The Early Lighting exhibit at Old Sturbridge Village features bronze pan lamps of ancient Greece and Rome through whale oil lamps and lanterns from the nineteenth century. One of the displays shows how much light was available in rooms after sunset during the 1830’s and 40’s. The light is very dim by our standards today, even in homes owned by wealthy people who could afford lots of candles and the latest in lighting technology. In many homes long ago, the flickering light from fireplaces and a few candles was the most people could provide for themselves.
I get a sense of what life must have been like in those days when we lose power for a few hours. Bur even then, my halogen flashlight is more intense than any candle or lantern available to people 175 years ago. And if the power is out for a longer period of time, all I have to do is follow the steps for getting the generator running. Just a few minutes and all the lights go back on and the rooms are as nice and bright as they always are.
The first time I visited the Early Lighting exhibit at Old Sturbridge Village it occurred to me that for the vast majority of human history, lighting was pretty much the same as it was in early 19th century America. For centuries, once the sun went down, human beings experienced darkness in ways that are quite unfamiliar to us today. The world has been a very different place since 1879 when Thomas Edison passed electricity through a thin platinum filament in a glass vacuum bulb at his laboratory in Menlo Park, New Jersey.
We live right on the edge of the Westerly town forest and sometimes a wild animal will make a strange sound in the darkness. If I turn on the backyard floodlights I can see what’s lurking out there and how close it is to the house. Usually, there’s nothing to be seen since the light chases critters away. But imagine the year is 1520and there’s no way to see what’s making that peculiar noise in the dark. Maybe that sound isn’t coming from a fox. Maybe it’s coming from a wolf, or a bear, or a witch. Maybe the devil himself is lurking nearby, unseen in the blackness of a moonless night.
Several years ago, I was the only one in the locker room of the fitness center I belonged to when the lights went out. I had been in this room many times, but in the complete darkness, I lost my bearings. I didn’t know where the walls or benches were. I wasn’t sure how to get to the exit. I stood still for a few moments, waiting for my eyes to adjust, but the room remained totally dark. Not knowing how long the lights would be out, I began to feel panic creeping up on me. I tried to tell myself I was perfectly safe, but I couldn’t entirely hold off a sense of being trapped in a tomb from which there was no escape. Suddenly it occurred to me that the watch I was wearing might provide some light if I pressed the knob that illuminated its face. Just enough light shone from the watch to allow me to take a step before it went dark again. I repeated this process over and over until I made my way to the curved exit that led to the main room where an emergency light on the far wall lit the way out.
Did our ancestors once view dusk with more apprehension than we do today? Did they greet dawn with greater assurance? In Walden, Thoreau wrote, “It was very pleasant, when I stayed late in town, to launch myself into the night, especially if it was dark and tempestuous, and set sail from some bright village parlor or lecture room…” but he marched to the beat of a different drummer. I prefer enough light to see by and I am probably not that different from others, both past and present, in that regard. In the Gospel of John, we read the words “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” Perhaps those words had greater power for past generations than they do for us today, more accustomed as we are to well-lit rooms and roads.
David James Madden