The Victorian era: a time when people were so concerned about dust that they encased every conceivable object under a glass dome, as if an unprotected floral arrangement was a matter of national security. Enter the cloche, or as we now lovingly call it, the bell jar—a glass bubble that could preserve not only your grandmother’s dried roses but also your dignity in a world without vacuum cleaners.

In true Victorian style interior decorating fashion, these domes turned everyday items into miniature museums. In one particularly resourceful (some might say overachieving) move, they placed everything from delicate taxidermy to seashell arrangements under the clear safety of glass. The result? A collection of what looked like priceless specimens or strange artifacts, except that one might contain a squirrel in a waistcoat, while another held an arrangement of moss and pinecones artfully labeled “Nature’s Bounty.” Taxidermy bell jars, in particular, became a prized addition to the Victorian home—because what living room wouldn’t benefit from a permanently posed bird, staring at you as though it knew something you didn’t?

And let’s not overlook the insect dome, a marvel of patience and questionable aesthetics. These displays allowed Victorians to observe “exotic” insect specimens without having to deal with the bothersome qualities of live bugs, like crawling. Encased behind the glass, these insects became immortalized, pinned in a moment of stillness, as if they were tiny soldiers frozen in time. Now, let’s be clear: having an insect dome wasn’t about being bug-obsessed. It was about appreciating the fine art of avoiding pest control, all while appearing sophisticated and worldly to one’s houseguests.

The irony, of course, is that cloche domes—originally intended to protect life (like the tender seedlings in greenhouses)—quickly turned into tools for preserving the once-living in glass. A cloche dome could house any memento you wanted the world to think you cherished, or at least didn’t want to see decomposing prematurely. Glass taxidermy domes, for example, became the ultimate paradox of preservation: the dead, carefully arranged to look lifelike, only to be locked under a dome and admired for eternity.

Today, the trend is creeping back. Perhaps the modern cloche’s return says something about our need to, once again, preserve tiny, curated pieces of our lives. But unlike the Victorians, we’re not immortalizing stuffed squirrels or “insect armies” for household guests (well, most of us aren’t). Instead, we’re trapping succulents, vintage watches, and maybe the odd seashell collection.

As we revive this odd Victorian obsession, remember: you’re not merely displaying a plant or a preserved bug. You’re nodding to a time when people could look at a cloche dome filled with stuffed mice and say, “Now that’s the pinnacle of taste.”