The following is a guest blog by former Stanford University Liljenquist Fellow Ben Limric who worked with the Music Division in summer 2024.
Prior to last summer, I often felt like I had to choose between my two academic interests: music and public policy—they don’t exactly go hand-in-hand. As a student, everything I pursued seemed to fall neatly into one camp or the other. But my time as a Stanford University Liljenquist Fellow in the Music Division at the Library of Congress changed that. I found myself immersed in a project that blended both fields more beautifully than I ever expected.

My task was simple on paper: research and write about a small collection of Civil War–era instruments donated by Mr. Tom Liljenquist and his family. But the work turned out to be anything but routine. I traced the story of a child drummer named Jesse Mills through three pairs of drumsticks, one of which was engraved and gifted to him after he bravely drummed his regiment into battle. I followed the life of a bugle carried across twelve battlefields by Richmond F. Parker, a Union soldier and principal musician whose instrument bore the scars, and stories of war.

Each artifact led me down a new rabbit hole. I searched city directories, census records, patent filings, cemetery registries, and battlefield histories. One of my favorite discoveries came while examining the engraved bugle: a name, “M.A. Brennan,” carved into the brass in delicate, slanted script. That clue led me to Mary Anne Brennan, a professional engraver in 1860s Detroit who worked alongside her husband while raising six children. At a time when few women were credited in trades like engraving, her work, and her signature, felt like a quiet assertion of presence and skill.

I had the rare privilege of working directly with the instruments themselves, thanks to Carol Lynn Ward-Bamford, Curator of Musical Instruments, who served as my mentor throughout the summer. Her guidance and deep knowledge of the collection shaped every stage of my research, and her generous spirit made even the most complex questions approachable. She helped me see not just the instruments, but the lives and contexts surrounding them.
The Music Division staff welcomed me with warmth and enthusiasm. I spent my days poring over prints and photographs, attending lectures on bluegrass music and antique maps, and getting to know the Library’s Capitol Hill campus and its brilliant research community. One of the unexpected joys of the summer was spending time with other research fellows, whose projects ranged from the economics of obscure seashell currencies to internet usage in Uganda as a tool for human rights. Their passion and curiosity were contagious, and our conversations reminded me how many different ways there are to ask meaningful questions.
The summer culminated in a presentation of my findings to the Music Division staff and to Mr. Liljenquist, who not only donated the instruments I studied but also generously funded my fellowship. His presence at my talk as well as his thoughtful questions made the experience especially meaningful. I’m deeply grateful for his support and for his commitment to preserving and sharing these powerful artifacts.
I came to the Library hoping to do good work. I left reminded of why I love this kind of work in the first place. As both a musician and a public policy student, I saw how personal stories of child soldiers, traveling instruments, and anonymous engravers can illuminate broader questions of memory, conflict, and preservation.
The instruments I studied no longer play music. But they still speak. And thanks to the Library’s collections, the people who care for them, and the joy of discovery, I got to listen.