Note by the
Editor.--During Mr. Cooper's residence at Paris, he wrote, at the request of an
English friend, his recollections of the great eclipse of 1806. This article,
which is undated, must have been written about the year 1831, or twenty-five
years after the eclipse. His memory was at that period of his life very clear
and tenacious, where events of importance were concerned. From some accidental
cause, this article was never sent to England, but lay, apparently forgotten,
among Mr. Cooper's papers, where it was found after his death. At the date of
the eclipse, the writer was a young sailor of seventeen, just returned from a
cruise. At the time of writing these recollections, he had been absent from his
old home in Otsego County some fifteen years, and his affectionate remembrance
of the ground may be traced in many little touches, which would very possibly
have been omitted under other circumstances.
S.F.C. THE eclipse of the sun,
which you have requested me to describe, occurred in the summer of 1806, on
Monday, the 16th of June. Its greatest depth of shadow fell upon the American
continent, somewhere about the latitude of 42 deg. I was then on a visit to my
parents, at the home of my family, among the Highlands of Otsego, in that part
of the country where the eclipse was most impressive. My recollections of the
great event, and the incidents of the day, are as vivid as if they had occurred
but yesterday.
Lake Otsego, the
headwaters of the Susquehanna, lies as nearly as possible in latitude 42 deg.
The village, which is the home of my family, is beautifully situated at the
foot of the lake, in a valley lying between two nearly parallel ranges of
heights, quite mountainous in character. The Susquehanna, a clear and rapid
stream, flowing from the southeastern shore of the lake, is crossed by a high
wooden bridge, which divides the main street of the little town from the lawns
and meadows on the eastern bank of the river. Here were all the materials that
could be desired, lake, river, mountain, wood, and the dwellings of man, to
give full effect to the varied movement of light and shadow through that
impressive day.
Throughout the belt of
country to be darkened by the eclipse, the whole population were in a state of
almost anxious expectation for weeks before the event. On the eve of the 16th
of June, our family circle could think or talk of little else. I had then a
father and four brothers living, and as we paced the broad hall of the house,
or sat about the family board, our conversation turned almost entirely upon the
movements of planets and comets, occultations and eclipses. We were all
exulting in the feeling that a grand and extraordinary spectacle awaited us--a
spectacle which millions then living could never behold. There may have been a
tinge of selfishness in the feeling that we were thus favored beyond others,
and yet, I think, the emotion was too intellectual in its character to have
been altogether unworthy.
Many were the
prophecies regarding the weather, the hopes and fears expressed by different
individuals, on this important point, as evening drew near. A passing cloud
might veil the grand vision from our sight; rain or mist would sadly impair the
sublimity of the hour. I was not myself among the desponding. The great
barometer in the hall--one of the very few then found in the State, west of
Albany--was carefully consulted. It was propitious. It gave promise of dry
weather. Our last looks that night, before sleep fell on us, were turned toward
the starlit heavens.
And the first movement
in the morning was to the open window-- again to examine the sky. When I rose
from my bed, in the early morning, I found the heavens serene, and cloudless.
Day had dawned, but the shadows of night were still lingering over the valley.
For a moment, my eye rested on the familiar view--the limpid lake, with its
setting of luxuriant woods and farms, its graceful bay and varied points, the
hills where every cliff and cave and glen had been trodden a thousand times by
my boyish feet-- all this was dear to me as the face of a friend. And it
appeared as if the landscape, then lovely in summer beauty, were about to
assume something of dignity hitherto unknown--were not the shadows of a grand
eclipse to fall upon every wave and branch within a few hours! There was one
object in the landscape which a stranger would probably have overlooked, or
might perhaps have called unsightly, but it was familiar to every eye in the village,
and endowed by our people with the honors of an ancient landmark--the tall gray
trunk of a dead and branchless pine, which had been standing on the crest of
the eastern hill, at the time of the foundation of the village, and which was
still erect, though rocked since then by a thousand storms. To my childish
fancy, it had seemed an imaginary flag-staff, or, in rustic parlance, the
"liberty pole" of some former generation; but now, as I traced the
familiar line of the tall trunk, in its peculiar shade of silvery gray, it
became to the eye of the young sailor the mast of some phantom ship. I remember
greeting it with a smile, as this was the first glance of recognition given to
the old ruin of the forest since my return.
But an object of far
higher interest suddenly attracted my eye. I discovered a star--a solitary
star--twinkling dimly in a sky which had now changed its hue to a pale grayish
twilight, while vivid touches of coloring were beginning to flush the eastern
sky. There was absolutely no other object visible in the heavens--cloud there
was none, not even the lightest vapor. That lonely star excited a vivid
interest in my mind. I continued at the window gazing, and losing myself in a
sort of day-dream. That star was a heavenly body, it was known to be a planet,
and my mind was filling itself with images of planets and suns. My brain was
confusing itself with vague ideas of magnitude and distance, and of the time
required by light to pierce the apparently illimitable void that lay between
us--of the beings who might inhabit an orb like that, with life, feeling,
spirit, and aspirations like my own.
Soon the sun himself
rose into view. I caught a glimpse of fiery light glowing among the branches of
the forest, on the eastern mountain. I watched, as I had done a hundred times
before, the flushing of the skies, the gradual illuminations of the different
hills, crowned with an undulating and ragged outline of pines, nearly two
hundred feet in height, the golden light gliding silently down the breast of
the western mountains, and opening clearer views of grove and field, until
lake, valley, and village lay smiling in one cheerful glow of warm sunshine.
Our family party
assembled early. We were soon joined by friends and connections, all eager and
excited, and each provided with a colored glass for the occasion. By nine
o'clock the cool air, which is peculiar to the summer nights in the Highlands,
had left us, and the heat of midsummer filled the valley. The heavens were
still absolutely cloudless, and a more brilliant day never shone in our own
bright climate. There was not a breath of air, and we could see the rays of
heat quivering here and there on the smooth surface of the lake. There was
every appearance of a hot and sultry noontide.
We left the house, and
passed beyond the grounds into the broad and grassy street which lay between
the gates and the lake. Here there were no overhanging branches to obstruct the
view; the heavens, the wooded mountains, and the limpid sheet of water before
us, were all distinctly seen. As the hour for the eclipse drew near, our
eagerness and excitement increased to an almost boyish impatience. The elders of
the party were discussing the details of some previous eclipse: leaving them to
revive their recollections, I strolled away, glass in hand, through the
principal streets of the village. Scarce a dwelling, or a face, in the little
town, that was not familiar to me, and it gave additional zest to the pleasure
of a holiday at home, to meet one's townsfolk under the excitement of an
approaching eclipse. As yet there was no great agitation, although things wore
a rather unusual aspect for the busy hours of a summer's day. Many were busy
with their usual tasks, women and children were coming and going with pails of
water, the broom and the needle were not yet laid aside, the blacksmith's
hammer and the carpenter's plane were heard in passing their shops. Loaded
teams, and travellers in waggons, were moving through the streets; the usual
quiet traffic at the village counters had not yet ceased. A farm-waggon,
heavily laden with hay, was just crossing the bridge, coming in from the
fields, the driver looking drowsy with sleep, wholly unconscious of the
movement in the heavens. The good people in general, however, were on the
alert; at every house some one seemed to be watching, and many groups were
passed, whose eager up-turned faces and excited conversation spoke the
liveliest interest. It was said, that there were not wanting one or two
philosophers of the skeptical school, among our people, who did not choose to
commit themselves to the belief in a total eclipse of the sun--simply because
they had never seen one. Seeing is believing, we are told, though the axiom
admits of dispute. But what these worthy neighbors of ours had not seen, no
powers of reasoning, or fulness of evidence, could induce them to credit. Here
was the dignity of human reason! Here was private judgment taking a high stand!
Anxious to witness the conversion of one of these worthies, with boyish love of
fun I went in quest of him. He had left the village, however, on business. But,
true to his principles, before mounting his horse that morning, he had declared
to his wife that "he was not running away from that eclipse;" nay,
more, with noble candor, he averred that if the eclipse did overtake him, in
the course of his day's journey, "he would not be above acknowledging
it!" This was highly encouraging.
I had scarcely returned
to the family party, left on the watch, when one of my brothers, more vigilant,
or with clearer sight than his companions, exclaimed that he clearly saw a dark
line, drawn on the western margin of the sun's disc! All faces were instantly
turned upwards, and through the glasses we could indeed now see a dusky, but
distinct object, darkening the sun's light. An exclamation of delight, almost
triumphant, burst involuntarily from the lips of all. We were not to be
disappointed, no cloud was there to veil the grand spectacle; the vision,
almost unearthly in its sublime dignity, was about to be revealed to us. In an
incredibly short time, the oval formation of the moon was discerned. Another
joyous burst of delight followed, as one after another declared that he beheld
with distinctness the dark oval outline, drawn against the flood of golden
light. Gradually, and at first quite imperceptibly to our sight, that dark and
mysterious sphere gained upon the light, while a feeling of watchful stillness,
verging upon reverence, fell upon our excited spirits.
As yet there was no
change perceptible in the sunlight falling upon lake and mountain; the familiar
scene wore its usual smiling aspect, bright and glowing as on other days of
June. The people, however, were now crowding into the streets--their usual
labors were abandoned--forgotten for the moment--and all faces were turned
upward. So little, however, was the change in the power of the light, that to a
careless observer it seemed more the gaze of faith, than positive perception,
which turned the faces of all upward. Gradually a fifth, and even a fourth, of
the sun's disc became obscured, and still the unguarded eye could not endure
the flood of light--it was only with the colored glass that we could note the
progress of the phenomenon. The noon-day heat, however, began to lessen, and
something of the coolness of early morning returned to the valley.
I was looking upward,
intently watching for the first moment where the dark outline of the moon
should be visible to the naked eye, when an acquaintance passed. "Come
with me!" he said quietly, at the same moment drawing his arm within my
own, and leading me away. He was a man of few words, and there was an
expression in his face which induced me to accompany him without hesitation. He
led me to the Court House, and from thence into an adjoining building, and into
a room then occupied by two persons. At a window, looking upward at the
heavens, stood a figure which instantly riveted my attention. It was a man with
haggard face, and fettered arms, a prisoner under sentence of death. By his
side was the jailor.
A painful tragedy had
been recently enacted in our little town. The schoolmaster of a small hamlet in
the county had beaten a child under his charge very severely--and for a very
trifling error. The sufferer was a little girl, his own niece, and it was said
that natural infirmity had prevented the child from clearly pronouncing certain
words which her teacher required her to utter distinctly. To conquer what he
considered the obstinacy of the child, this man continued to beat her so
severely that she never recovered from the effects of the blows, and died some
days after. The wretched man was arrested, tried for murder, condemned, and sentenced
to the gallows. This was the first capital offence in Otsego County. It
produced a very deep impression. The general character of the schoolmaster had
been, until that evil hour, very good, in every way. He was deeply, and beyond
all doubt unfeignedly, penitent for the crime into which he had been led, more,
apparently, from false ideas of duty, than from natural severity of temper. He
had been entirely unaware of the great physical injury he was doing the child.
So great was his contrition, that public sympathy had been awakened in his
behalf, and powerful petitions had been sent to the Governor of the State, in
order to obtain a respite, if not a pardon. But the day named by the judge
arrived without a return of the courier. The Governor was at his country-house,
at least eighty miles beyond Albany. The petition had been kept to the last
moment, for additional signatures, and the eighty miles to be travelled by the
courier, after reaching Albany, had not been included in the calculation. No
despatch was received, and there was every appearance that there would be no
reprieve. The day arrived--throngs of people from Chenango, and Unadilla, and
from the valley of the Mohawk, poured into the village, to witness the painful,
and as yet unknown, spectacle of a public execution. In looking down, from an
elevated position, upon the principal street of the village that day, it had
seemed to me paved with human faces. The hour struck, the prisoner was taken
from the jail, and, seated, as is usual, on his coffin, was carried to the
place of execution, placed between two ministers of the gospel. His look of
utter misery was beyond description. I have seen other offenders expiate for
their crimes with life, but never have I beheld such agony, such a clinging to
life, such mental horror at the nearness of death, as was betrayed by this
miserable man. When he approached the gallows, he rose from his seat, and
wringing his fettered hands, turned his back upon the fearful object, as if the
view were too frightful for endurance. The ministers of the gospel succeeded at
length in restoring him to a decent degree of composure. The last prayer was
offered, and his own fervent "Amen!" was still sounding, hoarse,
beseeching, and almost despairing, in the ears of the crowd, when the respite
made its tardy appearance. A short reprieve was granted, and the prisoner was
carried back to the miserable cell from which he had been drawn in the morning.
Such was the wretched
man who had been brought from his dungeon that morning, to behold the grand
phenomenon of the eclipse. During the twelve-month previous, he had seen the
sun but once. The prisons of those days were literally dungeons, cut off from
the light of day. That striking figure, the very picture of utter misery, his
emotion, his wretchedness, I can never forget. I can see him now, standing at
the window, pallid and emaciated by a year's confinement, stricken with grief,
his cheeks furrowed with constant weeping, his whole frame attesting the deep
and ravaging influences of conscious guilt and remorse. Here was a man drawn
from the depths of human misery, to be immediately confronted with the grandest
natural exhibition in which the Creator deigns to reveal his Omnipotence to our
race. The wretched criminal, a murderer in fact, though not in intention,
seemed to gaze upward at the awful spectacle, with an intentness and a
distinctness of mental vision far beyond our own, and purchased by an agony
scarcely less bitter than death. It seemed as if, for him, the curtain which
veils the world beyond the grave, had been lifted. He stood immovable as a
statue, with uplifted and manacled arms and clasped hands, the very image of
impotent misery and wretchedness. Perhaps human invention could not have
conceived of a more powerful moral accessory, to heighten the effect of the
sublime movement of the heavenly bodies, than this spectacle of penitent human
guilt afforded. It was an incident to stamp on the memory for life. It was a
lesson not lost on me.
When I left the Court
House, a sombre, yellowish, unnatural coloring was shed over the country. A
great change had taken place. The trees on the distant heights had lost their
verdure and their airy character; they were taking the outline of dark pictures
graven upon an unfamiliar sky. The lake wore a lurid aspect, very unusual. All
living creatures seemed thrown into a state of agitation. The birds were
fluttering to and fro, in great excitement; they seemed to mistrust that this
was not the gradual approach of evening, and were undecided in their movements.
Even the dogs--honest creatures--became uneasy, and drew closer to their
masters. The eager, joyous look of interest and curiosity, which earlier in the
morning had appeared in almost every countenance, was now changed to an
expression of wonder or anxiety or thoughtfulness, according to the individual
character.
Every house now gave up
its tenants. As the light failed more and more with every passing second, the
children came flocking about their mothers in terror. The women themselves were
looking about uneasily for their husbands. The American wife is more apt than
any other to turn with affectionate confidence to the stronger arm for support.
The men were very generally silent and grave. Many a laborer left his
employment to be near his wife and children, as the dimness and darkness
increased.
I once more took my
position beside my father and my brothers, before the gates of our own grounds.
The sun lay a little obliquely to the south and east, in the most favorable
position possible for observation. I remember to have examined, in vain, the
whole dusky canopy in search of a single cloud. It was one of those entirely
unclouded days, less rare in America than in Europe. The steadily waning light,
the gradual approach of darkness, became the more impressive as we observed
this absolutely transparent state of the heavens. The birds, which a quarter of
an hour earlier had been fluttering about in great agitation, seemed now
convinced that night was at hand. Swallows were dimly seen dropping into the
chimneys, the martins returned to their little boxes, the pigeons flew home to
their dove-cots, and through the open door of a small barn we saw the fowls
going to roost.
The usual flood of
sunlight had now become so much weakened, that we could look upward long, and
steadily, without the least pain. The sun appeared like a young moon of three
or four days old, though of course with a larger and more brilliant crescent.
Looking westward a moment, a spark appeared to glitter before my eye. For a
second I believed it to be an optical illusion, but in another instant I saw it
plainly to be a star. One after another they came into view, more rapidly than
in the evening twilight, until perhaps fifty stars appeared to us, in a broad,
dark zone of the heavens, crowning the pines on the western mountain. This
wonderful vision of the stars, during the noontide hours of day, filled the
spirit with singular sensations.
Suddenly one of my
brothers shouted aloud, "The moon!" Quicker than thought, my eye turned
eastward again, and there floated the moon, distinctly apparent, to a degree
that was almost fearful. The spherical form, the character, the dignity, the
substance of the planet, were clearly revealed as I have never beheld them
before, or since. It looked grand, dark, majestic, and mighty, as it thus
proved its power to rob us entirely of the sun's rays. We are all but larger
children. In daily life we judge of objects by their outward aspect. We are
accustomed to think of the sun, and also of the moon, as sources of light, as
etherial, almost spiritual, in their essence. But the positive material nature
of the moon was now revealed to our senses, with a force of conviction, a
clearness of perception, that changed all our usual ideas in connection with
the planet. This was no interposition of vapor, no deceptive play of shadow;
but a vast mass of obvious matter had interposed between the sun above us and
the earth on which we stood. The passage of two ships at sea, sailing on
opposite courses, is scarcely more obvious than this movement of one world
before another. Darkness like that of early night now fell upon the village.
My thoughts turned to
the sea. A sailor at heart, already familiar with the face of the ocean, I
seemed, in mental vision, to behold the grandeur of that vast pall of
supernatural shadow falling suddenly upon the sea, during the brightest hour of
the day. The play of light and shade upon the billows, always full of interest,
must at that hour have been indeed sublime. And my fancy was busy with pictures
of white-sailed schooners, and brigs, and ships, gliding like winged spirits
over the darkened waves.
I was recalled by a
familiar and insignificant incident, the dull tramp of hoofs on the village
bridge. A few cows, believing that night had overtaken them, were coming
homeward from the wild open pastures about the village. And no wonder the
kindly creatures were deceived, the darkness was now much deeper than the
twilight which usually turns their faces homeward; the dew was falling
perceptibly, as much so as at any hour of the previous night, and the coolness
was so great that the thermometer must have fallen many degrees from the great
heat of the morning. The lake, the hills, and the buildings of the little town
were swallowed up in the darkness. The absence of the usual lights in the
dwellings rendered the obscurity still more impressive. All labor had ceased,
and the hushed voices of the people only broke the absolute stillness by
subdued whispering tones.
"Hist! The
whippoorwill!" whispered a friend near me; and at the same moment, as we
listened in profound silence, we distinctly heard from the eastern bank of the
river the wild, plaintive note of that solitary bird of night, slowly repeated
at intervals. The song of the summer birds, so full in June, had entirely
ceased for the last half hour. A bat came flitting about our heads. Many stars
were now visible, though not in sufficient number to lessen the darkness. At
one point only in the far distant northern horizon, something of the brightness
of dawn appeared to linger.
At twelve minutes past
eleven, the moon stood revealed in its greatest distinctness--a vast black orb,
so nearly obscuring the sun that the face of the great luminary was entirely
and absolutely darkened, though a corona of rays of light appeared beyond. The
gloom of night was upon us. A breathless intensity of interest was felt by all.
There would appear to be something instinctive in the feeling with which man
gazes at all phenomena in the heavens. The peaceful rainbow, the heavy clouds
of a great storm, the vivid flash of electricity, the falling meteor, the
beautiful lights of the aurora borealis, fickle as the play of fancy,--these
never fail to fix the attention with something of a peculiar feeling, different
in character from that with which we observe any spectacle on the earth.
Connected with all grand movements in the skies there seems an instinctive
sense of inquiry, of anxious expectation; akin to awe, which may possibly be
traced to the echoes of grand Christian prophecies, whispering to our spirits,
and endowing the physical sight with some mysterious mental prescience. In
looking back to that impressive hour, such now seem to me the feelings of the
youth making one of that family group, all apparently impressed with a
sensation of the deepest awe--I speak with certainty--a clearer view than I had
ever yet had of the majesty of the Almighty, accompanied with a humiliating,
and, I trust, a profitable sense of my own utter insignificance. That movement
of the moon, that sublime voyage of the worlds, often recurs to my imagination,
and even at this distant day, as distinctly, as majestically, and nearly as
fearfully, as it was then beheld.
A group of silent,
dusky forms stood near me; one emotion appeared to govern all. My father stood
immovable, some fifteen feet from me, but I could not discern his features.
Three minutes of darkness, all but absolute, elapsed. They appeared strangely
lengthened by the intensity of feeling and the flood of overpowering thought
which filled the mind.
Thus far the sensation
created by this majestic spectacle had been one of humiliation and awe. It
seemed as if the great Father of the Universe had visibly, and almost palpably,
veiled his face in wrath. But, appalling as the withdrawal of light had been,
most glorious, most sublime, was its restoration! The corona of light above the
moon became suddenly brighter, the heavens beyond were illuminated, the stars
retired, and light began to play along the ridges of the distant mountains. And
then a flood of grateful, cheering, consoling brightness fell into the valley,
with a sweetness and a power inconceivable to the mind, unless the eye has
actually beheld it. I can liken this sudden, joyous return of light, after the
eclipse, to nothing of the kind that is familiarly known. It was certainly
nearest to the change produced by the swift passage of the shadow of a very
dark cloud, but it was the effect of this instantaneous transition, multiplied
more than a thousand fold. It seemed to speak directly to our spirits, with
full assurance of protection, of gracious mercy, and of that Divine love which
has produced all the glorious combinations of matter for our enjoyment. It was
not in the least like the gradual dawning of day, or the actual rising of the
sun. There was no gradation in the change. It was sudden, amazing, like what
the imagination would teach us to expect of the advent of a heavenly vision. I
know that philosophically I am wrong; but, to me, it seemed that the rays might
actually be seen flowing through the darkness in torrents, till they had again
illuminated the forest, the mountains, the valley, and the lake with their
glowing, genial touch.
There was another grand
movement, as the crescent of the sun reappeared, and the moon was actually seen
steering her course through the void. Venus was still shining brilliantly.
This second passage of
the moon lasted but a moment, to the naked eye. As it ceased, my eye fell again
on the scene around me. The street, now as distinctly seen as ever, was filled
with the population of the village. Along the line of road stretching for a
mile from the valley, against the side of the mountain, were twenty waggons
bearing travellers, or teams from among the hills. All had stopped on their
course, impelled, apparently, by unconscious reverence, as much as by
curiosity, while every face was turned toward heaven, and every eye drank in
the majesty of the sight. Women stood in the open street, near me, with
streaming eyes and clasped hands, and sobs were audible in different
directions. Even the educated and reflecting men at my side continued silent in
thought. Several minutes passed, before the profound impressions of the
spectacle allowed of speech. At such a moment the spirit of man bows in
humility before his Maker.
The changes of the
unwonted light, through whose gradations the full brilliancy of the day was
restored, must have been very similar to those by which it had been lost, but
they were little noted. I remember, however, marking the instant when I could
first distinguish the blades of grass at my feet--and later again watching the
shadows of the leaves on the gravel walk. The white lilies in my mother's
flower-garden were observed by others among the first objects of the vegetation
which could be distinguished from the windows of the house. Every living
creature was soon rejoicing again in the blessed restoration of light after
that frightful moment of a night at noon-day.
Men who witness any
extraordinary spectacle together, are apt, in after-times, to find a pleasure
in conversing on its impressions. But I do not remember to have ever heard a
single being freely communicative on the subject of his individual feelings at
the most solemn moment of the eclipse. It would seem as if sensations were
aroused too closely connected with the constitution of the spirit to be
irreverently and familiarly discussed. I shall only say that I have passed a
varied and eventful life, that it has been my fortune to see earth, heavens,
ocean, and man in most of their aspects; but never have I beheld any spectacle
which so plainly manifested the majesty of the Creator, or so forcibly taught
the lesson of humility to man as a total eclipse of the sun.