Curiously Connected

Recently, I downloaded a pdf file of Luther Farnham’s A Glance at Private Libraries from 1855, which he describes in the Prefatory Note as “an article on private libraries…chiefly of Boston and neighborhood.” This 80-page “article” quite literally goes through the libraries owned by local worthies—writers, statesmen, pastors, doctors—and describes the number of each owner’s books, his chief collections, any particularly notable editions, and, in some cases, the architecture and decoration of the library, particularly when the library also served as the study of the man in question.

For example, Farnham says that the library “of Mr. Edward Everett, though not half as large as some others in the country, is one of the most perfect in its arrangement and most useful for a general scholar” (11). After four pages of book descriptions, he mentions that “A few articles of curiosity are distributed about the library and adjoining rooms. Among these may be mentioned implements and weapons of the native tribes of this continent, and of the islands of the Pacific; an ancient halberd from the Tower of London; specimens of the stamped paper prepared under the stamp act in 1765; balls from some of the principle battle fields in Europe and America; an ear of corn from an ancient Peruvian tomb; […] a small lock of the hair of Napoleon I., and so forth” (15-16).

Now, the 19th century curio was a bit different from the 21st century conversation piece, just as the home library was more than just a place for the family’s books. “[T]he home library, as it developed in the Victorian era, […] housed collections of plant and animal specimens, travel souvenirs, art prints, and pictures and busts of historical figures, in addition to books. The library was the room in the house where children were encouraged to look at books and be read to, to study the collections and look at the pictures. It functioned in a similar way for adults, and […] was a signal to visitors that this household valued intellectual curiosity” (Volz 35). Through such curiosities, “families presented themselves as participants in the worlds of literature and scientific learning” (Grier 58). When I look around where my own books live, I find that most of the symbolic ornamentation on my desk and bookcases are travel souvenirs. Few are true curios.

Here’s the bronze dragon I bought in Hong Kong, and a small statue of Guan Gung, the Chinese god of war and literature. There are the two bud vases from Tobe, Japan and the maple tea-tray from Miyajima. About the only real educational oddity is the armillary sphere on my desk. It is a model of the earth, surrounded by a series of metal bands, some fixed and others moveable, which was used by the Greeks to show the movement of the sun and stars in relation to earth. I didn’t buy it because I wanted to predict star locations. Rather, a few times when I’ve been meditating I have experienced the sensation of being a part of the cosmos, both a center point through which all orbits pass and a vibrating, whirling orb passing through the center of everything. The armillary sphere reminds me of those moments.

Perhaps this helps explain Mr. Everett and all of us who gather relics from our travels, external or internal, and keep them near our books. We want, by thinking, by reading, and by remembering, to recall our connectedness to everything.


Farnham, Luther. A Glance at Private Libraries. Boston: P of Crocker and Brewster, 1855.
Foy, Jessica H. and Thomas J. Schlereth, ed. American Home Life, 1880-1930. Knoxville: U of Tennessee P, 1992.
Grier, Katherine C. “Decline of the Memory Palace: The Parlor after 1890.” Foy and Schlereth. 49-74.
Volz, Candace. “Modern Look of Early Twentieth-Century Homes.” Foy and Schlereth. 25-48.