It could be simple and utilitarian, like this turn-of-the-century example, an everyday object made of a clear glass base rising to a bowl, a brass wick holder, and a transparent chimney to channel the flame: the kerosene lamp was, after all, to be found in the most modest houses, but it could also come in all sizes and shapes. Some lamps were adorned with bosses, scrolls, and flowers; they could be made of metal or porcelain, as well as glass; and they were priced accordingly, to fit all budgets. Best of all, they were wonderfully convenient. Unlike candles, kerosene lamps did not blow out at the slightest breeze; they gave far more light, far more cheaply; and in no time at all they provided just the kind of symbolism the mid-nineteenth century loved.

The evenings spent around an “oil lamp” were as much a part of American life as watching television has since become: the ladies bending over their knitting, their embroidery, or during the Civil War, their bandage making, the man of the family reading aloud from a great work of literature— A Tale of Two Cities perhaps, or The Last Days of Pompeii. The image can be found, time and again, in magazines and illustrated books.

The very arrival of the lamps into the drawing room was part of the well-ordered procession of afternoon into night. Kept during the day in kitchen or pantry, their clear glass chimneys carefully washed to eliminate any soot left by an improperly trimmed wick, their reappearance signaled the beginning of the evening. Indeed, they soon came to be seen as the symbol of life itself. His lamp is low, people would say of a man well past his prime; and when he died, his lamp had run out of oil.

Naturally, like all household goods, lamps were also a status symbol. When they had a marble, column-shaped base and gilt bronze ornament, or a fine porcelain bowl and the richest fluted silk shade, they were expensive and to be found in the grandest houses.

Most important of all, though, oil lamps meant progress—greater convenience for all, large fortunes for a few, and the development of a new kind of consumer art. It was in the mid-nineteenth century that, for the first time, there was a widespread and successful attempt at making the middle class feel it could live like the rich: massive, mass-produced furniture might not be as finely detailed as if each piece had been carved by a cabinetmaker, but it served as a convincing enough substitute; moderately priced cloth imitated the richest silks; ready-made clothes followed the latest fashions, so one could no longer tell a woman’s—or a man’s—station at a glance. At the same time, stamped glass, looking almost like crystal, provided even modest households with the ornamental everyday objects—pitchers, butter dishes, compotes—once reserved for the well-to-do. And, of course, kerosene lamps lent themselves perfectly to this kind of progress.