places.  How much more interesting to find an old tomb or quaint “brass” under the temple of a wild rosebush or in the firm clasp of an ivy-root than to walk up to it and read the inscription newly scraped and cleaned by the voluble attendant who volunteers to show you the place!  The great elms by Overton Church and the half-timbered and thatched houses crowding up to its gates somewhat make up for the splendor of the coped wall and new monuments in the churchyard.  A scene wholly old is the Erbistock Ferry, which one might mistake for a rope-ferry on the Mosel.  The cottage looks like the dilapidated lodge of an old monastery, and here, at least, is no trimness.  Two walls with a flight of steps in each enclose a grass terrace between them, and trees and bushes straggle to the edge of the river, hardly keeping clear of the swinging rope.  Coracles are sometimes used for ferrying—­also punts.  Bangor is a familiar name to students of church history, and to those who are not, the startling tale of the massacre of twelve hundred British monks by the Saxon and heathen king of Northumbria, who conquered Chester and invaded Wales in the seventh century, is repeated by the local guides.  At present, Bangor is interesting to anglers and to lovers of curiosities—­to the former as a good salmon-ground, and to the latter for the quaint verses, which, though trivial in themselves, borrow a value from the date of their inscription and the “laws” to which they refer.  They are on the wall of the lower story of the bell-tower: 

[Illustration:  In the vale of Llangollen.]

    If that to ring you would come here,
    You must ring well with hand and ear;
    But if you ring in spur or hat,
    Fourpence always is due for that;
    But if a bell you overthrow,
    Sixpence is due before you go;
    But if you either swear or curse,
    Twelvepence is due; pull out your purse. 
    Our laws are old, they are not new;
    Therefore the clerk must have his due. 
    If to our laws you do consent,
    Then take a bell:  we are content.

[Illustration:  Llangollen.]

Farndon Bridge and Wrexham Church (the latter looks like a small cathedral to the unpractised eye) are the last Welsh points of attraction before the Dee becomes quite an English river.  Malpas (mauvais pas = “bad step"), on the English bank, is significantly so-called from its situation as a border town:  the rector, too, might consider it not ill named, as regards the odd partition of the church tithes, which has been in force from time immemorial, and has given rise to an explanatory legend concerning a travelling king whom the resident curate wisely entertained in the absence of the rector, receiving for his guerdon a promise of an equal share in the income, not only for himself, but for all future curates.  In the upper rectory (the lower is the curate’s house) was born Bishop Heber in 1783, and in the early