Buildings archaeology

On fireplaces

On fireplaces

Fireplaces. They were one of the key components of the Victorian-era home in Christchurch, in the sense that, like doors and windows, every house had one (I’m somewhat taking liberties with the definition of fireplace here, and counting a coal range as one). Fire, after all, was required for cooking (at least until the advent of gas, if you want to distinguish that – if you do, gas cooking stoves were being advertised in Christchurch papers from the late 1870s (Press 23/11/1878: 8)). The other essential service that fireplaces provided, of course, was heating, although you have to wonder just how much heat these often quite small fireplaces generated, particularly given the high stud and large size of some of these Victorian rooms, not to mention the lack of insulation. No wonder the Victorians wore so many clothes…

This coal register bears the words “THE CONGO”, with the bust of a mustachioed figure above. The bust is possibly that of Henry Morgan Stanley, who searched for the source of that river. Stanley was also known for his brutality towards African people.

Most houses from the sample I analysed for my PhD research did have more than one fireplace, and those that had only one were amongst the smallest of the houses – and thus amongst the most cheaply built, and occupied by poorer families. For context, in 1883, a double chimney with a cement hearth cost £10-£11 (and the mantelpiece was more in addition to this). Such a cost would have been more than 10% of the cost of building the cheapest cottage described in Brett’s Colonists’ Guide (Leys 1883: 725). Most houses had between two and five fireplaces and, unsurprisingly, the number of fireplaces increased with the number of rooms. But not always: one 11-room house had just two fireplaces and a 14-room house had three. Which, as I write this on a frosty Canterbury morning, seems like it would have particularly cold. But does provide an insight into how people chose to spend their money when building a house, with these families seemingly favouring space over heating (which seems less than ideal, given that increasing the size of a house would have increased the heating requirements).

For those who are interested in such statistics: on average, houses built by working class families had three fireplaces, while those built by middle and upper class families had four fireplaces. Which, if nothing else, serves to prove how minimal the differences between these occupational classes and the houses they built were (although the statistics tell me that these differences were “significant”).

A rather elaborately carved mantelpiece, found in a surprisingly plain house in St Abans.

If a house had just the one fireplace it was, of course, in the kitchen. If there were two fireplaces, the second was almost always in the parlour (or at least, the room intended to have been used as the parlour – some may have functioned as master bedrooms, depending on the size of the family). When there were two fireplaces, they were usually back-to-back, meaning that they shared the same chimney – this would have been cheaper to build than two standalone fireplaces. When there was a third fireplace, it was usually in the master bedroom. A fourth fireplace could go anywhere. Well, not quite. That somewhat flippant remark reflects the fact the houses with four fireplaces had greater complexity, both in the number of rooms and the range of room functions, meaning that there were more options in terms of where to put a fireplace. In general, though, if a room was designed to entertain people, it had a fireplace and, if it was a service room, such as a pantry, scullery or bathroom, it did not. Likewise, an analysis of plans for grand homes in 19th century Christchurch indicates that servant’s bedrooms were highly unlikely to have a fireplace. Which seems a little mean, but in fact few of even these houses had fireplaces in all the family bedrooms. Fireplaces were also unusual in halls, except in the very grandest of homes – Riccarton House, I’m looking at you.

Fireplaces, of course, required fuel, which could be either wood or coal. In the early days of Christchurch’s European settlement, wood is more likely to have been used than coal, as coal had to be imported and would thus have been relatively expensive. Wood, though, was not without its own problems. In late 1861, there was something of a firewood crisis: prices rose dramatically as men who had formerly worked in logging were lured away by the gold rushes (Lyttelton Times 15/8/1860: 4, 29/1/1862: 4). This led to the formation of the Christchurch Coal and Firewood Society (those Victorians did seem to feel like any problem could be solved by a society…; Lyttelton Times 25/9/1861: 6). The aim of the society was to use its larger purchasing power to obtain coal and firewood at a reasonable price for its members – as a bonus, it would also ensure the quality of the wood, that the correct amount was delivered and that it was stacked for you (Lyttelton Times 29/1/1862: 4, 5/2/1862: 5; Press 5/10/1861: 3). In theory, at least – letters to the editor indicate that this was not always the case (Lyttelton Times 5/2/1862: 5). The society also struggled to obtain sufficient wood (Lyttelton Times 29/1/1862: 4). Such factors no doubt contributed to its demise some six months after it was formed.

Some rather glorious fireplace tiles, featuring an intriguing combination of romantic imagery and strawberries. A reference to Strawberry Hill? Who knows. Image: K. Webb, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

What fireplaces did not require were fancy mantelpieces and fire surrounds, but being Victorians, many simply could not resist this possibility (fireplaces also didn’t require fancy chimneys but, seeing as all this analysis relates to post-earthquake recording, there was not a single surviving chimney top amongst the houses in my sample). Unsurprisingly, parlour or drawing room fireplaces were typically the most ornate in the house, and fireplaces became less decorative as the importance of the room declined. This blog from our friends at Underground Overground Archaeology has a few more examples of fabulous fireplaces.

Fireplaces fulfilled some basic needs in houses in 19th century Christchurch: they kept people warm and they provided a means of cooking. To be fair, the warmth factor is debateable – perhaps it’s more accurate to say that they provided an illusion of warmth… And good cheer, for who amongst us does not enjoy the warming crackle of a (safely contained) open fire? Fireplaces, too, could provide an indication of a room’s importance and particularly whether or not the room in question was intended to entertain guests. As with so many architectural features, then, fireplaces fulfilled a practical purpose and a decorative one, and there were messages of wealth and status continued within that decorative aspect.

Katharine Watson

References

Leys, T. W., 1883. Brett’s Colonists’ Guide and Cyclopedia of Useful Knowledge: Being a Compendium of Information by Practical Colonists. H. Brett, Auckland.

Lyttelton Times. Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

Press. Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

On keeping warm

Aotearoa New Zealand’s houses are notoriously cold. Overseas visitors are bemused – or outraged – by the general absence of central heating and double-glazing (the latter is changing, the former not so much), by our propensity to heat just one room in a house and the general attitude that, really, you should just put another layer on and get over it – woolly jerseys were invented for a reason, right? (See this blog post from the Young Adventuress for the full rant, ahem, details). They’re not wrong. Our houses are cold. There’s not been a great deal of examination of the underlying reasons why this might be the case (the practical reasons are clear). One article I found during the research for this blog post noted that “it’s not customary for us [New Zealanders] to have central heating” (New Zealand Herald 2/5/2017) – custom (or tradition) is well-established as a generally terrible reason for doing or not doing something. It’s also not a particularly satisfactory explanation – central heating wasn’t custom in England or the USA either, until it became so. Anyway, the same article goes on to note that the cost of central (or more comprehensive) heating is also prohibitive for many (New Zealand Herald 2/5/2017) – particularly when you need not just to install a better heating system, but, to make it effective, double-glazing and insulation.

In spite of this preamble, I’m not here to offer an exploration of why our houses are so poorly heated. Instead, I have a surprise for you. Central heating! In a 19th century house! In Christchurch! And, while it may not have been original, it probably dated to c.1900 (when the house was added to substantially). Actually, it was a double surprise, because the house also had a cellar (very unusual in Christchurch, due to the exceptionally high water table in the 19th century).

The central heating unit found in the cellar under a Christchurch house. The cellar was constructed when the house was built, in the early 1860s. The central heating was added to the house later, possibly in c.1900.

 

The pipework associated with the central heating unit (the firebox and chimney are at extreme left.

In fact, this central heating unit was found in the cellar of a house that Christchurch residents are likely to be familiar with. Only the brick part of the house was demolished following the earthquakes, leaving the timber front half (designed by Samuel Hurst Seager) standing. This building is a Category I historic place, and its redevelopment later featured on Grand Designs NZ. The brick part of the house was just as interesting, to my mind. Built in the early 1860s for Dugald and Mary Macfarlane, it was a saltbox cottage in form. While this is a very basic and unassuming house form, the house itself was large (12 rooms – this would have made it large at any point in 19th century Christchurch, let alone the early 1860s) and brick – also fairly unusual for that time (and, also, throughout most of the 19th century in Christchurch). So, yes, it’s reasonable to assume it was built by someone wealthy. Dugald was a retired farmer, and he and Mary moved to Christchurch from rural Canterbury in the early 1860s, and Dugald established a wine and spirit business with their sons.

 

An advertisement for Dugald Macfarlane’s wine business. Note the reference to their cellars. Image: Lyttelton Times 17/9/1864: 6.

 

But what of this central heating unit? Well, it was located at one end of the cellar. The cellar itself was under the early 1860s part of the house. The central heating unit consisted of a firebox, set into large blocks of stone, with an opening for feeding it, and a chimney above, which also have a small metal-covered opening. The firebox was connected to metal pipes, which would have carried hot water around the house, and there would once have been a cistern to hold water too. The pipes visible at the time of recording ran under the c.1900 part of the house (and there was no evidence to suggest that pipes had run through the 1860s part), suggesting that this was the date the unit was installed. The angle and arrangement of the pipes suggests that they were connected to radiators (P. Petchey, pers. comm.). There was a decorative grate in the wooden floor above the cellar, which would presumably have allowed some heat to radiate up through the floorboards into the room above.

The decorative grate in the floor in the room above the cellar.

But here’s the most frustrating thing. The eagle-eyed amongst you will have spotted that the firebox has some words on it, and these are quite legible, reading “All Night / No 2”. There are some more words underneath this, but regrettably they’re indecipherable (and were at the time of recording). The frustrating aspect is that googling has turned up just one result for “All Night No 2”. Which seems almost impossible. It’s also not a particularly helpful result, although I guess it does confirm that I’m not making things up. To add to my frustrations, searching 19th and early 20th century newspapers for more information about the use of radiators in Christchurch also proved difficult – the term ‘radiator’ was used to describe standalone heaters, as well as what we might think of as radiators today.

Detail of the firebox, showing the name “All Night No 2”.

So I can’t actually tell you a great deal about this particular radiator, or the use of radiators in general in Christchurch, although I would note that institutions like the hospital installed them in the early 20th century and several theatres proudly advertised their use of them – clearly a good marketing strategy (Lyttelton Times 26/4/1909: 1, Press 3/4/1909: 13, 8/7/1911: 1). Talking with colleagues indicated that no one else had seen anything like this in 19th or early 20th century buildings. But! This is not the only example of central heating that I’ve come across in Canterbury. If you should venture to the site of the Mt Harper ice rink (and if you’re able to, I’d strongly encourage you to – it’s one of my all-time favourite archaeological sites), you will find a house built in the early 1930s, complete with central heating.

And the moral of this story? Well, there isn’t really one. It serves to prove that, yes, central heating was very unusual in 19th and early 20th century Christchurch, but it did exist. It’s frustrating not to be able to date when this particular system was installed, but if it was in c.1900, it was at the time that Samuel Hurst Seager made his substantial addition to the house, and may reflect a level of experimentation by the architect (I don’t have any information to suggest that Samuel Hurst Seager regularly installed central heating in his houses). But also, his wife – Hester, sister to the more famous Helen – was involved with the School of Domestic Instruction. Amongst other things, said school sought to have housewifery recognised as a profession, and thus improve the status of that role (yes, this – and Hester – are absolutely worth a blog post in their own right). I cannot help but feel that there could be a connection between professionalising the house and installing central heating. Yes, it’s a mighty long bow to draw, but the possibility feels at least worth thinking about.

Katharine Watson

References

Lyttelton Times. Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

Press. Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

Preston, Nikki, 2017. Cost and custom blamed for lack of central heating in NZ homes. New Zealand Herald, [online] 2 May. Available at: https://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/cost-and-custom-blamed-for-lack-of-central-heating-in-nz-homes/L6QK3GPZWTD3E7JZKN5RR7FH3Q/ [Accessed 18 April 2024].

To buy or to rent? Considering home ownership in 19th century Christchurch

House – and land – ownership. This was one of the factors that attracted European colonial settlers to New Zealand in the 19th century. Not surprising, really, when you think about the situation in England at the time (where most of those colonial settlers came from). There, property was a source not just of social status and power, but also of the ability to vote (for men…) and thus the ability to participate in the political system. And yet, it’s been estimated that, at the time, only 10% of houses in cities were occupied by their owners (most of whom were presumably from the upper classes). In the biggest cities, such as Birmingham and London, that proportion fell to just 1-2% of houses (Davison 2000: 12, 14, 16). In this context, it’s not surprising that home ownership took on an almost symbolic – and definitely political – importance for working class people. Nor is it surprising that members of the ruling elite, in turn, began to see working class home ownership as a threat to their power (Davison 2000: 9-11). Which brings me to this rather breathtaking quote from one John Robert Godley:

the age of equality is coming upon us, and our business is not so much to struggle against it, with a view to repulse it altogether, as to retard its progress and modify its effects…no man can look upon the state of our working classes; their ignorance in all which is important for them to know, the immense space which divides them in habits, tastes, pursuits, and feelings, from the rich; above all the widespread indifference to religious obligations, without trembling at the thought of their speedily acquiring political power.

             Quoted in McAloon 2000: 162.[1]

Such attitudes may well have contributed to the Canterbury Association’s decision to price the poorer settlers out of the property market through their sufficient price model. This was a model that quickly fell by the wayside, and home ownership was to become widespread among colonial settlers.

Home ownership was much more achievable in 19th century New Zealand for these colonial settlers than in their home countries due to the relatively cheap and abundant supply of land. Of course, this land was only cheap and abundant thanks to the means by which it was acquired from Māori by the various agents: sales for ludicrously small amounts of money (with conditions that then weren’t honoured) or war and raupatu (confiscation). This land might have been ‘cheap’ at the time, but the long-term consequences of Māori loss of land have been anything but.

While home ownership was more achievable, by no means everyone chose to rent, and home ownership would not have been an option for some. There are no statistics about the number of rentals in 19th century New Zealand (in fact, no such data exists until 1916, when nearly half of all homes were rented; Schrader 2013), and gaining a detailed understanding of the rental market and particularly the rental experience is difficult. Considering the houses that were rented out does, however, offer some insights into renting in Christchurch in the 19th century (I will return to the renters themselves shortly). For my PhD, I spent what felt like months doing statistical analyses (numbers and I, it’s not a happy relationship), resulting in exactly three paragraphs in my final thesis. And some tables. But it wasn’t a complete waste of time: now I can say with confidence that there were almost no statistically significant differences between rental houses and those built for owner-occupiers in 19th century Christchurch. In fact, the biggest difference was that rental properties were much more likely to be built in the central city than in the suburbs, whereas owner-occupier houses were pretty evenly split between the two areas. Which tells us something about the economics of building rental properties (bearing in mind the usual caveats about samples, and mine definitely had a geographic bias). But the houses themselves varied in the same way owner-occupier houses did, reflecting the range of people who rented, and their requirements.

The houses shown in the images above were all either built as rental properties or, as in the case of the first house shown, rented out after a period of being occupied by their owner . Images: P. Mitchell, M. Hennessey, F. Bradley, K. Webb, Ōtautahi Christchurch Archaeological Archive.

Researching tenants is much harder than researching houses, and the reasons for this are instructive. In the absence of diaries or letters, the easiest way to gain an understanding of someone’s life in 19th century Christchurch is through newspapers (it helps that these are freely available online, unlike some historical sources). But many people did not appear in the newspapers (although the number who did is surprising). Court cases would warrant an appearance, so too would advertising for servants (which women might do but obviously this required a certain level of wealth), advertising your business, appearing at ‘important’ social events, or being involved in public affairs or an organisation of some sort (meeting attendees’ names were often recorded). Death notices, too, but birth notices often didn’t mention a woman’s name, only referring to her husband. And there are random mentions, too, like people selling chickens. But if you didn’t do any of those sort of things, you didn’t appear in the papers. And many of the tenants I chose to research simply didn’t appear in the papers (or had annoyingly common names: John Taylor, for example…). This tells me that these were not people who were prominent in business affairs or the city’s social or political life, they were not wealthy and they didn’t have advertise for servants (to be fair, the houses they rented told me that all of this was likely to have been the case). These are the sort of people you might expect to rent, people whose circumstances suggested they couldn’t afford to buy a property. What was also notable about many of the tenants I came across was that they were often at a particular property for only 2-3 years. Unfortunately, I don’t know enough about these people to know why that was the case, and whether they moved into a house of their own from their rental, for example.

One group for whom circumstances are likely to have made property ownership pretty difficult was women on their own, particularly those with no family to turn to and, in the case of widows, women who hadn’t been left a reasonable estate by their deceased husband. In the absence of an adult male wage, life was not easy and financial hardship common (Cooper and Horan 2003: 193). One such renter was Mrs Sarah Gault, who rented a pretty little new build in Gloucester Street. Sarah lived here for several years in the 1880s with her children (and possibly also her elderly parents, who she is likely to have supported), and ran her dressmaking business from the house. Women would have visited her here to be measured and fitted for their new clothes. While circumstances may have forced renting upon Sarah, the house that she chose to rent was fashionable and attractive and, I like to think, a key part of her business strategy, designed to appeal to the sort of women for whom she made clothes.

The house Mrs Sarah Gault rented in the mid-late 1880s. Image: M. Hennessey, Ōtautahi Christchurch Archaeological Archive.

While Sarah’s occupation was a working class one, renters were by no means exclusively working class people (Olssen and Hickey 2005: 207). At the other end of the spectrum were Caroline and Charles Todhunter, who rented a brick cottage on Cranmer Square in the early 1890s. Charles had a varied career, having been a timber merchant for a time and involved in the brewing industry. In 1890, he bought Westerfield station, near Ashburton. When he died in 1916, he left an estate of over £27,000, a substantial sum of money for the time (I don’t what Sarah Gault’s estate was, but I think it’s safe to assume it was nothing close to this; Macdonald 1952-64: T290, McAloon 2002: 15). That the Todhunters took up their rental in 1890 is probably no coincidence, given that Caroline Todhunter is consistently listed in the street directories as the occupant of the house (the street directories listed the head of the household, and women were only listed when there was no man in residence). It seems likely that this was a town house that the Todhunters chose to rent, with Caroline and at least some of their children living there, while Charles was based at the station. While this could be interpreted as a reflection on their marriage, there is another component to this story: Margaret, the couple’s eldest daughter, and in her mid-20s at this point, was attending the nearby Canterbury College (Press 29/10/1892: 8).[2] Further, newspaper references record her active involvement in Christchurch life: St John Ambulance (Star (Christchurch) 16/9/1892: 3), the Girls’ Friendly Society (Lyttelton Times 7/12/1892: 3) and attending any number of balls and other social events (Press 11/11/1892: 4, 21/9/1893: 5, 11/10/1894: 6). Presumably, then, the family had rented a house in the city to provide Margaret with a range of educational and social opportunities (the younger children may have been similarly involved, but they were less visible in the papers of the day).

The Todhunter lived in the rear, brick part of this house, the timber part having been added in c.1900.

The Todhunters were by no means the only well-to-do family I came across who rented, although the reasons why other families like this had chosen to rent were not always so clear-cut. For example, Supreme Court judge John Denniston and his wife, Mary, rented Linwood House for five years at the end of the 19th century. In fact, Linwood House – one of the grandest in the city in this era – was rented out on a number of occasions from 1877 on.

Linwood House, 2003. Image: Jackie Snowdon, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=16775483

Renting, then, was by no means confined to poor people, or people with working class occupations, and the range of rental options available reflected this, with rental properties in 19th century Christchurch ranging from the small and ordinary to the grandest of homes. While home ownership was undoubtedly the preferred option for many, there were some for whom this would never have been a possibility, whether due to their financial situation, the security of their employment or their gender. Some, though, chose to rent for other reasons, such as the Todhunters and their town house. Nonetheless, the ideal of home ownership was an important one, and one that has persisted to the present day. This is perhaps why Aotearoa has never developed the culture of successful, stable long-term renting seen in other parts of the world, and why attitudes towards renting often remain negative.

Katharine Watson

References

Cooper, Annabel, and Marian Horan, 2003. Down and out on the Flat: the gendering of poverty. In: Barbara Brookes, Annabel Cooper and Robin Law, eds. Sites of Gender: Women, Men and Modernity in Southern Dunedin, 1890-1939. Auckland: Auckland University Press.

Davison, Graeme, 2000. Colonial origins of the Australian home. In: Patrick Troy, ed. A History of European Housing in Australia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 6-25. 

Lyttelton Times. [online] Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

McAloon, Jim, 2000. Radical Christchurch. In: John Cookson and Graeme Dunstall, eds. Southern Capital, Christchurch: Towards a City Biography 1850-2000. Christchurch: Canterbury University Press, pp. 162-192.

Olssen, Erik and Maureen Hickey, 2005. Class and Occupation: The New Zealand Reality. Dunedin: Otago University Press.

Press. [online] Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

Schrader, Ben, 2013. Housing – tenure. Te Ara – the Encyclopedia of New Zealand. [online] Available at: http://www.TeAra.govt.nz/en/graph/38662/housing-tenure [Accessed 23 February 2024].

Star (Christchurch). [online] Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

What kind of house is that?

Gosh, well, I’m so glad you asked, because I have just the thing for you! A typology, even – archaeologists do love a good typology, but I suspect it’s the sort of word that might make most people’s eyes glaze over (hence why I waited until the second sentence to bring it up…). Anyhow. Typologies are pretty useful when it comes to analysing large sets of data, hence why one formed the core of my research into what houses in 19th century Christchurch looked like. Now, to be honest, I didn’t develop this typology myself: like any good academic, I took someone else’s and tweaked it to meet my own needs.

The typology I started with was that developed by Jeremy Salmond, author of Old New Zealand Houses 1800-1940 (if you’re interested in 19th century houses, I cannot recommend this book highly enough). Salmond’s book focuses on vernacular architecture – that is, the every day sort of houses that most people have lived in – and he divided houses into two types, cottages and villas, with lovely little sketches to illustrate the various subtypes. But there was one rather significant problem from my point of view: he didn’t actually define what distinguished the two types, except in the broadest terms: “‘Villa’ is used here to refer to later Victorian houses of more than four or five rooms, typically built in the suburbs, and after the 1870s often elaborately decorated. ‘Cottage’, on the other hand, refers to any simple smaller house of the period” (Salmond 1986: 154). Which was all a bit too vague for my purposes – I needed something nice and simple and, more importantly, objective to underly my analysis. Further, Salmond’s sketches indicate far greater differences between the two types. In fact, the sketches indicate a key difference between villas and cottages and what I would use as the key defining feature of my typology: roof form. All of Salmond’s cottage examples (bar one or two) had a gable roof, while all of his villas had a hipped roof. And those exceptions? Well, in my typology, they would be classified as villa. It’s notable that said cottages looked exactly like some of Salmond’s villas.

Within my two main types, I had two subtypes: standard and bay (for those with a protruding bay). Salmond identifies a lot more subtypes, based on roof form, presence or absence of bay, location of bay, shape of the bay and whether or not there was a veranda, amongst other things (Salmond 1986: 73-74, 168-173). For the purposes of my research, this created too many subtypes, and any meaningful analysis was rendered impossible (by way of illustration, Salmond worked out that there were some 6000 possible types of villas and 216 types of cottages; Salmond 1986: 74, 173).

So what did these types look like? Well, let’s dive in! As it were.

Standard cottages

Different types of standard cottages (after Salmond (1986: 73)).

This was the most basic type of house. In early Christchurch, these were one of the most common types of houses, and could be quite big. For example, one I recorded had 11 rooms. And a cellar. With central heating . Not even making that up. But, as time passed, these cottages become the preserve of those who could only just afford to build a house – or wanted to build very cheaply. No doubt because it was cheap to build, this form persisted until at least the early years of the 20th century. By the 1870s, this was a small working class house, typically single storey, with an average of five or six rooms and an average floor area of 61.6 square metres. In most cases, these houses did not have any built-in decorative features, either on the interior or the exterior – but see the particularly cute cottage below. These houses might have a villa or a cottage layout.

A late 1870s brick standard cottage, Scott Street. Image: K. Webb.

A rather decorative standard cottage from the Avon loop. Image: P. Mitchell.

Bay cottages

A little bit fancy: a selection of different types of bay cottages (after Salmond (1986: 74)).

These were built by people with working or middle class occupations, although the latter often built them as rental properties. Like the standard cottage, these were built in early Christchurch and continued to be built until at least the end of the 19th century. They usually had some modest form of external decoration, such as a moulded door or window surround, but little more than that. Most had either a bay window or a veranda, and some had both. Most had a villa layout, and ceiling roses were not uncommon, although any other form of built-in internal decoration was unusual. The average floor area was 83.8 square metres.

A semi-detached bay cottage from the central city. Image: K. Watson.

A central city bay cottage, showing some of the modest decoration these houses often had. Image: L. Tremlett.

Standard villa

A very normal sort of house in Christchurch: the standard villa (shown with variations on the hipped roof; after Salmond 1986: 168-173).

The most common type of house in my research, making up 50% of my sample, suggesting it was a pretty common type in Christchurch in the late 19th century. First appears in c.1875 (possibly a bit later than other cities in New Zealand). The average floor area was 114.5 square metres, and most had five or six rooms. It was also quite common for them to have eight, 10 or 12 rooms. They were generally one-storey, mostly detached and invariably symmetrical – which meant they all looked quite similar. They were predominantly built by people with working or middle class occupations. They were relatively plain on the exterior, although typically had a little bit more decoration than the average bay cottage, and ceiling roses were not uncommon. Few had bay windows and most had a villa layout.

A rare example of a single-storey semi-detached standard villa. Image: F. Bradley.

A two-storied standard villa. Image: L. Tremlett.

Bay villa

A little bit more fancy still: the bay villa (after Salmond 1986: 168-173).

These became common in Christchurch in c.1880 and were typically the preserve of people with middle or upper middle class occupations. Most were detached, single storey and asymmetrical (although they didn’t have to be – see the double bay villa, for example). Most had a bay window, most had a veranda and these houses usually had more external decoration that the average standard cottage, bay cottage or standard villa. They had from seven to 18 rooms, with an average floor area of 141.3 square metres. All had a villa layout. Inside, most had a hall arch, ceiling roses and ceiling cornices.

A very sweet bay villa, built on the outskirts of the central city by someone with an upper middle class occupation. Image: M. Hennessey.

A late 1880s bay villa, from Burwood. Image: C. Staniforth.

Of course, even the best of typologies can’t cover all the building forms, so my typology has the inevitable ‘other’ category, to catch those that just didn’t fit. And I should also note that this typology does not cover elite houses, such as these examples (and see also Jamie’s excellent recent blog posts about one particular elite house in Christchurch).

For me, this typology provided a useful way to organise and analyse my data, thus helping me better understand the nature and development of domestic architecture in 19th century Christchurch. In particular, it enabled me to analyse how house form changed over time, and to explore the relationship between occupational class and house form. I was able connect house types with specific periods and people and thus better understand why people the houses they did. It also allowed me to identify what was ‘normal’ for this particular place and time and thus, more importantly, what wasn’t – and who didn’t follow that normal pattern, because that is often where the most interesting stories lie.

K.atharine Watson

References

Salmond, J., 1986. Old New Zealand Houses 1800-1940. Reed, Auckland.

What's in a name?

Rose Cottage. Norfolk Villa. Overton Cottage. Park House. These were all names of houses in nineteenth century Christchurch. As with any name, they tell us things about the people who bestowed and used the name. Names, after all, are a fundamental part of our identity, and much thought goes into their careful selection, from both the name itself to the particular spelling used. House names, in fact, have quite a history, dating back to the Roman era in Western Europe, although they have become less common since the middle of the nineteenth century (Garrioch 1994: 20-21). Once upon a time, they were the only form of ‘address’ a property had (side note: researching this blog led me down quite the rabbit hole about the history of street numbers – basically: capitalism – stay tuned for that blog post in the coming weeks). The use of street numbers was one of the factors that led to the demise of shop signs and house names, but others include changing social organisation and the changing nature of the street itself (Garrioch 1994: 39).

Not an actual house name from Ōtautahi Christchurch. Just an image to break up the long text.

How common were house names in nineteenth century Christchurch? The short answer is, I don’t know. The trick to answering this question is, somewhat obviously, identifying whether or not a house had a name. Let me explain. I’ve identified quite a few named houses in the city, but only through historical research. None of the houses we recorded in post-earthquake Ōtautahi had any physical evidence of a name on the building. Which isn’t to say that that was always the case – in fact, an excellent example of a house name has been recorded by a colleague in Dunedin, where the name was in the fanlight above the front door (Petchey and Brosnahan 2016). The house names I recorded were ones I identified in nineteenth century newspapers, most commonly when a house or its contents was advertised for sale or lease, or when its occupants advertised for servants. Sometimes, too, a birth or death might be recorded at a particular house. But the point is, someone had to be putting notices in the paper for me to find the name. Given that this (a) cost money to do and (b) required you to be doing one of these things, you can see how this means that the house names from potentially quite a large part of society wouldn’t be historically visible.

Were these names I found in the paper visible on the houses at the time? Good question. On the balance of probability, I think so, otherwise what would the point of putting the name in the newspaper have been? (Although there may well have been a status element to this.) Further, where a house name was used by more than one occupant, I think it’s more likely that the name appeared on the house.

Read on to find out more about a selection of the house names I have found, and why the occupants were using that particular name. Fair warning, in some cases the answer is far from satisfactory (reminding us yet again of the frustrations of historical research and how people can remain ultimately unknowable, in spite of the wealth of information it is possible to find about them).

Como c.1878-c.1883*

Como. Image: P. Mitchell.

Como sale notice. Image: Press 2/2/1878: 3.

No clue. Actually, that’s not quite true. The best I can come up with to explain this house name is that it is a reference to Lake Como, in Italy, an area famed for its beauty (and, more recently, celebrities…). The couple who built the house – Mr and Mrs Richard Rossiter Palmer – were only in Christchurch for about two years, and I’ve found little information about them. It’s possible that they had been to Lake Como and loved it, but it is also possible that the couple simply liked the name and all that it stood for: beauty, holidays, the glamour of Italy (some things don’t change). I lean towards this latter interpretation, partly because this was not the only house called Como around at the time: there was a Como Cottage in St Asaph Street and a Como in Rakaia (Lyttelton Times 8/4/1878: 1, Star (Christchurch) 12/6/1878: 2).

Cora Villa c.1879-c.189

Cora Villa. Image: P. Mitchell.

Cora Villa, to let. Image: Lyttelton Times 27/11/1879: 1.

This one is quite simple, and sad. The house was built by Joseph and Harriett Francis, and it was named for their daughter, Cora, who died in infancy, just before the house was built (BDM Online n.d.).

Aubyn House c.1883- c.1893

Aubyn House, a name that only applied to the house on the right of this pair of semi-detached houses. Image: M. Hennessey.

The sale of furniture at Aubyn House. Image: Press 28/6/1883: 4.

Another elusive connection. The St Aubyn family were (and still are) a prominent family in Cornwall, owning and living at St Michael’s Mount since the seventeenth century (St Michael’s Mount 2023). However, I could not find any connection between the family who used the name – Alfred and Alice Thompson – and Cornwall, or the St Aubyns. This isn’t to say that there wasn’t a connection (absence of evidence and all that…).

Aorangi c.1884- c.1916

Aorangi. Image: L. Tremlett.

Aorangi, which functioned as a school as well as a home. Image: Lyttelton Times 3/5/1884: 7.

Cultural appropriation. And a puzzler. Some readers will be familiar with ‘Aorangi’ as the name by which Aoraki Mt Cook was referred to by some in the mid-late twentieth century, before this error of dialect was corrected. However, the references I found to Aorangi in mid-nineteenth century newspapers were to an Aorangi in the North Island and, in early 1884, to a new steamship called the Aorangi (New Zealand Spectator and Cook’s Strait Guardian 5/11/1856: 3, Press 26/1/1884: 2). Not a single reference to the mountain. The steamship was owned by the New Zealand Shipping Company and called at Wellington and Christchurch on its maiden voyage to New Zealand in early 1884, bringing passengers (and freight) to New Zealand and taking the same, and frozen meat, back to England. There was A LOT of fuss about it in the papers.

The Yaldwyns, who gave the house its name, had lived in Otago and Wellington before moving to Christchurch, and William Yaldwyn had been a government-appointed auditor for a number of areas in the lower North Island. It’s possible that this is how they came across the name or, more prosaically, that all the media coverage of the ship introduced them to word, they liked it and thus they used it to name their house in May 1884.

Cotswold House c.1884- c.1895

Cotswold House. Image: M. Hennessey.

Sarah Fisher, of Cotswold House, advertising for a servant. Image: Lyttelton Times 13/2/1884: 1 .

Named as such by Sarah and the Reverend Thomas Fisher. In fact, probably just named by Thomas, who was from the village of Winchcombe in Gloucestershire, just on the outskirts of the Cotswolds (Ancestry 2019). Of note is that Sarah and Thomas named their earlier house in Christchurch Alcester Lodge (Star (Christchurch) 30/12/1871: 1), a name preserved for a time in the adjoining Alcester Street (CCL 2016: 21). As it happens, the street immediately to the north is Winchcombe Street, named for Thomas’s place of birth. Alcester is about 35 km north of Winchcombe.

St Vedas c.1896- c.1930

St Vedas. Image: F. Bradley.

St Vedas, for sale. Image: Press 13/121930: 28,

Not even an actual saint. There is a St Vedast in the Catholic pantheon of saints, and it’s possible that ‘St Vedas’ was an error by the newspaper (or even by Jane and John Nicholson). St Vedast, however, was typically anglicised as St Foster – although there have been three St Vedast churches in England (two of which remain standing; Wikipedia 2023). But John Nicholson was from Ireland (of course I don’t know where Jane was from), where there are no recorded St Vedast churches, although it does increase the possibility that he might have been Catholic.

Tainui c.1896-c.1916

Tainui. Image: K. Webb.

Tainui, to let. Image: Lyttelton Times 17/5/1895: 1.

More cultural appropriation. This time by Henry and Susan Kirk. For those readers who aren’t familiar with the word, Tainui are a North Island-based iwi, more commonly known as Waikato-Tainui. Waikato-Tainui were attacked by the Crown, and their lands invaded, in the early 1860s. Some 1.2 million acres of their land was subsequently confiscated, as punishment for their ‘rebellion’, a process known as raupatu. Would the Kirks have known about this? It’s hard to say. The story had certainly disappeared from the local newspapers by the 1890s (although Waikato-Tainui continued to fight for redress; Waikato-Tainui n.d.). As with Aorangi, there was a ship called Tainui that was frequently mentioned in the newspapers in the 1890s…

Or there’s another factor, and it’s relevant for Aorangi too. By the late nineteenth century, te reo Māori names for houses were becoming popular, frequently chosen for the way they sounded, rather than with any recognition of the meaning or cultural context of the word (Cowan 1900: 1, Petersen 2000: 57). This was part of a broader trend of Māori art, decorative details and carvings starting to be used in Pākehā houses (Petersen 2000: 57). In her discussion of this, Petersen situates this development within a growing nationalism on the part of New Zealand’s Pākehā population, coupled with a developing sense of national identity, and that, for some at least, the country’s Māori culture had a role to play in this. Furphy (2002: 59-60) goes a step further in his discussion of a similar trend for using Aboriginal words for house names in Australia, siting this within a process of indigenisation. This was a process by which colonial settlers sought to become ‘indigenous’ by assimilating and appropriating indigenous culture, thereby carving out a new identity for themselves that drew on that culture to firmly embed them in that new place, at the same time as they rode roughshod over the indigenous culture in question. There is an argument to be made that the Yaldwyns and Kirks were active participants in this process in New Zealand.

Furphy’s detailed examination of this trend notes that indigenous names were typically used without any knowledge of their cultural significance or context, but chosen simply because they sounded good – a conclusion that is striking in its similarity to James Cowan’s (1900: 1) observation that New Zealand’s home owners experienced “a genuine delight when they discover a smoothing-sounding and appropriate combination of liquid Māori words”. There is no record of how Māori felt about this trend, but the fact that, in te ao Māori, names are typically gifted, not simply taken, indicates how problematic choices like those made by the Yaldwyns and the Kirks were. Add to that the fact that ‘Tainui’ in particular is a name of immense significance, and affixing them to a house is likely to have been particularly offensive.

These house names, then, demonstrate something of the range of approaches people took to naming their home. There were the Francises, memorialising their lost daughter; the Fishers, looking with nostalgia to the place they – he – had left behind; and the Palmers, selecting a name that embodied rest, relaxation and retreat. And then there were the Yaldwyns and the Kirks, who chose te reo Māori words, possibly just because they sounded melodious... And possibly after being introduced to the word via ships, of all things. But there’s another element to this, too. The Fishers, in selecting an English name, essentially looked to the past and the place they had come from, reinforcing their cultural background to their neighbourhood and community. The Yaldwyns and the Kirks, however, for all the problems with their name selection, were looking to the future. Perhaps they even saw themselves as New Zealanders or, at least, closer to their colonial home than to the home they had left behind.

 Katharine Watson

*These are the dates the name is known to have been in use.

References

Ancestry, 2019. Rev. Thomas Richard Fisher. [online] Available at: https://www.ancestry.com.au/family-tree/person/tree/28849058/person/12514637379/facts?_phsrc=AxX295&_phstart=successSource [Accessed 25 January 2019].

BDM Online. Available at: https://www.bdmhistoricalrecords.dia.govt.nz/

CCL, 2021. Christchurch Street Names – A. Available at: https://my.christchurchcitylibraries.com/christchurch-place-names/

CCL, n.d. Frederick Thompson, 1805-1881. [online] Available at: https://christchurchcitylibraries.com/Heritage/People/T/ThompsonFrederick/

Cowan, James, 1900. Maori place names. New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, 1 June 1900, p.1.

Furphy, Sam, 2002. Aboriginal house names and settler Australian identity. Journal of Australian Studies 26(72): 59-68.

Garrioch, David, 1994. House names, shop signs and social organization in Western European cities, 1500-1900. Urban History 21(1): 20-48.

Lyttelton Times (Christchurch). Available online at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/

New Zealand Spectator and Cook’s Strait Guardian. Available online at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/

Petchey, Peter and Brosnahan, Sean, 2016. Finding meaning and identity in New Zealand buildings archaeology: the example of ‘Parihaka’ House, Dunedin. Journal of Pacific Archaeology 7(2): 26-42.

Petersen, Anna K. C., 2000. The European use of Maori art in New Zealand homes c.1890-1914. In: B. Brookes, ed. At Home in New Zealand: History, Houses, People. Wellington: Bridget Williams Books, 2000, pp.57-73.

Press. Available online at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/

St Michael’s Mount, 2023. St Michael’s Mount. [online] Available at: https://www.stmichaelsmount.co.uk/about-us [Accessed 19 October 2023].

Star (Christchurch). Available online at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/

The Argus. Available online at: https://trove.nla.gov.au/

Waikato-Tainui, n.d. Te Hiitori o Te Raupatu. [online] Available at: https://waikatotainui.com/about-us/history/ [Accessed 19 October 2023].

Wikipedia, 2023. Vedast. [online] Available at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vedast [Accessed 19 October 2023].

On the mysteries of doors

I know, I know: doors, on the face of it, are not the least bit mysterious. They’re quite solid and stable and kind of unassuming. I mean, they might feature in the odd drama – door slammed! – or serve as a tightly guarded boundary by a child – keep out! – but these are (hopefully) occasional roles. And for the most part, I’m guessing you don’t think too much about them – unless they start squeaking, of course… Before we get to the mysterious aspects of doors, let’s start by considering their function of a door. Which probably seems barely worthy of consideration, but bear with me.

A particularly fabulous late Victorian internal door. Image: F. Bradley.

At their most basic, doors provide access to a room. In so doing, they can also serve to keep heat in, or dust and dirt out. They can also keep noise and smells in (or out). Doors, then, are also a means of control – they help control the climate and environment of a room. They also control access: a closed door effectively means knock before entering, while an open door invites entry freely. Thus, they become part of a boundary, between spaces, or between people. In this way, doors can be used to control social interactions, essentially establishing boundaries between those in the room and those outside. In Victorian homes where servants were employed, such a mechanism could have been used to separate servants from family members and their activities.

If these were the function of a door, what of its appearance? Well, by far the most common internal door form in 19th century Christchurch was a four-panel door with a low lockrail (internal doors are my focus here today). In these doors, which you’re probably familiar with, the panels are set into bed mouldings. The position of the lockrail is important – this is where the handle and, perhaps more obviously, the lock were set, and a low lockrail was at about hand-height for most adults. But here’s the thing. The position of the lockrail changes in the early 20th century and becomes high – still perfectly reachable for an adult, but not so for a child. This has long intrigued me, because it’s the Victorian era that we think of as being that of children being seen and not heard. But a child could easily have opened a door in a Victorian era house. Not so much an Edwardian era one.

A typical Victorian era internal door, with four panels and a low lock rail. Image: K. Webb.

A typical Edwardian era internal door, also with four panels, but with a high lock rail. Image: K Webb.

Why, then, this change? I wish I knew. The simplest answer is fashion, but there is always a reason why fashions change – this is the whole point of material culture studies: nothing happens just because. There is a bigger shift that’s going on in New Zealand at around this time, with society becoming less formal. This sees a number of changes in houses, and the way space in them is used, but increasing the height of the door handle doesn’t fit with this (Leach 2000: 84-85). It may simply have been that doors needed to change, to look different, to mark those broader changes that were taking place.

But here’s another thing about those 19th century internal doors: they all had locks, presumably for extra security. As someone who’s not particularly good at locking even external house doors, this one bemuses me – and the crime rate in 19th century Christchurch was not that high. But the crime rate in the cities and countries Christchurch’s colonial settlers had left behind may have been, and so people may simply have been used to locks on internal doors as a standard thing. Edwardian internal doors also all had locks – in fact, I’m fairly certain locks on internal doors were a thing until at least World War II, but I don’t know exactly when they ceased to be the norm (nor when they first became common). The fact, though, that doors continued to be made with locks suggests that this was functionality that people wanted. I am curious, though, about when these locks stopped being the norm, and why that might have happened.

Which brings me to my final door conundrum: the position of them and the way they opened. It was by no means always the case, but doors were typically positioned in the middle of a wall. I appreciate that this doesn’t seem like a big deal, but if you live in a modern house, well, for starters, there are probably far fewer doors per room than there were in a Victorian house. But, more pertinent to the current discussion, in a modern house the door is typically at one end of a wall, and it opens back against the adjoining wall (in some cases, this was the only option, thanks to the layout of the house). Which makes sense, right? This way, the door doesn’t obscure the room and nor does it take up unnecessary space. But in 19th century houses, even when the door was at one end of the wall, it typically opened into the room, rather than swinging back against the adjoining wall. And in rooms where the door was positioned more centrally, it often opened in such a way that it obscured the bulk of the room as you entered (if you had to open the door when you entered). Why might this have been the case?

A standard villa, Bassett Street, Christchurch, c.1898. Notice how the doors into Rooms 2 & 8 are positioned centrally in the walls, and the way they open essentially obscures the room as you enter. Meanwhile, the doors into the other rooms are positioned at one end of the wall (which is unusual), but the doors do not swing back against the adjoining wall, but instead swung into the room. Image: P. Mitchell and K. Watson.

It’s hard to know. Was it a concern for doors swinging back against the adjoining wall and damaging the latter that led to the angle of opening? Did a door opening into a room, and obscuring part of the room as it was opened, provide more of a sense of drama, more of a slow reveal of the contents of that room (remembering that Victorians had A LOT of things on display)? Or did it help to preserve the privacy of those in the room, particularly in a house where there were servants (and there were concerns about separating families and their servants; Leach 2000: 80, Macdonald 2000: 42)? Was that the door, with its moulded door surround, was more of a feature within a room if it were centrally positioned, and thus became part of the room’s display, as it were?

See? Doors are maybe not quite so immediately knowable as you thought. The mysteries they pose are not huge ones, but resolving them would help us to better understand human behaviours in the past, including people’s attitudes towards their house and the use of space in it, towards security and towards their relationships with other people, particularly other people with whom they shared their house. Human behaviours shift in response to and in line with broader changes in society, to changes in economic systems, morals and belief systems, amongst other things. These behaviours are not just reflected in our material culture – such as houses – but are negotiated through it.

 Katharine Watson

References

Leach, H., 2000. The European house and garden in New Zealand: a case for parallel development. In: B. Brookes, ed. At Home in New Zealand: Houses, History, People. Wellington: Bridget Williams Books, pp.73-88.

Macdonald, C., 2000. Strangers at the hearth: the eclipse of domestic service in New Zealand homes c.1830s-1040s. In: B. Brookes, ed. At Home in New Zealand: Houses, History, People. Wellington: Bridget Williams Books, pp.41-56.

On windows

These days, in Aotearoa, we expect a house to have windows. While this has by no means always been the case across cultures or throughout time, it was the expectation of the European colonial settlers who arrived in Christchurch in the 19th century. Conveniently for a buildings archaeologist (or anyone else wanting to work out when a house was built), not only were windows ubiquitous, they’re also quite useful for helping you work when a house might have been built. Caveat, though: all the dating information that follows is specific to Christchurch. These dates might be the same or similar for other parts of Aotearoa, but I don’t know that for sure. For other places, they might at least provide a useful starting point, or a rough indication. Which leads me to another caveat: I’d never recommend relying on just windows to date a house – I think of dating a house as a bit like a process of triangulation, as it relies on a range of sources.

Images of houses in Lyttelton and Christchurch from the 1850s and 1860s show that houses had either casement or sash windows, and at times, it’s quite hard to tell which. It’s also hard to know which type was more common in these decades – in the sample of 101 houses I analysed for my PhD, three of the four houses built during this period had casement windows. But, when you start looking at newspapers from the period, advertisements that mention sash windows were nearly ten times more common than those that mentioned casement or French windows (as they were also known).

A casement window. Casement windows (also known as French windows) hinged on the side.

A four-light sash window, formed from two sashes, one above the other, that slide up to open. Note the small horns or lugs at the base of the upper sash (& read on to find out more about them!).

By the 1870s, though, sash windows were the most common type of window used in Christchurch houses. In fact, they were pretty much the only type used in new builds, if the results of my analysis can be relied on (and I like to think they can). They would remain as such until the early years of the 20th century. Which brings me to my first dating tip.

Dating tip #1: if your house has (original) casement windows, it was built in the 1850s/1860s, or in the early 20th century – they come into vogue again c.1910.

Sash windows were available right from the outset of the colonial settlement of Lyttelton and Christchurch. More than that, sash windows were being made here from the 1850s. It’s perhaps more accurate to say that they were being assembled here from that time. As well as people advertising that they were making sash windows, there were advertisements in the paper for window glass (and glass putty), and people may have been making the frames here from scratch, or may have imported the frames/frame components and then added the glass. Why this would be, I’m not sure, but it may have reflected the potential for windows to break when shipped here.

R. C. Bealby, covering all the bases by selling glass, putty and sash windows in 1850s Lyttelton. Image: Lyttelton Times 22/2/1851: 1.

In the period between 1850 and 1900, sash windows changed in a couple of key ways. Firstly, there was the number of panes. The earliest sash windows had numerous small panes (or ‘lights’). I’m not sure at what point the four-light sash window (the sash window shown above is a four-light window, having two lights in each sash) becomes most common, as there weren’t enough pre-1880 houses in my sample to draw any firm conclusions about this. But I can tell you that standard-sized two-light sash windows begin to appear in the late 1870s (there’s a smaller type around earlier on), and were the predominant type by the early 1880s.

A two-light sash window, with just a single pane of glass in each sash. Unlike the four-light sash shown above, there are no horns on the upper sash in this example.

Dating tip #2: If your house has four-light sash windows, it was probably built before c.1885. If it has two-light sash windows, it could have been built any time from c.1875 and was almost certainly built after c.1885.

The other change in sash windows occurred at around the same time (although not always on the same windows). This was the appearance of horns (or lugs) on the upper sash. Most sources suggest that these horns fulfilled a structural purpose: as the glass panes in sash windows increased in size (which happened as the number of panes decreased), horns were added to the upper sash to improve the strength of the corner joint and better support the weight of the glass (Sash Window Restorations, 2023). Like two-light sash windows, sashes with horns first appeared in Christchurch in the late 1870s, but were not common until the early 1880s. Windows without horns did persist, however.

Dating tip #3: well, it’s much the same as #2 – if your house has sash windows without horns, it was probably built before c.1885. If it has windows with horns, it could have been built any time from c.1875 and was almost certainly built after c.1885.

Of course the adoption of technology never quite works in a nice, orderly chronological fashion (and, let’s face it, if it did, it would be so much less interesting – although easier): you will find sash windows with two-lights and no horns, and others with four-lights and horns (as in the examples shown here). You’ll also find houses from the 1890s with four-light windows, and houses from the 1860s with two-light sash windows (but these tended to be a narrower form, not the dimensions that were common by the late 19th century). Old forms persisted, building elements were reused, fashion worked in peculiar ways and there were always early adopters.

This house was built by Harriet and John Snell in c.1899, but had two-light sash windows (with horns). John was a dealer and in 1897 he was advertising the sale of building materials from the recently demolished Central Hotel, including sash windows (Star (Christchurch) 9/9/1897: 3, 17/11/1897: 3). The Central Hotel was extant by at least 1863 and would not have had two-light sash windows (Lyttelton Times 29/7/1863: 3, 20/4/1865: 6). It is possible that the sash windows in the house at 558 New Brighton Road came from that hotel. Image: K. Webb.

But wait, there’s more! Yes, there’s another way that windows can help us date when a house was built: the shape of the bay window. Think of bay windows as having three main forms: splayed, rectangular and octagonal. Photographs indicate that rectangular bay windows were not unusual in the 1850s and 1860s, particularly on houses built in the Gothic style (which often had the aforementioned narrow sash windows). In the 1860s and 70s, though, the splayed bay was the predominant type, with the rectangular bay appearing again in the early 1880s, and quickly becoming the most common form. In Christchurch, it seems as though it wasn’t until the late 1890s that the octagonal form was used (although I know this form was introduced earlier in the 19th century elsewhere in New Zealand).

Plan view of a splayed bay window.

Plan view of an octagonal bay window.

Plan view of a rectangular bay window.

Dating tip #4: Splayed bay windows? Probably built in 1860s or 1870s. Rectangular? Probably built in the 1880s or 1890s (but perhaps the 1850s or 1860s, although these are of a somewhat different shape than the later ones). Octagonal? Late 19th or early 20th century.

Before I finish, I want to squeeze in a couple more window titbits. No one, I am sure, will be surprised to learn that, the more windows a house had, the wealthier the occupant is likely to have been. There’s a certain irony to this because, also, the more windows, the colder the house no doubt was. Clearly, if you were wealthier, you probably had more fireplaces, but there were only so many you could have, and those 19th century fireplaces only put out a certain amount of heat – and that wasn’t much, regardless of how wealthy you were. Windows also came in varying sizes, at varying prices. But there’s another way that wealth came into play. Most rooms only had one set of windows. Of course, it was only possible for rooms on the corner of a house to have more than one set of windows, but it was only in the homes of the wealthy that this was likely to have been the case. The majority of corner rooms just had the one set.

The cost of sash windows in New Zealand, 1883. Source: Leys 1883: 724, 728, 730.

Windows, then, like halls, are one of the components of a house that can tell you more about a house than you might have first thought. They’re perhaps a little more ‘practical’ than halls in that regard, being able to help us work out when a house was built – although they also have insights to offer in terms of wealth and class. Stay tuned for a future post on doors…

Katharine Watson

References

Leys, T. W. Brett’s Colonists’ Guide and Cyclopedia of Useful Knowledge: Being a Compendium of Information by Practical Colonists. Auckland: H. Brett, 1883.

Lyttelton Times. Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

Sash Window Restorations, 2023. “History of the Sash Window: Part 3.” Sash Window Restorations. Accessed 7 September 2023. Available at: https://sashwindowrestorations.co.uk/history-of-the-sash-window-part-3/

Star (Christchurch). Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

Underground Overground blog: The Christchurch Public Library

Libraries are wonderful institutions, providing so much more than books to read and consult (although that’s pretty important!) and I, personally, would be lost without our local Christchurch public libraries. This post from Underground Overground explores the history and architecture of the Christchurch Public Library, from its beginnings as the Christchurch Mechanics’ Institute, until its eventual demolition following the earthquakes.

If you’d like to learn a bit more about the library complex, check out the following blog posts about the archaeology and architecture of the librarian’s house, which stood immediately to the north of the old library until it, too, was demolished following the earthquakes.