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heard them told when climbing the sides of the Eagged Stone, 

 and gathering the violet and primrose which blossomed in the 

 crevices of its lava dykes. Again these legends have been lately 

 alluded to by Mr. McKay, of the Malvern Advertiser, in his 

 " British Camp on the Herefordshire Beacon," which deals with 

 theDmidical Oaks, the "High Court of the Druids," "the 

 Mistletoe and the Bards," " Dyn Mawr, the great city of the 

 Holly Bush," and "the Fires of Peace on Midsummer HiU," 

 in language of legendary rather than historic lore. It is plea- 

 sant reading however, and may aid in rescuing some of the 

 traditions and legends of the Malverns from sinking altogether 

 into oblivion. We have heard of the roUing snow ball, which 

 gathers as it goes, and certainly I find that, as I grow older, 

 the Shadow of the Eagged Stone gi-ows longer, and it falls upon 

 places I never heard of, and over races of men who had long 

 passed away before the curse which produced the shadow had 

 been uttered from its brow. It is only for a short time in the 

 year that, from the vale below, the sun hngers behind the 

 Eagged Stone, and its shadow is projected over the vale. For 

 years the fall of the shadow has been a terror to the peasantry, 

 who would not venture to cross its path. It rests awhile, like 

 a dark cloud in the evening sunshine, across fields where the 

 " Danewort" teUs of the massacre of the Danes by Athelstan, 

 and the bloody reprisals which followed when Sweyn came up 

 the Severn, burnt Deerhurst Church, and forced its Prior to fly 

 through the forest of Malvern, when he founded at Malvern the 

 Chapel of St. Ann. It sometimes casts a shadow over Moreton 

 Court, the home for centuries of the Nanfans, and reminds us 

 in its legends how Wolsey remembered, on his death-bed, a 

 prophecy he heard by its old moat, in his youth, a warning of 

 the shadow which ever falls on those who put their trust in 

 princes, or in woman, rather than in God. The shadow has been 

 seen creeping across the field of death, or the " Bloody meadow," 

 just below the hill itself, where Giles Nanfan ran his friend 

 and his sister's lover through the heart, in the days when the 

 " Merry Monarch" ruled in England, an old old tale of love and 

 sorrow, sudden death, and a broken heart. It is said, too, that 



