Rensselaer Republican, Volume 16, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 May 1884 — THE WITCH’S RING. [ARTICLE]

THE WITCH’S RING.

A very curious, straggling, sleepy old village iB Adingtune. Half a century behind the rest of the world, it still sits between the green hills of an Eastern State, with its elbows on its knees and its chin in its hands, musing on bygone days, when old King George held the land under sway and when, as its old folks Bagely remark, things were not as they are now. There are a great many old people in Addingtune—in fact, very few die young there. The atmosphere is so dreamy and peaceful that excitement cannot exist, and the wear and tear of the busy world is unknown, or at most only hums faintly over the hills like the buzzing of a fly on a sunny pane on a summer day. And so they still sit in their chimney-corners from year to year, and muse and doze, and dream, until they dream their lives away and take their final sleep. It was to an old crone of this description that I was indebted for my adventure. In the course of my idle ramblings about the village I chanced one day to peer over a crumbling wall and discover an old disused burial ground. The brown slabs were broken, prostrate, and scattered, with only here and there a forlorn, unsteady stone standing wearily, and waiting for the time to come when it, too, might fall down an rest with the sleepers beneath. Scrambling over the low wall I stooped about among the grass, pushing away the tangled masses of vines and leaves from the faoes of slabs that I might read the inscriptions there But the suns and storms of over 100 years had obliterated nearly all the letters, so that only portions of names and dates remained. Finally, down in a deep corner of the inclosure, where the weeds grew densest and the shade was darkest, I found an old stone, which, leaning forward, had protected its face from the storms, and on this stone I read the words: BARBARA CONWAIL, BORN 1670, DEED 17110. AGED 60 YEARS. Having been lawfully executed lor the practice of witchcraft. My curiosity was at once aroused. I inquired of several persons as to the history of this woman, but without suecess for a time. Finally, however, I found an old woman, who told me the history of Barbara Conwail, as it has been handed down by her ancestors: Living in an old stone house at the edge of the village, she was rarely seen —for no one ever crossed her thres-. hold—save when she was occasionally met by a frightened party of children idling away a summer afternoon’s holiday in the woods, when she would scowl and pass away, stooping along over the fields, gathering herbs with which to browser mighty postions. No one ever interfered with her, however, until a sad year came tp Adlingtune. An epidemic broke out and raged with a fury that nothing could withstand. People began to mutter that Barbara the Witch was the cause of it. Passing along the road she was stoned by a party of boys, to who she turned, and shaking her bony hand, shrieked that the curse was upon them. Two of the lads sickened and died in a few days, and though scores were carried away in a like manner, no especial i was attached to their death. Barbara began to be watched. They looked through Iter windows at midnight and found her bending over a seething cauldron, throwing in herbs, muttering cabalistic words, and stirring the mixture with what they reported to be a biiman bone. Old Barbara was working her charms. So when one morning a man came into town, braised and covered with mud, and testified that as he rode past old Barbara’s house at 12 o’clock the night before, he saw the Arch Fiend and the Witch in conversation upon the house-top, surrounded by flames and langhing fiendishly in the lurid glare as they shook their fists at the plaguestricken village sleeping below, his tale found ready credence. The fact that he was an habitual drunkard, and had on more than one occasion rolled from his horse in a drunken stnpor and passed the night in a ditch, dreaming wild dreams, did not in the least detract from the belief of the villagers in his account of this scene; and when he related how this pair of demons hod pounced upon him, and had first tortured and then thrown him senseless into a ditch, their indignation became uncontrollable. Old Barbara was tried,condemned,and hanged, thongh she protested in her innocence to the lasi The little snm of money found in her possession was nfted to-buy that gravestone—as no one would dare appropriate it—and to this day if any ene were bold enough to go ; to her grave at midnight on the same day of

the year on which she was hanged and say, “Barbara, I believe you were innocent,” at the same time stretching out his hand over the grave, she would appear to him and place in his hand a talisman. This talisman wonld bring good fortnrieaa long as he retained it, bnt at some timein his life the witch would, return to liijpa and claim her own. The old woman ended her story in a low, impressive monotone, which, with her earnestness and sincere belief in what she said, almost carried conviction to me in spite of reason. As I sauntered away, ridiculing those ignorant and superstitious village folk, I found myself almost unconsciously wandering back through the old burial ground to the witch’s grave. Carlessly glancing at the inscription, I was Surprised to find that very day was the 150th anniversary of her death, and still more surprised when the thought occurred to m© of watching at her grave that night. I ridiculed and scoffed the idea Where was my boasted common sense and incredulity? But, still returning ever, came that wayward thing oalled fancy—and it conquered. This world was wild and weird that night, when I stole forth from the village. The wind was moaning through the trees, and sobbing piteously; the black clouds were driven in broken patches across the sky, now letting down the moonshine and again shrouding all blackest night, and making the shadows chase each other about, and steal around corners upon one in a manner that made me wince in spite of myself. Climbing the low stone wall—rather nervously, I confess —I stole away through the sold, down-trodden graves, pushing through the weeds and briars as silently as possible, and making my way toward that dark, dreary corner where the old witch reposed. A graveyard at noon is a very different spot from a graveyard at midnight, especially if one is there to seek an ihterview with a spirit. I reached the place, and stood by the tomb. It still lacked a few minutes of 12, and as I stood there watching the moonlight flitting over the graves, I longed for a little ray to creep in with me. But nß—approaching and receding, and wavering all about me, it never touched this grave, but fled away as often as it approached, as thongh frightened at the black shadow forever lurking there. By-and-by the village clock tolled 12. As "the slow, tremenduous tone stole out on the night the wind ceased moaning, the clouds covered the lace of the moon, the insects stopped chirping, and when the last stroke was finished the almost unbearable silence was broken only by my own breathing, which I strove in vain to suppress. The darkness was intense, and I could see nothing. A terrible feeling of guilt and terror seized me, that I, a mortal, should be intruding there at such au hour. Melancholy I strove to speak the words I had been told, but my lips refused to form a sound. Still I stood in that awful black silence, chilled with fear, until with a mighly effort I reached out my arm over the grave and grasped—a hand. It was only for an instant—not that, for it was jerked away in a twinkling—but long enough to feel how warm and velvety it was and how small. Not that I lingered there to reflect upon these novel qualities in the baud of a ghost, and an old witch at that* for you altogether mistake my bravery in supposingit; hut it was after I had cleared the old wall at a bound and was out on the moonlit road, walking at a rattling good pace toward town, that I recalled it. From a state of intense cold I had changed to burning heat. The touch of those soft fingers thrilled me through as with an electric shock, and I walked faster still in my exeitenfent. Gradually the consciousness forced itself upon me that I held something in my clenched hands. There was first a glitter and then a sparkle, as the moonlight fell into the hollow of my upraised hand, and I saw there a glittering ring set with flashing stones. The icicles began slipping down my back again, and I hurried on. Some persons may be inclined tp deride my nervousness on this occasion, hut I assure such that I am not naturally a timid man. I have a medal hanging in my room at home which asserts that I am not a timid man, and above all I had always been particularly void of superstitions fear; but truth compels me to say that I not only lighted ail the lights on reaching my room at the little inn that night, but turned them very high into the bargain; and that I made a systematic inspection of all the closets and removed from its peg a long cloak that was hanging in - a very suggestive position on the Avail. This done, I sat down—with my back aguinst the wall—and examined the ring. It was a quaint old ring, curiously carved and massive. The setting was composed of several small colored stones set in a circle &bout a large diamond. My financial circumstances had rendered it unnecessary for me to acquaint myself with precious stones and their A-alues, so that I could*, only surmise that the ring Avas sonieAvhat val uable. Considering the excited condition of my nerves by this time, it avos not strange tliat I should start when my ejfes fell upOn the name that was inscribed in quaint letters inside the ring —“Barbara.” I sat and mused upon the whole adventure —what the crone had told me—the graveyard, the ring, and (this Avas returned to me the oftenest) the thrilling touch of that soft hand in the darkness. Perhaps I should say right here that I called myself an old bachelor, and had never been in love—that is, with any mortal. I did not think that I was devoid of sentiment or feeling, for I often dreamed of love and worshipped beautiful things of my own fancy, bnt my life had been thrown among hoys and men, and woman was far away and a mystery. A motherless-home, a stern father, a hard-working student’s lif® at oollege, a stranger straggling for bread and reputation in a great city—one can peroeivh how it could be that I had made few 1 acquaintances among women. In reality I was only 25, bnt much experience had made me feel older ; so, a s I s&kj, ! called myself a bachelor.

M-Wv"- „ I hay® given this brief history of myself in order to prepare the way for another confession. I was falling in love with the owner of tljat soft, warm hand. It is preposterous, bnt it is true. I began to doubt imy reason. In vain I tried to remember that Barbara the witch, was an old, ugly woman. The only picture I could call up was that of a beautiful young girl with—but words fail me; only she was far from ghastly, but was as warm and substantial and as full of life as that hand had seemed to be. The fire-irons fell with an unearthly clatter, and startled mb out of my dreams. I went to bed to soqthe my nerves with sleep, and lay awake most of the night with the lamps burning. Fortune smiled npon me from that night. Two years of busy city life had passed, and old Barbara’s talisman Avas unreclaimed, when one day—do you believe in love at first sight? Well, if the first appearance of Walter Wyman’s sister had not conquered me as she stood under the parlor lamps, a revelation ol beauty and youth, the touch of her hand when she welcomed her brother’s friend would have enslaved me forever. Never had a touch so thrilled me since—since I held the Aivitch’s hand in the graveyard. The same peculiar shock passed through me, and the memory of that spectral night came over me like a flash. But I did not start out to tell a love story. Let me briefly say that I fell in love, hopelessly and ridculously in love, and that I acted just like all lovers have done since the world began. It dosen’t matter much about a man’s age. At 27 he will conduct himself pretty much as he would have done at 17, and so I wrote verses and sighed, and tormented myself Avith a thousand hopes and fears, and grew hot and cold by turns, and wonderfully timid, and prided myself on concealing all, when, as a matter of fact, the state of mv feelings was perfectly apparent to all my acquaintances. i Matters Avere in this interesting state, when one day an opportunity occurred of which I availed myself with a degree of skill and presence of mind that I am proud of to this day. It all came about through my asking the young lady il she believed in ghosts. “I suppose 1 should,” said she, laughing, “considering my experience,” Leave a Avoman alone to make an evasive answer. Of course’ I implored an explanation, and she related to me the following story: “It AA its anout two years ago when a party of girls, just home from school, Avere visiting a friend down in the country. One of the girls had heard a foolish old story about a witch’s grave, and some nonsense about her annual appearance, and a talisman, and Avhen I expressed my incredulity, they braved me to put it to the test. What is the matter? The place? A little town called Adlingtune. “Foolishly I accepted their challenge and received a terrible fright. I carried out the instructions and stretched my arm over the grave. It was so dark I could see nothing, but some one seized my hand. I was so benumbed with fear that I could not cry out, but could only fly through the lonely graveyard to Avhere my trembling companions were awaiting me in the field. It AA-as a foolish adA-euture, for I fell ill, and it cost me a valuable ring, Avhich Avas left to me by poor Aunt Barbara. ‘For her little namesake.’ she said, when she sent it across the sea to me. You see, the ring was a little large for my finger', and was pulled off by--by “By me,” I interrupted, taking the lost ring from my pocket. It was time for Barbara (I forgot to say that was her name) to be started now. i hope I may say that I came out strong on that occasion. I told my story in a very impressive way, lingered over the effect of the Avitch’s hand on my heart, spoke of the good fortune the talisman had brought me, made a very pretty allusion to Barbara the witch reclaiming her own—for she Avas not a witch, after all, as I could testify, hav» ing felt her chfirnis—and finally no(| only offered to return the ring, but tq give myself into the bargain. She took both.— F. It IL, in San Francisco Argonaut.