maybe made to Cefyn-bryn, the most elevated hill in the district, about twelve miles from Swansea.  The road to Western Gower is carried over it; the summit is level, and a carriage may be driven in safety for a couple of miles to the southern point; which commands, on a clear day, in one direction, a vast and unbounded view of the Bristol Channel, the whitened houses of Ilfracombe, with the