GHOSTS OF YESTERDAY

The ledge mentioned by Miranda was not haunted, but if any place in this world were haunted it would be such a place. Any spook would sign a lease for the premises on sight. It was not so much the ledge (which was just a large flat stone) as the trail leading to it, which justified Miranda’s fearful apprehensions.

From the clearing behind the hotel an obscure trail leads through a jungle of rock and forest. It runs along the summit of the mountain. But the southern face of Overlook is precipitous, and it is along this precipitous part that the old trail runs. If one goes far enough along this trail he will find it winding away from the sheer, rocky face of the mountain and following an easy descent through the woods. But for a mile or so it runs along the brow of a mighty cliff.

Covering this almost sheer descent is a jungle in which, probably, no human foot has ever trod. Climbed would be a better word, for indeed walking would be out of the question in this almost perpendicular chaos of rocks and deformed trees. Here and there a rocky crevice may be seen, and far down in its narrowing depth a jumble of nature’s debris, trees distorted by confinement and vegetation strange in color for the lack of sunlight.

Here rattlesnakes hold sway, and in a certain gleam of sunshine which penetrates one of these narrow canyons for a few brief moments each day, may be seen what looks like a little group of gray twigs, said to be the bones of some hapless pilgrim precipitated down between the narrow walls of rock many years ago.

Certain it is that along the obscure trail above which winds its way between the brow of the precipice and the forest, many rocks may be found with initials carved upon them, the idle handiwork of adventurers who visited the mountain in days long gone by. Most of these rocks are usable as seats whereon to rest and contemplate the expansive panorama to the south.

For this path along the brow of old Overlook is like the gallery of some vast theatre. In the distance below may be seen the village of Woodstock, and beyond, the great Ashokan Reservoir with all its little bays and capes in clear view. From this lofty vantage point its whole conformation is as clear as on a map.

If from the crown of this impartial giant you look afar at Woodstock and then at the vast reservoir which spreads over the green, undulating valley; and then if you think of another little village, partly obliterated and partly pushed aside by that inland sea; why then, it is not hard to get the point of view of some poor little old man, who was turned out of house and home. For the old mountain seems to make everything plain. Serene, towering and apart from all the passions and enterprises and bickerings of men, it makes one see the great city of New York as a kind of invading bully.

But most of the hardy tourists who left their memorials upon these everlasting rocks never saw the reservoir, for only the spacious valley was there when they gazed afar from the mountain. Some of these carvings antedate the old hotel, most of them antedate the reservoir. The authors of some of them might have been killed in the Civil War.

What has become of all those people who gazed from Overlook Mountain a half century, some near a full century ago? Where are Minnie and George who in 1861 cut their names thus in union with a crude graven heart between? Tottering grandparents now, perhaps.

What has become of Carl who loved Alice, as he confided in abiding scratches to a boulder? And who was Alice? What has become of C. L. and of Esther B.? And who was it that made his fatigue immortal by scratching I’m tired on a bordering rock? Let us hope he is rested by now. Who was Annie Garis who in 1857 paused here? And who was B. J. who appears thus unrevealed beside her? Who carved the death’s head and when? Does Martha Bentley 1867 still live?

Perhaps that dim, lonely trail intersected by challenging crevices and buried here and there in dim foliage, is haunted by the shades of sturdy tourists who rested here in the far past. From what point did they ascend in those days? And whence came they? From near or far?

Perhaps the faint sounds which Miranda heard on dark nights were made by Esther B., or perchance by Minnie, come back out of the region of shadows to revisit the ancient resting place of herself and her George. Perhaps the weary shade of him who was so tired returned at times to rest upon the favorite rock. Perhaps the spook of Annie Garis came back in search of B. J.

Perhaps Mirandy was right. Who shall say?