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?