The Veranda: Clermont's Spectacular Porch (that's now gone)

 Is there anything that epitomizes summer relaxation more than having the whole family gathered out on the porch?  The front porch, the back porch--whatever.  Preferably you should have a cool drink in your hand and a cool breeze drifting by.

Although large porches and verandas may seem to be inseparable from our idea of historic American houses, they didn't start out as part of our architectural landscape.  Instead, grand American houses started out with imposing faces that found various ways to focus your attention on the front door.  Take Walter Livingston's Teviodale at right for instance, this late 18th century house featured a grand white pediment and arched transom window right above the door.  These features, combined with that big Palladian window above it, created a formal visual impression that gave the viewer a a sense of the importance of the house and its owner.  Clermont, like its Georgian and Federal contemporaries followed this model.

But by the 1830s, porches and piazzas were showing up on the most up-to-date houses, and Edward Philip Livingston added these details to his wife's historic family home--first the porch, then the piazzas.  In the summers this space hosted three or four wooden rocking chairs and was apparently ornamented with long flower boxes, as seen here.

By far the biggest impression to be made on Clermont's fair facade was the great big veranda that John Henry put on 1893-95.  He actually did this in tandem with changing the driveway to treat the east face as Clermont's front door (seen below) so the giant outdoor structure was actually Clermont's back porch.

I've always been fascinated with this space--perhaps it goes along with my fascination for anything that's gone.  It permitted a mix of shade and sun, as a wide wing extended out from under the porch roof and off to the sunny south side of the house, where another roofed-over section shaded the windows in library and drawing room.

How did this porch figure into daily life?  I have found several pictures of Honoria and Janet playing on the sunny portion of the porch.  I love this one of them with a scooter--which gives you an idea just what a large open space this was for them to be rolling around there.  it also seems to have been one of Alice's default photo studios, which makes sense given the improved lighting (over any indoor spaces) and wide open space.

I also just recently found this photo of Alice in 1908, posing with John Henry's dog Punchy on the veranda.  There are too many things to love about this image.

For one, you get an excellent sense of the interior space.  The rounded shape (stead of just a linear porch along the face of the house) really gave a sense of this being a room.  You can also see its furnishings: rounded wicker chairs in at least two groupings and a few matching tables.  You can also see one of these tables in this photo of Honoria and Janet with Punchy again and a crop of baby bunnies.  Alice's photo above also gives you a great view of the striped awnings that ornamented the front.  Extending these would have created a space of deep shade that cooled no only the porch, but also the mansion itself, by preventing the entry of sun.

So what happened to our porch?  John Henry Livingston removed it in 1926 shortly before his death.  While he and the rest of the family were away in Italy, John Henry made a number of changes to the house to reinvent it in a Colonial Revival image (seen at left, 1936).  He removed almost the entire porch, changed the shutters to solid white, and added the stairs and lions at the west door.  At the same time, she changed the driveway to again treat the west side (facing the river) as the front door.

Honoring Chancellor Livingston by attempting to recreate the house as he had known it (sort of--that chateauesque roof and the north and south wings were added later) may have been the most lofty of his goals, but the remaining section of porch in the southwest corner provides another possible reason.

This deeply-shaded portion of the mansion is also at an inside corner, getting rain poured down from several roofs each storm and never quite getting enough sun to dry it out all the way.  If the rest of the porch was a shady, especially with all those trees around it, it probably suffered the same rot problems that we deal with each year.  Perhaps John Henry simply tired of maintenance drain it created. 

Along with other portions of Clermont's past, this grand veranda is a piece of the history that helps us to really look at the importance and difficulty of picking a date of interpretation for any historic house that was occupied for such a long period of time.  As much as I love that porch, would I bring it back?  What else would have to change if we suddenly chose to make it 1920 around here?  Would I really be willing to give up the lions that are there now?

Whatever the reason, John Henry tore down his own creation and left us Clermont as we know it now, and I love it just the way it is.

Clermont's Shining Star

In a wealthy 18th century household, the dishes on your dinner table could make or break your dinner party:

"After having seized on the entirety of a Table decoration, the eyes occupy themselves with the details, and taking them piece by piece, in examining their execution. Each Guest praises or critiques its work, and more or less flatters the pride of the sumptuous Host. It seems to us, therefore, useful to everyone to introduce objects of Fashion which, by their universality, can justify our choice."  --Cabinet des Modes, 1786

 
So A Most Beguiling Accomplishment just posted this great image and translated description of a 1786 silver Soupière, and it immediately put in me in mind of Clermont's equally-dashing example that belonging to Chancellor Livingston around that same time.

This glittering gem of table wear is one piece of a complete set purchased by Chancellor Livingston in the 1790s from his friend Gouverneur Morris.  Produced by silversmith-to-the-stars Jacques-Nicolas Roettiers around 1775, it would have put the Chancellor's table display on par with some of Roettiers's other clients--most notably Catherine II of Russia and her famous Orlaff Service, an example from which is shown at right by the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  

In fact, the other two known pieces from the Chancellor's set are also housed at the Met, along with about eight total pieces from this silver maker. In particular, I love this ladle (from a different set) because the reeded handle with wrapped detail is reminiscent of the same detail just under the lid of the Chancellor's set (see above).

What does this mean for Chancellor Livingston?  Well in particular, the likely purchase date of the early 1790s means that the Chancellor may well have bought it as part of a larger shopping spree to outfit his glamorous new mansion he unimaginatively called New Clermont (now known as Arryl House).  The Chancellor was a known Francophile, and his house was papered with French wall papers, and the hall was adorned with precious tapestries from the Parisian Gobelins manufactory.  American luxury products were just not up to snuff with European ones yet so being able to put such a high-quality set of silver on the table meant not only a major financial investment, but also carried the cache of extreme exclusivity.  

Some years later the Chancellor was appointed as the American Minister to France and, just like his contemporary Thomas Jefferson, went shopping while he was there.  Amongst many other things, he purchased the amazing crystal chandelier that now adorns our  drawing room, the one-of-a-kind balloon clock, and a set of Dartes Freres china (below) and stowed them in his impressive Hudson River villa.  

It is likely that at least some of these things were passed on to his eldest daughter Betsy and her husband Edward Philip when the Chancellor died in 1813, along with two of the Rottiers tureens.  The tureens at least are detailed in Edward Philip's 1844 probate inventory:

2 tureens           $600

Considering there are three tureens in existance, I imagine that his other daughter Margaret Maria and her husband Robert L. may have received the third piece in this set. 

It is also possible that the Dartes Freres set is what is meant by:

1 dinner set white and gilt 200 pieces            $125

Basically, what this all goes to show is that the Chancellor was as preoccupied as his fellow Founding Fathers with displays of extreme wealth that linked them--at least on a material culture level--to the European aristocracy they were simultaneously trying so hard to differentiate themselves from.  That, and this particular set of silver was a really big score for the Livingstons' dining table.

Vindicating a Forgotten Founding Father: A Recent Historical Discovery Reveals More of Chancellor Livingston's Accomplishements

Historian Geoff Benton was among many Chancellor Livingston scholars to be excited by the recent discovery of the only-known draft of the "Olive Branch Petition."  For the first time, the author of the document could be identified as our own Robert R. Livingston, taking him from a political "Forrest Gump" who lucked into being in the right place at the right time, to a respected writer who could help hone the words of Thomas Jefferson to best capture the energies of the budding American Revolution.

The recent rediscovery of the hand written first draft of the 1775 “Address to the Inhabitants of Great Britain” by Emilie Gruchow at the Morris-Jumel Mansion presents the perfect opportunity to reexamine the accomplishments of a nearly forgotten founding father.  The sometimes inflammatory and aggressive letter that also appeals for reconciliation has long been attributed to Richard Henry Lee because of its tone.  Analysis of the hand writing of the draft revealed the true author to be Robert R. Livingston, known to history as the Chancellor.

Livingston is often portrayed as a minor background character during the Revolution and early republic, despite the many prominent and important posts he had.  It was once said of the Chancellor that he had a knack for showing up where history was being made, which conjures the image of an eighteenth-century Forrest Gump, stumbling from one historic event to another without having any real role in them.  Perhaps the best example of this was the musical “1776.”  When the committee is chosen to write what would become the Declaration of Independence, Livingston sings his way out of Philadelphia claiming he has to celebrate the birth of his son.  Ignoring the fact that the real Chancellor never had a son, the simple fact is the Chancellor stayed in Philadelphia until much after the Declaration was written.     

      

Some background first:  Robert R. Livingston was born in 1746, the son of Judge Robert R. Livingston.  The Judge was an early supporter of the American cause, representing New York at the Stamp Act Congress in 1765 and authoring an appeal to the House of Lords to end the burdensome taxes they were putting upon the colonies.  The elder Livingston would also be the only crown appointed Supreme Court justice to side with the colonies when war broke out.  The Chancellor also had a colonial bent as demonstrated by the oration he gave in 1765 from King’s College (now Columbia University), entitled “On Liberty.”

By a 1775 Livingston was successful lawyer in his own right, practicing law with his friend and future Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, John Jay.  He had briefly served as Recorder of the city of New York but was quickly replaced by someone friendlier to the crown.  He was chosen to represent New York at the Continental Congress meeting in Philadelphia.  Some people encouraged him to decline the position as he had much to lose, not the least of which was his life, if the situation deteriorated.  However he made his feelings quite clear to his father-in-law John Stevens, himself a representative to the Congress, in a letter dated April 23, 1775; “Some cautious persons w[ill] advise me to decline but I am resolved to stand or fall with my country.”[i]

On June 3, 1775 the Continental Congress voted to create letters to the various parts of the British Empire to explain the situation and make a plea for reconciliation.  Blood had been shed at Lexington and Concord and Fort Ticonderoga was in the possession of Benedict Arnold and Ethan Allen, but it was hoped, by most that the colonies could remain a part of the British Empire.  The letter to George III would go down in history as the “Olive Branch Petition.”  Livingston, Richard Henry Lee and Edward Pendleton were chosen to craft a letter to the people of Great Britain. 

         Livingston’s letter makes it clear that, this is a “last” appeal for peace.  That Parliament has betrayed them, “their object is the reduction of these Colonies to Slavery and Ruin.”  That they have no choice but to fight, “On the Sword therefore, we are compelled to rely for Protection.”  But he also manages to leave the door slightly ajar for peace, Reconciliation with you on Constitutional Principles.”

Before the letter was approved by Congress, with some moderation to its initial tone, on July 8, the battle of Bunker Hill showed how tenacious both sides could be in carrying out the war.   Ultimately the George refused to even read the “Olive Branch Petition” and the “Address to the Inhabitants of Great Britain” went largely unread in England.  The King issued his “Proclamation for Suppressing Rebellion andSedition” and war was unavoidable.  Livingston’s writing did attract some attention in the colonies though when it was published in a pamphlet, unfortunately without his name attached.  In a letter to William Bradford, James Madison praised the address by comparing it favorably to the works of Tully (the anglicanized name of Marcus Tullius Cicero, a Greek writer).

Later that year Livingston was sent as a member of a three person committee to consult with General Philip Schuyler as to how the war in Canada progressed.  They made it as far as Fort Ticonderoga before winter forced them to stop heading north.

When he returned to Philadelphia in May of 1776, he was a different man than he had been in 1775.  His father and grandfather had both passed away leaving him not only in control of all of the Clermont land but also the defacto head of the Livingston family.  In June when the Congress took up the debate of independence, Livingston took a moderate stance.  Perhaps he still clung to a hope for reconciliation or perhaps he feared that declaring independence would lead to a more determined British war effort, which would undoubtedly lead to an attack on the Hudson River valley.  

Whatever the case may be when it came time to choose a committee to draft the Declaration of Independence, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams and Roger Sherman were joined by the committee’s youngest member, 29 year old Robert Livingston of New York.

Here is where the widespread “understanding” of the Declaration and even many historians do a great disservice to Robert.  Many claim that Livingston took no part in the Declaration, that he was only selected to sit on the committee so that the name of a large New York land owner would be associated with the document.  But, with the discovery of the document at the Morris-Jumel House it seems apparent that Livingston was likely chosen because he was a respected writer at that point, and drafting a document that would serve as the Revolution’s press release to the world would require the best writers that the congress had. Thomas Jefferson did create the first draft of the Declaration, after the Committee had met.  He then took it to John Adams and Benjamin Franklin for revisions.  It then went before the full committee including Livingston for review.  What contributions the various members made during this review is not known.  Perhaps notes from this session will someday be found in another dusty attic.  But until then we can take the following into account.  According to scholar (and former Clermont curator) Travis Bowman, the Declaration of Independence bears a certain resemblance to Dutch political documents.  The only member of the committee that understood the Dutch language was Robert Livingston.

Though he was present for the Declaration presentation to congress, he did not sign the document.  While Livingston and the other New York delegates expressed their support for the document they did not have orders from New York’s government to vote for independence.  Unwilling to act without orders they abstained from the vote.  However Livingston was unable to sit idly by.  He headed back to New York to try to get orders for the delegation in Philadelphia on how to vote.  Unfortunately for his legend, New York voted for independence before he arrived to argue for it.  Thus he is not remembered either as a signer or for pushing Independence in New York.  He would spend most of the rest of the year of 1776 working on state matters, including planning the defense of the Hudson River and “riding about the Country in counteracting the Schemes of Tories”[ii].  Although Livingston never held a commission in the Continental Army, the vast amount of correspondence between him and George Washington is indicative of how respected his opinions were on military matters.  The chain that blocked British vessels from coming up the Hudson was in large part a Livingston creation.  After the war Livingston would be honored as an honorary member of the Society of Cincinnati, a group made up of officers of the Continental Army.  

In 1777 Livingston’s writing ability was put to good use once again as he was one of the primary authors of the New York State constitution.  It was under that document that he was made Chancellor of the State of New York, essentially the highest judge in the land.  He was uncomfortable with the populist turn the government quickly took, but it was better than life under the British for him.  Livingston and the other wealthy, landed patriots supported Philip Schuyler for first governor of the state, but George Clinton was elected on the vote of the common people.

  This year also saw a certain recognition of his contributions to the rebellion.  In October of 1777 a British armada sailed up the Hudson as part of a three pronged attack designed to cut eastern New York and New England off from the rest of the colonies.  When the main British army was defeated at Saratoga, the British decided to punish the notorious rebel, Robert Livingston by spitefully burning his home and outbuildings.    

In 1781 Livingston was made Secretary of Foreign Affairs, supervising the diplomatic activities of men like John Adams and Benjamin Franklin who were at then representing the young country in the courts of Europe.  Although the final peace treaty with England was signed in September of 1783, about two months after Livingston resigned the post, the bulk of the peace negotiations had occurred under his watch.

During the constitutional ratification debates the Chancellor played a key role in the approval of the new government in New York.  Both John Jay and Alexander Hamilton consulted with the Chancellor while writing what became known as the Federalist papers.  In 1789, in his role as Chancellor, Livingston issued the oath of office to newly elected president George Washington, turning to the crowd gathered in New York City and shouting “Long live George Washington, President of the United States!” 

Livingston’s final political achievement came not in the United States but in France.  Sent to Paris as minister to France during the Jefferson administration, Livingston was largely responsible for the negotiation of the Louisiana Purchase.  With communications between Livingston and America taking months at a time, Livingston had to rely on his wits and diplomatic skill to complete the purchase.  He was joined by James Monroe to help complete the deal, which doubled the size of the country at the time.

The purchase was also Livingston’s political undoing.  When he tried to claim sole credit for the purchase by changing the dates on some of the related documents he was found out.  A minor scandal ensued and he never held another political office.

Even then, he was not done contributing to the country.  While in France he had met an inventor by the name of Robert Fulton who rekindled a passion for steamboats that Livingston had held since the 1790’s.  Upon returning to America they combined forces and in 1807 the first practical steamboat in the world roared and smoked its way up the Hudson River, being sure to stop at Clermont.  He also contributed to the agricultural economy of the country with the merino sheep that he brought back from France with him.  The wool from his flocks was used in mills to create the first broadcloth woven in America.  His treatise on sheep was considered a masterpiece of the time, earning the praise of another tinkerer of the time, Thomas Jefferson.  He also founded the American Academy of Fine Arts and was a trustee of the New York Society Library.

Bad timing and a bit of an overreach combined to bury some of the achievements of Robert Livingston in the annals of history.  However that alone would not be enough to wipe the Chancellor from history as thoroughly as he has been.  When the trends in the telling of history are added to that, Livingston vanishes.  Shortly after the war ended a populist version of the Revolution came about.  This is the version where morally pure farmer/ soldiers rose up to cast off the corrupt and evil yoke of the English king, led by the simple farmer, George Washington.  This was the era of when the founding fathers were seen as self-made men.  Where Washington, Adams and Jefferson could all be massaged into fitting that mold, Livingston could never be anything other than the son of an extremely wealthy man who inherited a fortune and vast land holdings.  

Robert Livingston only became less well-received in the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century as the telling of history took on a more socialist leaning.  The pedestals that the populist historians had put the founding fathers on where kicked away.  Dirty laundry was aired, and the wealthy became the enemies of the common people.  In this telling Livingston was dismissed as entitled and with nothing to offer.  It is almost ironic that Livingston most enduring public recognition of his life’s work came during this time.  In 1875 New York placed a statue of the Chancellor in the United States Capital as part of the Statuary Hall collection, one of the two statues New York gave to the people of the United States.

            In truth Livingston’s role in history is much greater than he is often credited with.  He contributed to almost all aspects of this country’s founding and growth.  It is something of an injustice that his name is not known to most Americans, among the pantheon of other founding fathers, which is ironic since in life he moved among them a respected figure. 

           

---

[i] Robert R. Livingston to John Stevens, April 23, 1775

[ii] Edward Rutledge to Robert R. Livingston, October 2, 1776

What's With all the Hoop-lah?: Fashionable Livingston Ladies of the Mid 19th Century

One of the most ridiculed fashions of the Victorian era was the cage crinoline.  Developed in the 1850s, the hoop, as it is often referred to now, was by no means the only way to enlarge the volume of a lady's skirts.  At various times, women of fashion had experimented with horsehair padding, (the origin of the word crinoline), cork rumps, and the infamous panniers of the mid 18th century.  For a while flounced petticoats were starched and layered on top of one another, and each layer added weight, heat, and often discomfort to a woman's clothing.

In some ways, the cage crinoline managed to give women a bit of freedom from this layer cake of clothing.  Air was now allowed to circulate under the skirts, and the garment often weight much less than the alternatives.  Nevertheless it could also be inconvenient to wear because of the demand for increasing size, and storing them could be particularly awkward.  Not all women wore hoops--although they did find enough popularity with the middling and sometimes even working classes that they drew a storm of criticism.  And not all of these women wore them all the time.

Nevertheless, the large bell-shaped skirt that the cage crinoline initially created (it later shifted to a sweeping ellipses in the 1860s) has come to serve as a mascot of sorts for the mid 19th century, due in part to our fascination with it in movies like "Gone With the Wind" and basically any Charles Dickens flick. 

And so today I am taking a moment to highlight historic Livingston photos that feature women in their fashionably-full skirts.  They all date somewhere between the late 1850s and mid 1860s, and most of them have no identifying marks about them other than their New York City photography studios.  I've made some sparse comments to direct the casual onlooker, but I'm sure that lots of you will notice things that I haven't about these gowns, and I'm not going to pretend I've done an exhaustive refresher on my Civil War-era fashions.  Even so I simply believe that there can never be enough primary research out there for the the internet, and this is meant to contribute to that pool.  So enjoy!

PS.  Before you try to guess any colors from these images, be sure to check out this blog on how historic photography translated color into black and white.

Mary Livingston DePeyster--Mary Livingston DePeyster was John Henry's older sister and for a time was mistress of Clermont.  Mary seems to be proof that not every crinoline had to be a giant one.  She has rather a modest-size one on under her gown.  She also has the wide, pagoda sleeves that were popular at the time, accented with de riguer white undersleeves and white collar.  Apart from the gathering at the center front of the bodice and the bow at her neck (which appears to be fringed), her gown is quite simple. 

1862--Mary from Gussie(?).  Possibly Mrs. Parish.  This is my only photo with a precise date and features a young woman in a simple, yet beautifully-fitting gown.  At first glance, I thought that Mary was wearing a gown with a simple puffed sleeve, instead of an open pagoda sleeve.  But when I enlarged it to look at the details, I saw instead that her undersleeves are dark instead of their requisite white.  Paired with her dark collar and the noted simplicity of the dress iteself, I believe that Mary may be in mourning.

Unknown--Another well-fitting gown only this time with some really exuberant trim.  Instructions for puffing and pleating trim like this were available in ladies' magazines, but it seems just as possible that this associate of the Livingston family had the money to purchase the services of an experienced dress-maker.  Note this woman's white collar and undersleeves--in contrast to our last photo.  Interestingly, these undersleeves are not cuffed, but instead they fan out as wide as the gown's sleeves.  Also note the large oval pin she wears at her throat. 

 Unkown--Looking at the profile of her skirt, it seems likely that this woman is indeed wearing a hoop, but she apparently picked one of a more moderate diameter.  She also has a pleated trim applied to her gown, though it is far simpler than the last one.  Her undersleeves are also stuffed rather tightly into a much smaller sleeve on her gown.  Her leather belt finishes off the ensemble by highlighting her small round waist.

Unkown--This woman has fantastically dramatic, wide hair, hooped earings, and matching bracelets on both wrists.  Don't miss the fact that her oversleeves are actually dark-colored lace.  You can just see it in the way her right undersleeve shows through.  This gown is another with some energetic trim--this time with the edges pinked, or cut into little peeks and scallops.  There is also a wide band of moire silk applied on the bias near the bottom.  She has a large lace shawl draped around her shoulders and a white hand kerchief draped in one hand. 

Unknown--Probably my favorite photo in the little box I went through to gather these.  These two ladies just look so peasant-y and a little bit frothy.  Don't be fooled into thinking that the one on the right is wearing her corset on the outside though.  Bodices and waists like these were popular in the 1860s and highlighted a woman's smooth torso.  The ribbon trim on this one appears to match some more of the same on the cuff of her gown, and you can see that she has at least two, maybe three, rows of ruffles near the hem of her skirt.  More matching bracelets on her friend.


Unknown--Last but not least I thought this girl deserved to be included for her festively-trimmed dress.  Now only are her sleeves puffed and shirred in an unusual treatment, but the narrow, scalloped flounces on her skirt are then repeated down the front of her bodice. 

Well there you have it, a selection of some of the more interesting ladies and their clothes from the Box O' Unmarked Photos in collections storage.  The question remains: Who were all these women?  Are they friends of one of Clermont's many residents?  Family members?  For the moment their contribution to history is made through their clothing and remembered through a gesture of friendship--the sharing of a photograph. 


**For a more complete review of mid-nineteenth century dress in photographs, consider Joan Severa's books "Dressed for the Photographer: Ordinary Americans and Fashion, 1840-1900" and "My Likeness Taken: Daguerrian Portraits in America."

This IS Soda: A Long-Overdue Update

All the way back in 2011, I made this post based on a guess that this little dog might be Soda, a well-loved Jack Russell terrier from the Livingston household.  The problem came from the fact that all I had was an unmarked slide, found in my old curator's closet--not a very positive marker.  The best identifiers I had were the the fireplace (which looked to be Clermont's library) and eventually I also noticed that the one-of-a-kind balloon clock is up on the mantle (see below for an image of the clock).  So at least I knew that this was a dog living at Clermont.

Well it wasn't too long ago that while doing some work in collections, I finally came across the original and at last confirmed it--this IS Soda.  The original I found was a memorial card, lovingly constructed around the time of the dog's death with beautiful green foil and several useful details pasted to the back.  I also have to update some inaccuracies in my original post:

For one, I misidentified Soda as male, and this is definitely a little girl dog.  Sorry girl!

Secondly, I had inherited some misinformation from whomever originally told me the story.  Soda apparently started out as Clermont Livingston's dog, and when Clermont died in 1895, she must have been inherited by his son John Henry.  This comes from a note on the bottom of the card that reads, "'Soda' Beloved to Clermont Livingston."

Secondly, I got her death date wrong.  Soda died in 1902, not 1901--which is a pretty silly error since I clearly didn't read the tombstone very closely.  Doh!

Last of all comes the sad part of Soda's story, which I did not try to relate in the last post.  "Little Soda" unfortunately died a violent death, "killed by someone" in the nearby town of Madalin (now part of Tivoli).  I was once told by an older visitor to Clermont that Madalin was considered the "questionable" part of town when she was a little girl in the 30s or 40s, and she was discouraged from ever going there.  Whether that is true or not, I don't know.  The "Brutes" did their deed on May 31, 1902, and the little dog was entombed some five days later with a nicely-carved headstone--an honor paid to only one dog before her and two afterwards.

Finally, as part of their mourning process, the family assembled this pretty memorial card, complete with a newspaper cut-out of poetry to express the grief they shared over the loss.

Unfortunately, this little card is a sad reminder that the feelings and lives of animals were long viewed by a great part of the populace as being greatly inferior to those of humanity and even downright unimportant.  But it is also a touching reminder of the deep personal connection that the Livingstons shared with their pets and the positive changes that were taking place on this front in the early 20th century.