Drumcliff and Rosses

Drumcliff and Rosses were, are, and ever shall be, please Heaven!
places of unearthly resort. I have lived near by them and in them, time
after time, and have gathered thus many a crumb of faery lore.
Drumcliff is a wide green valley, lying at the foot of Ben Bulben, the
mountain in whose side the square white door swings open at nightfall
to loose the faery riders on the world. The great St. Columba himself,
the builder of many of the old ruins in the valley, climbed the
mountains on one notable day to get near heaven with his prayers.
Rosses is a little sea-dividing, sandy plain, covered with short grass,
like a green tablecloth, and lying in the foam midway between the round
cairn-headed Knocknarea and "Ben Bulben, famous for hawks":

But for Benbulben and Knocknarea
Many a poor sailor'd be cast away,

as the rhyme goes.

At the northern corner of Rosses is a little promontory of sand and
rocks and grass: a mournful, haunted place. No wise peasant would fall
asleep under its low cliff, for he who sleeps here may wake "silly,"
the "good people" having carried off his soul. There is no more ready
shortcut to the dim kingdom than this plovery headland, for, covered
and smothered now from sight by mounds of sand, a long cave goes
thither "full of gold and silver, and the most beautiful parlours and
drawing-rooms." Once, before the sand covered it, a dog strayed in, and
was heard yelping helplessly deep underground in a fort far inland.
These forts or raths, made before modern history had begun, cover all
Rosses and all Columkille. The one where the dog yelped has, like most
others, an underground beehive chamber in the midst. Once when I was
poking about there, an unusually intelligent and "reading" peasant who
had come with me, and waited outside, knelt down by the opening, and
whispered in a timid voice, "Are you all right, sir?" I had been some
little while underground, and he feared I had been carried off like the
dog.

No wonder he was afraid, for the fort has long been circled by ill-
boding rumours. It is on the ridge of a small hill, on whose northern
slope lie a few stray cottages. One night a farmer's young son came
from one of them and saw the fort all flaming, and ran towards it, but
the "glamour" fell on him, and he sprang on to a fence, cross-legged,
and commenced beating it with a stick, for he imagined the fence was a
horse, and that all night long he went on the most wonderful ride
through the country. In the morning he was still beating his fence, and
they carried him home, where he remained a simpleton for three years
before he came to himself again. A little later a farmer tried to level
the fort. His