A little north of the town of Sligo, on the southern side of Ben Bulben, some hundreds of feet above the plain, is a small white square in the limestone. No mortal has ever touched it with his hand; no sheep oat has ever browsed grass beside it. There is no more inaccessible place upon the earth, and few more encircled by awe to the deep sidering. It is the door of faery-land. In the middle of night it swings open, and the uhly troop rushes out. All night the gay rabble sweep to and fro across the land, invisible to all, unless perhaps where, in some more than only 「gentle」
place—Drumcliff or Drum-a-hair—the nightcapped heads of faery-doay be thrust from their doors to see what mischief the 「gentry」 are doing. To their trained eyes and ears the fields are covered by red-hatted riders, and the air is full of shrill voices—a sound like whistling, as an a Scottish seer has recorded, and wholly different from the talk of the angels, who 「speak mu the throat, like the Irish,」 as Lilly, the astrologer, has wisely said. If there be a new-born baby or new-wed bride in the neighbourhood, the nightcapped 「doctors」 will peer with more than on care, for the uhly troop do not always retury-handed. Sometimes a new-wed bride or a new-born baby goes with them into their mountains; the door swings to behind, and the new-born or the new-wed moves heh in the bloodless land of Faery; happy enough, but doomed to melt out at the last judgment like bright vapour, for the soul ot live without sorrow.
Through this door of white stone, and the other doors of that land where geabheadh tu an sonas aer pighin (「you buy joy for a penny」), have gone kings, queens, and princes, but so greatly has the power of Faery dwihat there are peasants in these sad icles of mine.
Somewhere about the beginning of last tury appeared at the western er of Market Street, Sligo, where the butcher』s shop now is, not a palace, as is』s Lamia, but an apothecary』s shop, ruled over by a certain unatable Dr. Opendon. Where he came from, none ever knew. There also was in Sligo, in those days, a woman, Ormsby by name, whose husband had fallen mysteriously sick. The doctors could make nothing of him. Nothing seemed wrong with him, yet weaker and weaker he greent the wife to Dr. Opendon. She was shown into the shop parlour. A black cat was sitting straight up before the fire. She had just time to see that the side-board was covered with fruit, and to say to herself, 「Fruit must be wholesome when the doctor has so much,」 before Dr. Opendon came in. He was dressed all in black, the same as the cat, and his wife walked behind him dressed in black likewise. She gave him a guinea, and got a little bottle iurn. Her husband recovered that time. Meanwhile the black doctor cured many people; but one day a rich patient died, and cat, wife, and doctor all vahe night after. In a year the man Ormsby fell sice more. Now he was a goodlooking man, and his wife felt sure the 「gentry」 were coveting him. She went and called on the 「faery-doctor」 at sfoot. As soon as he had heard her tale, he went behind the back door and began muttering, muttering, muttering-making spells. Her husband got well this time also. But after a while he sied again, the fatal third time, and away went she once more to sfoot, and out went the faery-doctor behind his back door and began muttering, but soon he came in and told her it was no use— her husband would die; and sure enough the man died, and ever after wh