The Most Remarkable Event of the Eighteenth Century.
By John Nevins Andrews
The Youth’s Companion of Nov. 7, 1872, has the following article concerning the memorable “dark day.” In the judgment of the editor of that paper, it was “the most remarkable event of the eighteenth century.” He estimates it only from a secular standpoint. Of how much deeper interest is it to us who believe it to be in fulfillment of the Saviour’s words: “The sun shall be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light”? “The most remarkable event of the eighteenth century, at least in the line of the mysterious and unaccountable, was the ‘dark day’ in 1780, May 19. The Boston Journal, in an article respecting it, says:— “‘The phenomenon has never been explained. Dr. Tenney, in 1785, wrote to the Historical Society that the ability of the mind had endeavored to present a cause; but, said he, you will agree with me that no satisfactory solution has yet appeared. In similar language, wrote Dr. Noah Webster in 1843. The theory of some that it was smoke and ashes from forest fires then raging, was disproved. No fires in the forest could have been sufficient to spread a dense cloud over the whole of New England, and even some parts of the Middle States. It came too suddenly, with no wind to carry it from one point to another. It was a darkness that settled down over an area of more than 300,000 square miles at the same time.’” “The following extracts from the account in the Journal represent the effect of the awful occurrence on man and beast:— “‘And the brute and feathered creation seemed puzzled and agitated. The birds ceased to fly, and hid themselves in the branches of the trees. As the darkness increased, they sang their evening songs as they do at twilight, and then became silent. Pigeons on the wing took to the shelter of the forest as they do at night. The whippoorwill, as if it were truly night, cheerfully sang his song through the gloomy hours. Woodstocks, which are night birds, whistled as they only do in the night time. Bats came out of their hiding places, and flew about. The fowls marched solemnly to their roosts, as they do only at nightfall, and after cackling for awhile over the mystery of so short a day, became still. Cocks crowed, as is their custom at nightly intervals, and the early breaking of day. Frogs peeped their evening concert, and dogs whined or howled, and ran away as on the approach of an earthquake. The herds of cattle on New England’s thousand hills sought the shelter of the shed or barn-yard, lowing as they came to the gate, and sheep huddled around the circle with their heads inward—the invariable token of apprehended danger.’” “‘The Connecticut Legislature, then in session at Hartford, found themselves deprived of daylight at about 11 o’clock A. M., and were obliged to adjourn; only one man dissenting. This strange darkness covered all the tract of country from Northern Canada to Pennsylvania, and from Nova Scotia to Lake Champlain (besides hundreds of miles out to sea), and lasted from 9 A. M. to 3 P. M., coming on again in the evening and totally blotting out the stars.’”