On women and houses

When I started doing my doctoral research, one of the things I wanted to know was whether or not the houses women built were different from those men built. A naïve question, it turned out. The fundamental flaw was, in the absence of detailed archival records, how do you know if a woman built the house? (And by ‘built’ I mean, commissioned the construction of the house and had significant input into the design, form, layout and appearance of the house.) I analysed 101 houses from 19th century Christchurch for my thesis, and just two of them were built by single people. The remainder were built by people who were married and my assumption throughout was that such houses were built by the couple, rather than by just one of them. It’s often assumed that the person who owned the land (and took out the mortgage) built the house, as opposed to seeing this as a joint project by a married couple. This is an approach shaped by the landownership factor and also by the reality that men tended to be the financial provider in the 19th century Anglo world. There’s an assumption that extends from here to chief decision maker, although there’s no real justification for this.

Plenty has been written about women and houses in the 19th century, most of it in the context of Victorian society in England or the United States. It tends to revolve around the ideal promoted by advice books of the day that the house should be a private, domestic space, created and curated by women to provide men with respite from the evils of the (public, working) world, and in which to raise good moral, Christian children. It’s an ideal that’s often used to suggest that certain spaces within a house were feminine – the drawing room – and others masculine – the dining room – and also that men were responsible for the construction of the house, and women for its interior decoration (it’s easy to see where more recent stereotypes about the gender of architects and interior decorators have their origins). For various reasons (which I don’t have the time, space or inclination to go into today), it’s not an ideal that I think is particularly relevant to the analysis of houses in colonial settler New Zealand (with thanks to my thesis supervisors for helping me get to this point!).

This house was built on land owned by Rose Anna King . Regrettably, I’ve not been a to find out a thing about Rose (I don’t even know if that turret was original), except that she had no children. Image: Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

What, then, can houses tell us about the lives of women in colonial settler society in New Zealand? Quite a lot, I think, but today I want to focus on just one response to that question: they make women more visible, particularly when the construction of the house is framed within the context of a series of decisions made by a couple, as opposed to just the landowner. This point notwithstanding, for the sake of argument (and brevity), today I’m going to focus on some of the 11 houses from my thesis that were built on land owned by women, because this is a situation that particularly foregrounds women. In making these individual women visible, we can learn about women’s experiences more broadly.

These houses highlight that, while it was not common for women to buy or own property in 19th century Christchurch, it wasn’t unusual either. Where the women came by the money to fund these purchases is not clear, and it’s not clear if it was their own money or their husband’s money that was used (women sometimes came into marriages with endowments from their families, although this was typically the preserve of the wealthy). Only one of the women came from an obviously wealthy backgrounds (more on this below) and it’s possible that, in some instances at least, the property was in the woman’s name because of her husband’s financial troubles.

Margaret Stinnear (possibly née Stewart) purchased this land parcel and the adjoining one in 1893 and built two identical rental houses on them (LINZ 1893). Two years previously, her husband’s business had been the subject of a mortgagee sale and, on these grounds, it’s tempting to suggest that his financial woes led to this situation (Lyttelton Times 13/6/1891: 8). However, Margaret would go on to own a number of properties and I suspect it was her financial acumen that kept the family afloat, even financing two return trips to England (Lyttelton Times 3/10/1903: 9, Press 6/10/1908: 12, 24/2/1912: 14). Her estate was worth £2500 at her death in 1911. Another intriguing detail of Margaret’s life is that her only child, a daughter, was adopted (Stinnear 1911). Image: C. Staniforth, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

These women were all either working or middle class. Three were the daughters of farmers. Others were daughters of a carter, a miner, a stone mason and a stone quarrier, all working class occupations. Two of the women are known to have worked before they came to New Zealand. The fabulously named Matilda Sneesby (née Baker) was a stillroom maid in Marylebone, London, while Fanny Jane Langford (née Waite) worked as a nail maker even after her marriage (KenLederer 2025, Walandheather 2025). As noted above, none of the women are likely to have had money from their family – with one exception (see the picture below). Another would go on to be quite socially prominent, counting premiers and the like amongst her circle (Timaru Herald 19/12/1908: 2). But, for the majority of these women, their class background, and the fact that they were able to buy property in Christchurch, is a testament to the much greater opportunities available to working (and even middle) class families in New Zealand than in the British Isles.

Prudence McClurg (née Bassett) almost certainly used family money to buy the land this house was built on. She certainly bought it from one uncle and subsequently mortgaged it to another (LINZ 1894, 1897). She was part of a complex family network of Irish immigrants, a number of whom were quite commercially successful and, between them, owned quite a bit of property. Image: P. Mitchell, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

And what of the houses these women built? Well, they were mostly quite modest, with just one bay villa amongst them. The rest were mostly standard villas, with two being standard cottages, indicating a low level of capital. Similarly, most of them had a villa layout, although again there were two with a cottage layout. In fact, most were typical Christchurch houses – which may go some way towards answering my original question? And, perhaps also testify to the predominance of the plain, flat-fronted, symmetrical standard villa in Christchurch, and everything that was embodied in that. The houses ranged in size from five to 10 rooms, and the women had varying numbers of children. Two of the women had no children, a situation my research indicates would have been unusual, and this on its own makes these women stand out (perhaps it is more than coincidence that these are the two women about whom I have the least information, but perhaps not). Maria Hardie, on the other hand, had seven children (two of whom did not survive infancy). Her family would have lived in particularly cramped conditions in their tiny cottage. Under these circumstances, it’s highly unlikely Maria’s family enjoyed the use of a parlour. Most of the families would have lived in more spacious circumstances, with some children no doubt sharing rooms, but still with a parlour, giving them a reasonable amount of living space. Which brings me to one other thing these women had in common: none of them advertised for servants. Of course, this doesn’t mean they didn’t have servants, and the size of the houses the Bassetts and Sneesbys lived in indicates that the servants would have been a possibility for them.

Scroll through the slideshow below to learn more about the women, their houses and their lives. For each of the women, I tried to find at least one factoid that was unrelated to their parents, husband or children, but for a handful this proved just impossible, highlighting how small a trace they left in the historical record.

While these women left little trace in the historical record, in building, they left a physical mark on the city, contributing to its appearance and the development of Christchurch’s own particular style of domestic architecture. In this, we can also recognise that they shared a desire to improve their situation – and those of their families – and the means to act on that desire. While improvement is a motivator for many migrants, not all in the 19th century were fortunate enough to be able to afford to build. I’ve discussed renting in 19th century Christchurch previously, and last week’s post touched on boarding, and there were certainly homeless people in the city These were much more financially precarious positions than these women enjoyed (with the exception of Maria Hardie – follow this link to the blog I wrote about her family to learn more about that). These women, then, draw attention to some of the experiences of women who came to Christchurch in the 19th century. Their lives are by no means representative of a broad cross-section of women, but they show how the stereotypes of women’s lives in the 19th century can be challenged by looking more closely at their individual lives and the houses they built.

Katharine Watson

References

KenLederer, 2025. Fanny Jane Waite. [online] Available at: https://www.ancestry.com.au/family-tree/person/tree/111401256/person/280097991423/facts

LINZ, 1893. Certificate of title 156/52, Canterbury. Landonline.

LINZ, 1894. Certificate of title 160/219, Canterbury. Landonline.

LINZ, 1897. Certificate of title 173/22, Canterbury. Landonline.

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

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

Stinnear, Margaret Stewart, 1911. Probate. [online] Available at: https://www.familysearch.org/en/search/collection/1865481

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

Walandheather, 2025. Matilda Baker. Available at: https://www.ancestry.com/family-tree/person/tree/20142703/person/252127956595/facts

On sitting rooms and parlours and drawing rooms

Where it all started: an 1884 advertisement for a house for a sale that described the house as having both a drawing room and a sitting room. Image: Press 22/11/1884: 5.

There are some fairly standard tropes about drawing rooms and parlours in the Victorian world: they were the best room in the house, reserved for entertaining visitors, rarely entered by family and stuffed full of things, with drawing rooms in posh houses and parlours for everyone else. These tropes are all true to varying degrees. But if that’s drawing rooms and parlours, where on earth do sitting rooms fit in the mix? Until coming across an 1880s house sale notice, I didn’t even know they were a thing in the 19th century (I’d assumed a 20th century date for the sitting room), but the Oxford English Dictionary tells me that the term has been around since 1763 (OED n.d.). So, where did they fit into the picture?

First, a fun and somewhat random fact: house sale/rental notices in Christchurch/Lyttelton mention sitting rooms years before parlours or drawing rooms are mentioned. June 1851 is the first year a sitting room is mentioned in a house sale/rental advertisement in Christchurch newspapers (Lyttelton Times 14/6/1851: 8). It’s 1855 for a drawing room and 1857 for a parlour (Lyttelton Times 14/11/1855: 3, 2/5/1857: 3). I’ve no idea why this would be the case, but could it be that houses with parlours/drawing rooms changed hands in other ways, through word of mouth, rather than requiring a newspaper advertisement – because Christchurch was a small town and the sorts of people who could afford a house with a parlour or drawing room all knew each other? It’s pretty hard to tell if this was the case from the available information, but my research indicates that houses with a parlour or drawing room were almost certainly ‘better’ than houses with a sitting room.

You see, it turns out sitting rooms were associated with boarding. That is, the practice of renting a room (or rooms) to live in, typically because you weren’t in a position to rent an entire house or flat. A boarder might live in a private family’s house (thus providing extra income for that family), or they might live in a larger boarding house establishment, such as the Cambridge Boarding House or Green’s Boarding House (Lyttelton Times 12/7/1879: 8, 10/1/1885: 8). Boarders were typically single men, but I also came across instances of married couples and a family with two young children seeking boarding situations (Lyttelton Times 17/6/1881: 1, 30/10/1897: 1). The latter, in particular, seemed to speak to a precarious (and unfortunate) financial position. Perhaps the most intriguing example of a boarder, though, was a businesswoman with a young daughter, and with a “daily maid” who looked after the daughter (Press 17/11/1897: 1).

This 1897 advertisement placed by a woman seeking a boarding situation for herself and her young daughter hints at the complexities and realities of being a single working mother in Christchurch in the late 19th century. Image: Press 17/11/1897: 1.

While in many instances, I’m sure it was possible for a boarder just to rent a bedroom (no doubt a cheaper option), the examples I came across were necessarily where there was also a sitting room available. By no means were all the sitting rooms mentioned associated with boarding situations, and parlours were mentioned in some boarding advertisements, but this was less common (Press 4/11/1872: 1). However, I didn’t come across a single instance of a drawing room being offered to potential boarders, or being sought by a boarder. That is, boarders did not have drawing rooms.

Outside of boarding situations, houses that were listed as having sitting rooms or parlours were indistinguishable (in the advertisements, at least). In addition to a sitting room or parlour, these houses typically had bedrooms and a kitchen. Occasionally, a dining room or bathroom might be mentioned, but these weren’t common. Houses with drawing rooms, however, were quite different. If you had a drawing room, it was almost completely certain that you also had a dining room. Chances are you may also have had an entrance hall, a morning or breakfast room, a dressing room, a servants’ room, a library, a study and/or a conservatory. That is, unsurprisingly, houses with drawing rooms were big houses, with lots of rooms and much greater separation of space by function than houses with just a sitting room or parlour.

Another thing. Houses with drawing rooms might also have a sitting room. Or two. The former wasn’t common, but it was also by no means unusual. And it was more common than having a drawing room and a parlour, or a parlour and sitting room (which was definitely unusual). In these cases, with a drawing room and a sitting room, I suspect that the sitting room was used as an informal room, for the family, and the drawing room was kept for entertaining guests.

The 1881 sale notice for Middleton, a house with a parlour and not one, but two, sitting rooms. Image: Lyttelton Times 27/4/1881: 8.

There were some other notable features about houses with drawing rooms. Unlike sale advertisements for houses with sitting rooms or parlours, when houses with drawing rooms were sold, the name of the owner or occupant was usually mentioned, indicating that that person’s identity was an important part of the marketing strategy – and confirming the role of social status in the housing market. If that person was male, they were usually an “Esq.” (i.e. esquire, a somewhat ambiguous and loosely applied marker of social status). Further, if the occupants of such houses disposed of their household furniture at the time of the sale (due to their death, departure from Christchurch or the more intriguing, so-and-so is “giving up housekeeping” e.g. Press 24/9/1892: 10), fulsome lists of the items for sale were published in the newspaper. This was not the case for houses with either sitting rooms or parlours, which might have a more generic advertisement that mentioned that the household furniture was for sale, but without going into specific details. 

The array of furniture, etc, from the drawing room that H. P. Lance sold when he sold Ilam House in 1864. Note, in particular, the number and types of chairs. Image: Press 23/4/1864: 5.

These household inventories are, of course, fascinating. They reveal that drawing rooms contained a plethora of different chairs and tables, along with things like a whatnot, a Canterbury and/or a chiffonier, a pier glass and, frequently, some type of clock and a musical instrument (usually a piano). They always had a fender and fire irons (i.e. the room had a fireplace), a carpet and hearthrug and the curtains and associated fittings (poles, etc) were always sold. Sometimes there were bookcases and books listed, and pictures of different types were usually mentioned, along with ornaments. So, yes, a room stuffed full of things.

What’s interesting in all of this is that you (or the real estate agent) could presumably choose how to name the rooms listed in the advertisement for the sale of your house, and yet there are very clear differences in how the different names were used, and those differences are linked to class/social status. While I’m sure there were examples of sale notices embellishing the description of the house, the patterns I observed indicate that this was rare and that most people followed the norm. Which in turn suggests that most people were accepting of these class/social status differences, whether because they simply didn’t care about them or because they didn’t see them as worth fighting against or, some would no doubt argue, because people were so strongly shackled by the class system and kept in their place by it. Class boundaries in New Zealand in the 19th century were far more permeable than in England at the same time, however, and thus this last seems both unlikely and lacking in nuance (although it may well have been true for some colonial settlers). Thus, what started as a simple exploration of sitting rooms in Victorian Christchurch has provided insight into one of the myriad and subtle ways in which class and social status shaped people’s lives in that era, as well as demonstrating just how pervasive class norms were. Really, I should have known when I started looking at things like drawing rooms and parlours that class would come into it!

 Katharine Watson

References

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

Oxford English Dictionary, n.d. “sitting room (n.), sense 1.a,” July 2023, https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/6617967976.

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

Banner image: [The drawing room at Elmwood, Christchurch]. Ranfurly family: Collection. Ref: PA1-f-195-48. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/22675867

A story about many things

Allow me to introduce you to Henrietta Madoline Yaldwyn (née Yeend). It’s 1883 and Henrietta and her husband, William, and their four children have just moved to Christchurch (BDM Online n.d., Star (Christchurch) 3/5/1883: 3). This was but the latest in a succession of moves for Henrietta. She was born in Melbourne (to English parents) and grew up between that city and Hobart (McCallum 2025). By 1863, the Yeend family, including Henrietta, was living in Dunedin, and it was here that she met William Butler Yaldwyn (Otago Daily Times 3/9/1863: 7). Henrietta and William married in 1868 (McCallum 2025). A few years later they spent some time in England (where William was born), before returning to New Zealand, living first in Dunedin and then in the lower North Island (Evening Star 24/2/1875: 3, Otago Daily Times 25/3/1871: 1, Star (Christchurch) 3/5/1883: 3). Regrettably, William, an accountant, went bankrupt in 1878 – a not uncommon occurrence for 19th century colonial settlers (Evening Post 7/3/1878: 3). 

After William had a stint in government employment in the lower North Island, the family found their way to Christchurch (Star (Christchurch) 3/5/1883: 3). By 1884, Henrietta and William had taken up residence in a rather impressive-looking newly built house on a quarter-acre section in Hereford Street east (Lyttelton Times 3/5/1884: 7). They rented this property from George Fletcher, a tailor (LINZ 1878). By now, the eldest of the children was 15, with the youngest – and only daughter – being three years old (BDM Online n.d.). William set himself up as an accountant in their new city. And Henrietta? Well, she establishes a school for “young ladies”, to be known as ‘Aorangi’ (Lyttelton Times 3/5/1884: 7). Why Aorangi? To be honest, your guess is as good as mine. Actually, not quite. I was intrigued by this and so did some research on colonial setters’ use of Māori words for house names. You can read all about it here.

The first advertisements for Aorangi, Henrietta’s school. Note the reference to being assisted by “competent teachers”. Image: Lyttelton Times 3/5/1884: 7.

Let me tell you a little bit about the house, because it was a little bit unusual. You see, any passerby on Hereford Street would have thought it was two-storeyed. And part of it was. Crucially, though, not all of it. In fact, the two-storeyed part was only one room deep, whereas the house itself was three rooms deep. So, like any number of 19th century villas, this house was built to look bigger than it was – to create an impression of wealth and status that didn’t actually exist. More than that, two-storeyed houses were by their very nature – their scale, their bulk – more imposing than their single-storeyed equivalents. Living in a two-storeyed house, particularly a large fully detached one, was a sign of wealth and status. The house was clad in rusticated weatherboards and had wooden quoins on the corners. Quoins were often used to give the impression that a building was stone, as opposed to wooden, but in the case of many domestic buildings, it would have been perfectly obvious that the house was wooden and no deceiving even the most casual of observers. As such, I think of these as little more than decorative. The other unusual feature of the house was the French doors on the ground floor, which opened from the veranda into the two front rooms. French doors were not a common feature of houses in 19th century Christchurch, being more typically associated with an earlier era of architecture.

Aorangi, in 2013. Image: L. Tremlett, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

 The house had 11 rooms (including two halls). Based on my understanding of life in 19th century houses in Christchurch, and Henrietta and William’s occupational status, I think that one of the front rooms would have been the parlour (or drawing room), and the other was probably used as the school room, thus minimising the movement of students through the house. The other rooms on the ground floor would have been a dining room, kitchen and scullery. On the first floor were three bedrooms and what was probably a linen closet.

The east elevation of Aorangi, showing the two-storey and one-storey components. Image: L. Tremlett and K. Watson, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

 It was by no means unusual for women to run schools in 19th century New Zealand. In fact, it was one of the more widely ‘accepted’ professions for women, particularly if that school was for young women (Bishop 2019: 71, 75). The theory went that teaching drew on all those ‘nurturing’ attributes women were supposed to have, and was really just an extension of their roles as mothers. More importantly, it was a relatively accessible profession. No training was required and, if the school was in the house one was already living in, little money was required to establish the school (Pollock 2012). I’ve not been able to find any evidence that Henrietta had run a school – or worked as a governess or teacher – prior to establishing Aorangi, but that’s not to say that she didn’t.

 Little information is available about Aorangi the school. The advertisement about ‘young ladies’ indicates it catered to girls in their teens, as opposed to younger girls. As to the subjects taught, they are likely to have been what Catherine Bishop describes as “the requisite feminine accomplishments”, such as drawing, painting, music, dancing, sewing and/or embroidery (Bishop 2019: 75, 88). French may also have been an option, but science is unlikely to have been taught, although there may have been some basic mathematics (Bishop 2019: 87).

 Henrietta only ran the school until c.1885/86, when the family appear to have continued their somewhat peripatetic existence (I think they went to Australia at this point). But her school continued without her. It was taken over by “The Misses Buchanan” (Lyttelton Times 23/1/1886: 7). The Misses Buchanan, who ran the school as a boarding school for a time, are frustratingly elusive. Jessie Henrietta Buchanan arrived in New Zealand in c.1851 and was involved with the school for longer than the other ‘Misses’, one of whom disappears from view in the early 1900s (Elizabeth Marion) and the other marries at around the same time (Gertrude E.). As best I can tell, Elizabeth Marion and Gertrude were Jessie’s nieces. Elizabeth, their mother, also lived at the house. Elizabeth was a widow when she arrived in New Zealand in c.1878 and is described as a ‘lady’ in the electoral rolls, neatly distinguishing her from her working female relatives, who also presumably supported her financially. So, too, William L. Buchanan, possibly Elizabeth’s son. Jessie ran the school until at least 1916, by which time it focused solely on dancing (Press 29/6/1916: 11). Of note is that it’s always Jessie who’s listed as the main resident of the house in the street directories, never William, which is highly unusual – if there was a man in the house, he was typically the resident listed.

The first advertisement the Misses Buchanan placed for Aorangi. Image: Lyttelton Times 23/1/1886: 7.

 At face value, this is just a story of a house and the women who lived there in the 19th century. But it encapsulates so much more than that: how women could earn a living in 19th century Christchurch; how houses could deceive – or, at least, be used to enhance one’s story; how houses could be used to generate an income; the peripatetic lives of some colonial settlers (side note, my research to date indicates that this was not the norm – people mostly came and stayed); the role and importance of class, social status and gender; and the ways in which family ties could shape immigration, opportunities and life choices. Which, to my mind, just goes to prove the importance of ‘stories’, and of their power to help us understand the past.

Katharine Watson

References

BDM Online, n.d. Available at: https://www.bdmhistoricalrecords.dia.govt.nz/home

Bishop, Catherine, 2019. Women Mean Business: Colonial Businesswomen in New Zealand. Otago University Press, Dunedin.

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

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

LINZ, 1878. Certificate of title 33/144, Canterbury. Landonline.

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

McCallum, D., 2025. Henrietta Madoline Yeend. Ancestry. [online] Available at: https://www.ancestry.com.au/family-tree/person/tree/37131698/person/360146005877/facts

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

Pollock, Kerryn, 2012. Tertiary education – colleges of education before 1990. Te Ara – The Encyclopedia of New Zealand. [online] Available at: https://teara.govt.nz/en/tertiary-education/page-3 [Accessed 30 January 2025].

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

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

On the villa: idylls and ideals

So, why do we in Aotearoa call a villa a villa? What even is a villa? The former is a question that completely flummoxed me when someone asked it of me a few years ago. My response was, “because we do”. Which is a terrible answer for any question. But, here, today, I can tell you why and – generously… – I’m going to share this with you. I should say that this is a very once-over-lightly – many people have written whole (fascinating, I might add) books on the history of the villa. This blog post is but a short summary and, thus, equally short on nuance. There’s nothing wrong in it (hopefully!) but I have less than 1000 words (in theory) and much has been left out.

The villa: important enough to write a whole book about, but do you know why it’s called a villa?

Before we really get into things, I’d like to share James Ackerman’s excellent observation about villas with you (NB: not written in plain language, please don’t give up on the post at this point!): a villa “is a myth or fantasy through which over the course of millennia persons whose position of privilege is rooted in urban commerce and industry have been able to expropriate rural land, often requiring, for the realization of the myth, the care of a laboring class or slaves” (Ackerman 1990: 10). Not a man to hide his politics, Ackerman.

A classic Christchurch villa, albeit rather small and plain - and somewhat rundown. Image: L. Tremlett, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

It all starts with the Romans (something my high school classics teacher was fond of reminding us). The ancient Greeks might have been involved too, but I’m going to focus on the Romans. Wealthy Roman city dwellers, often political figures or at least public ones, developed the villa concept as a retreat from the stresses and strains of city life. More particularly, the stresses and strains attendant upon their lives in the city: the petitioners, the demands on their time, the speeches they needed to give, the plays they needed to write, etc, etc. All of which left them no time to think. And by ‘think’ here, I mean engage in deep contemplation about important matters, as opposed to the general day-to-day thinking about, say, what’s for dinner… (always a pressing concern, I find). Thus, they needed to escape, to have some peace and quiet, and so it was to their rural estates, known as villas, that they decamped. They didn’t just do serious thinking here, they enjoyed the healthier air, nature itself, a slower pace of life, and the opportunities for recreation, be that exercise, fishing, visits from friends or creative pursuits (Ackerman 1990: 35-36).

A slightly more decorative and larger villa, but still a classic Christchurch form - although the porch is a bit unusual. Image: F. Bradley, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

There was a major flourishing of the villa in the late medieval period (who knew?), and it is this period that the aforementioned Ackerman dates the association between the villa and the bourgeois, going so far as to describe the villa as a “bourgeois concept” (Ackerman 1990: 10, 63). This was when the good burghers of Europe began to develop a taste for villa life, much as envisaged by the Romans (that is, the house at the centre of an estate to which city dwellers could retreat to escape the city – in fact, ‘villa’ at this point in time often referred to the estate as a whole, not just the house). It stood in contrast to the homes of the feudal overlords, who typically lived in castles (in the countryside), which, while literal places of retreat during times of war, were by no means the places of figurative retreat that the Romans had built (Ackerman 1990: 63).

A very cute little bay villa, sans veranda. Image: M. Hennessey, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

From here, the villa spreads to England during the Enlightenment (obviously there’s a bit of a time lag, but see earlier comments re word count). In this period and location it gets caught up in ideas about property ownership, privacy, identity and labour (Archer 2005: 1). It continues to embody those same ideals as the Romans and the burghers associated with their villas: a house in the country, with land, to which busy and wealthy city dwellers could retreat (supported by the aforementioned labouring class). But, there is a new development: the villa begins to be built in suburbs, by middle class people, becoming what John Archer has described as the “bourgeois compact villa”, noting also that the suburb was a particular bourgeois location (Archer 2005: 45-52, McKellar 2011: 50-51). As a consequence – as the size of the land parcel these villas stood on reduced and the occupation of the occupiers changed – the villa comes to be more specifically about rest and recreation, and its economic role declines (Archer 2005: 46). These changes reflect the increasing wealth of the English middle class, the growing industrialisation of England and improving transport networks (Ackerman 1990: 17, McKellar 2011: 51). All of this was bundled up with a sort of moral panic on behalf of the English middle classes, as cities were increasingly seen as dirty, disease-ridden and poverty-stricken places that were not suitable to live in, particularly if you were raising a family (Archer  2005: 147). To this, a stand-alone (or, at a pinch, a semi-detached) house in the suburbs was the ideal solution, and enabled the separation of work and home (another key middle class ideal that was connected to all of this).

A much larger, but quite plain, bay villa. Image: M. Hennessey, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

As the size and wealth of the English middle classes grew, so too did the suburban villa proliferate. Its spread was aided by the books of people like J. C. Loudon, whose work popularised the bourgeois compact villa and provided numerous examples of the different types of villa that could be built. On the back of this, the growing number of architectural pattern books further spread and popularised the ideal, also making it more accessible to a wider range of people. By the time English colonial settlers began arriving in New Zealand in the early nineteenth century, the concept of the – bourgeois – villa was firmly entrenched in their cultural baggage, as it were. The first reference to a villa in a New Zealand newspaper dates to 1840 – in this case, to a “villa allotment” i.e. a section of land on which it would be suitable to build a villa (New Zealand Gazette and Wellington Spectator 6/6/1840: 4).

And that, folks, in just a little bit more than 1000 words, is how we came to have the villa in Aotearoa. It’s not just a house type, it’s an ideal: of peace and quiet and rest and recreation, a set of circumstances best achieved on a small parcel of land (big enough for a garden, and to separate you from your neighbours), in a standalone house, not in the central city, and it’s not a place of work. For men, at least. These ideals morphed and changed a bit here in New Zealand, but that’s a topic for another day. Before I sign off, though, I’d like to ask you to pause and think about these ideals might today relate to, say, a holiday house, or how they might have fed into the growth of the lifestyle block.

Katharine Watson

References

Ackerman, James S., 1990. The Villa: Form and Ideology of Country Houses. Princeton University Press, Princeton.

Archer, John, 2005. Architecture and Suburbia: From English Villa to American Dream House, 1690-2000. University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis.

McKellar, Elizabeth, 2011. “The villa. Ideal type or vernacular variant?”. In Peter Guillery (ed.), Built from Below:  British Architecture and the Vernacular. Routledge, London. Pp. 49-72.

New Zealand Gazette and Wellington Spectator. Available at: www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz.

Down the rabbit hole: on sewing machines, women, clothing and Ballantynes

It all started with a sewing machine. More specifically, a sewing machine manufactured for and sold by Christchurch institution, Ballantynes, in the early years of the 20th century and found during archaeological work in Woolston. It seemed like it would make a nice blog post, particularly given that it recently featured in the 170th exhibition at Ballantynes. I figured I would write about the woman who owned the sewing machine and the connection between sewing and women in the late 19th century, with maybe a diversion into dressmakers. Before I knew it, though, I was pouring over advertisements from Ballantynes in 19th century newspaper, trying to work out how the firm conducted the women’s clothing component of its business, wondering how I got there…

Let’s start with the sewing machine we found. It’s the rusty pieces of a classic treadle sewing machine, complete with the remains of the word “Ballantynes”. Newspaper advertisements tell us that Ballantynes began selling sewing machines in 1904 (Lyttelton Times 8/9/1904: 3). As luck would have it, the section where the sewing machine was found was occupied by the same family from c.1900 until at least 1922 (H. Wise & Co. 1900: 189, NZER (Lyttelton) 1922: 11). Side note: the section was also home to a woolscour, run by the same family who lived there (H. Wise & Co. 1900: 189). This family was Emily and Joshua Beaumont and, based on all the gender norms of the day, I’m assuming the sewing machine belonged to Emily – or one of her daughters.

The first advertisement found for Ballantynes selling a sewing machine. Image: Lyttelton Times 8/9/1904: 3.

Women of all ages and classes were expected to be able to sew in 19th century England, and this cultural expectation was part of the colonial baggage that these settlers brought with them. For some women, this was an economic necessity; for others, it was a genteel and suitable leisure pursuit. Dressmaking was also one of the most common sources of income for women in 19th century New Zealand. Not only was it a socially acceptable form of work, it was also one that women could do at home, whilst carrying out other domestic duties, including childcare. Dressmakers, though, did not necessarily work from home. Some worked in other women’s homes, some had separate premises, some worked for or with tailors (an exclusively male occupation at the time) and some worked in department stores, such as J. Ballantyne & Co (Malthus 1992: 76-77).

Ballantyne & Company Ltd building, Christchurch. Image: Anon, c.1920s.

Imported fabrics and clothes for sale, J. Ballantyne & Co. Image: Lyttelton Times 30/4/1873: 3.

Jane Malthus outlines the broader implications of the increasing mechanisation of sewing – in the form of the sewing machine – for the fashion industry. It’s not surprising when you think about it, but, essentially, the sewing machine enabled fast fashion. Of course, it wasn’t just the sewing machine. It was also changes in attitudes to women’s work practices (as it became more acceptable/normal for women to work outside the home), changes in women’s fashion (looser-fitting clothes) and the increasing availability of paper patterns (Malthus 1992).

Prior to the advent of the sewing machine, all clothes were hand-sewn, and women’s clothes in particular were made for the person who was going to wear them (men’s work clothes and children’s clothes were more likely to be ready-made). Sewing machines enabled the mass-production of clothes, at the same time that women’s clothes became looser-fitting and less decorative (which is cause and which is effect is open to debate). This meant that ready-to-wear clothing became a thing and women’s dresses and the like could be made in advance, for the mass market, rather than for a particular woman. There’s not enough information in the advertisements for Dunstable House (as Ballantynes was known before it became, well, Ballantynes) to know how the dresses they sold were being produced. But there weren’t any advertisements looking for dressmakers or the like, suggesting that Dunstable House may not have employed any (bearing in mind absence of evidence and all that). J. Ballantyne & Co., however, employed a “machinist” from at least 1873 (having taken over the business the year prior) and seem to have been making dresses to order at that point (Lyttelton Times 30/4/1873: 3, Press 20/9/1873: 3). Other items of clothing, however, were imported, such as women’s jackets and underskirts (Lyttelton Times 30/4/1873: 3). Dressmakers were employed from at least 1874 and by 1877, there was a dressmaking workroom (Lyttelton Times 23/6/1877: 1, Press 8/1/1874: 1). This workroom would have been staffed by young women, many of whom are likely to have sewed on sewing machines. By 1878, demand was such that the firm had three dressmaking rooms (Star (Christchurch) 26/6/1878: 3).

J. Ballantyne & Co. was by no means unique in Christchurch in employing dressmakers, but it does indicate a clear shift in business strategy from the previous owners of Dunstable House (the Clarksons, followed by William Pratt). Having dressmakers and machinists on site would have enabled Ballantynes to produce women’s clothing quickly, and to respond to changes in fashion easily – and perhaps even to help drive those changes in fashion. Importing any item to New Zealand was a risky business, given the time between ordering the item and it arriving on the shop floor. Out-of-fashion stock no doubt had to be sold more cheaply than the latest thing – and possibly even at a loss. A dressmaking workroom mitigated this problem, as well as providing employment opportunities for women outside the home, whether their own or someone else’s (in the form of domestic service). In this way, the sewing machine contributed not just to changes in what women wore, and how that was made, but to broader changes in opportunities for women, and helped them forge new roles in the world.

Katharine Watson 

References

Anon., 1920s. Ballantyne & Company Ltd building, Christchurch. The Press (Newspaper) :Negatives. Ref: 1/1-009721-G. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/29946497

H. Wise & Co., 1900. Wise’s New Zealand Post Office Directory. Available at: ancestry.com.

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

Malthus, J., 1992. Dressmakers in 19th century New Zealand. In: Brookes, B., Macdonald, C. and Tennant, M., eds., Women in History 2. Bridget Williams Books, Wellington. Pp.76-97.

NZER (New Zealand Electoral Rolls). Available at: ancestry.com

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

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

Carving out spaces: living above your business

In 1900, James Knight set about remodelling his business premises and home, which happened to be one above the other (Collins and Harman 1900, Press 17/3/1900: 4). He’d purchased the property the year before, having worked and lived there in the early 1890s (Lyttelton Times 19/3/1898: 6). At the time of purchase, the property – in High Street, Christchurch – consisted of three ground floor shops, each with a flat above. By the time James’s renovations were complete, it was just two ground floor shops and one flat upstairs, which he and his family (wife Charlotte and children Charles, Edith and Florence) promptly moved into (Collins and Harman 1900, H. Wise & Co. 1901: 209). It’s the layout upstairs that’s of particular interest to me, and the differences between the layout of this central city flat and your standard suburban house, and the complex picture they present.

James Knight’s premises prior to the alterations in 1900. The butchery was in the left-most shop. Image: Collins and Harman 1900.

Before we dive into that, though, a little context. In the 19th century Anglo-colonial world, particularly in England and the United States, the domestic urban landscape was characterised by the development of the suburb. This came about in part as a result of transport options that meant living further from your place of work was actually feasible (for those who could afford said transport options), but also as the central city was increasingly perceived as a dirty, dusty and disease-ridden place, thanks to the factories that sprang up as a result of the Industrial Revolution. Thus, again, those who could afford to decamped to the suburbs, where the houses were bigger (central city housing was often terrace housing) and there was greenery and the air was healthy. Of course this was bound up with money and class – those with working class occupations could rarely afford suburban living and had little choice but to live in often cramped inner-city housing (Archer 2005, Wright 1983). This is where New Zealand, and the opportunities it presented, differed: people from a wide variety of class backgrounds and with a range of occupations were able to live in the suburbs. And they did: my research indicates that occupational class was no barrier to purchasing land and building, and that this was, for most people, the preferred option and quickly came to represent the norm. You don’t need me to point out how this has shaped the New Zealand psyche (the same is also true of other British colonial nations, as Luke Malpass observed earlier this week).

But, when you couldn’t afford this, or simply chose to live in the central city, what did this actually look like, and how did it differ from a suburban home? Fortunately, the plans of Charlotte and James Knight’s renovations survive to shed some light on this.

Interior of James Knight’s butchery, c.1910. Image: Webb, c.1910.

In their original form, access to the flats above the shops was via stairs at the rear of the shop, meaning family and any visitors had to walk through the shop to get up to the living quarters. This would have been all well and good if you owned a tailor’s shop (as one of the other occupants did), but James was a butcher, and family and friends would have walked past numerous hanging carcasses to reach the staircase. Now, Victorians seem to have been a bit less squeamish about the realities of eating meat than we are today, but bear in mind that there wasn’t a whole of refrigeration going on at the time, so it may well have been a touch smelly and there might have been flies, particularly in the height of summer. There’s another factor at play, too.

During the Victorian era, the idea that work and home should be separate became increasingly prevalent among the middle class (this idea neatly sidestepped the fact that domestic work was, well, work). This seems to have been less of a concern amongst the upper middle class: doctors often had their consulting rooms in their houses and ‘gentlemen’ often had what was essentially a home office. For working class families, and particularly for the women in those families (who often took in work; Bishop 2019), such a separation was often impossible. Nevertheless, this was certainly the ideal for those with middle class occupations and likely also for many with working class occupations. Of course, covid has taught us that there are many reasons why this separation is a good idea and they have nothing to do with class or class aspirations.

The plans for the renovation of the ground floor, showing the central staircase. Image: Collins and Harman 1900.

But back to Charlotte and James. Not only did James convert the ground floor of his building from three shops to two, he changed how the first floor was accessed, giving it a completely separate staircase that was accessed from High Street, without having to go through the butchery (although there were also stairs at the rear of the shop). The family no longer had to pass through the shop with its carcasses to reach their home – and nor did they clutter up the shop space unnecessarily. But here’s where things get a little odd. After ascending the staircase, you arrived in the home, outside the bathroom and bedrooms, rather than next to the parlour or drawing room. Think about it: even today, the front door of your house typically opens into a communal space. Not only did Charlotte and James’s visitors arrive next to the bathroom, they then had to walk past all the family bedrooms and the servant’s bedroom (more on that in just a second) to reach the dining room. Most unusual. Bedrooms and bathrooms were typically considered to be the ‘private’ parts of a Victorian house, where guests were unlikely to venture. I am dissembling somewhat, as James’s office was near the top of the stairs, as was the sitting room (another oddity: most houses had a drawing room or a parlour, rather than a sitting room). This doesn’t change the fact you did land right outside the bathroom. I know I keep going on about this, but it flies in the face of pretty much all that I know about housing in the Anglo-colonial world.

The plan for the renovation of the first floor. Image: Collins and Harman 1900.

Another odd detail was that the sitting room was positioned in amongst the bedrooms. Its location, however, was consistent with the idea that this sort of communal space where guests might be entertained was at the front of the house. But, again, the sitting room was typically a ‘public’ space and bedrooms were private, so putting them in the same part of the house was fairly unusual. Although, to be fair, in smaller houses (often built by or for those with working class occupations), where there was no dining room (the Knights had a dining room), the front two rooms (in the ‘public’ part of the house) were typically  the master bedroom and the parlour.

A further intriguing element of the layout of the flat was the position of the servant’s bedroom. In fact, the mere presence of a servant’s bedroom tells us something about Charlotte and James: that they could afford to employ a servant (full disclosure, James died with an estate valued at something like £25,000, but that was in 1918 and this was 1900 (Knight 1918)) and saw employing one as an important part of their lifestyle. I should perhaps have mentioned before now that James’s occupation – a business-owning butcher – positioned him and Charlotte securely in the middle class (if he were just a butcher, working for someone else, which is how his career started out, that would have been a working class occupation). But back to the position of the servant’s bedroom: it was pretty squarely in the middle of the house, which did make it close to the kitchen, etc. But family members couldn’t get from the dining room to their bedroom, or the sitting room, without walking past it. Again, this was unusual. Servant’s bedrooms were typically tucked away at the back of the house (in this flat, I would have expected it to be located back down by the scullery, or where bedroom 2 was), so that they, along with their work, could be hidden from view and kept out of sight of the family. Proximity to the kitchen was perhaps the deciding factor here.

There were multiple ways, then, in which the Knights’ flat did not conform to the norms of the day. This was no doubt a response to the spatial constraints of the original building, which was quite different in shape from your average house (typically square or rectangular, rather than this L-shape). Were the Knights aware of how much their home flew in the face of convention, of what visitors might have thought? I think they must’ve known it was unusual. The Knights didn’t reside here – business boomed and, by 1914, they’d moved to the west end of Cashel Street (NZER (Christchurch East) 1914: 68). As it happens, this was getting pretty close to the part of the central city favoured by the elite, being the land adjacent to Hagley Park and Cranmer Square, and the area immediately to the east – an area of greenness and spacious sections. I don’t know anything about the layout of this house – or the layout of other inner-city flats. An area that is ripe for further investigation – watch this space!

Katharine Watson

References

Archer, John, 2005. Architecture and Suburbia: From English Villa to American Dream House, 1690-2000. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Bishop, Catherine, 2019. Women Mean Business: Colonial Businesswomen in New Zealand. Dunedin: Otago University Press.

Collins and Harman, 1900. James Knight premises. [architectural drawing] Armson – Collins Architectural Drawing Collection, MB 1418-31252. Christchurch: Macmillan Brown Library, University of Canterbury. Link: https://kohika.canterbury.ac.nz/opac_canterbury/scripts/mwimain.dll/144/Description/Web_desc_det_rep?sessionsearch&fld=SISN&exp=32887

H. Wise & Co., 1901. Wise’s New Zealand Post Office Directory. Available at: ancestry.com.

Knight, James, 1918. Probate. Christchurch Probate Files 1855-2003, CH9756/1918 224 R22393867. Christchurch: Archives New Zealand.

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

NZER (New Zealand Electoral Rolls). Available at: ancestry.com

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

Webb, Steffano, c.1910. Interior of James Knight's butchers shop in Christchurch. [photograph] Webb, Steffano, 1880-1967: collection of negatives, 1/1-004186-G. Wellington: Alexander Turnbull Library. Link: https://natlib.govt.nz/records/23073247

Wright, Gwendolyn, 1983. Building the Dream: A Social History of Housing in America. Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press.



 Banner image: M. Hennessey, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

, , , ,

Of fish knives and sherry glasses: examining class in 19th century Christchurch

, , , ,

Edward Watson Tippetts lived alone. No wife, no children. No need to read anything into this, but it was unusual for mid-late 19th century Christchurch. As it happens, he may not have lived alone: although he never advertised for a servant, his lifestyle, gender and social situation indicate that it’s highly likely he employed one, and it’s possible that they lived in, as servants of the day often did. That Edward lived alone is not what makes him the focus of today’s blog post, however – it’s more of an interesting side bar, as it were. The real reason I’m writing about Edward is social class, and that his changing social position provides some insight into the nuances of investigating social class and material culture in Christchurch in the mid-19th century.

A Chinese export porcelain plate that Edward threw out. Image: M. Lillo Bernabeu.

Class feels like an old-fashioned topic to be writing about, particularly when you’re focusing on a privileged white man, but the reality is that class and social status were key to shaping the lives of colonial settlers in 19th century New Zealand. Thus, understanding how class functioned at that time and place is important for understanding life then. More than that, class continues to shape New Zealanders’ lives today, and exploring class in the 19th century can help us understand how it affects people’s lives today, and why that’s the case.

A chamber pot, decorated with the Cattle Scenery pattern, that Edward threw out. Image: M. Lillo Bernabeu.

It’s generally accepted that, particularly during the early phase of British settlement of New Zealand, class boundaries were more porous here than in Britain. In part, this was because the colonial setting removed people from their context (and their support networks), enabling them to construct their identities as they saw fit. Further, this was a setting where money could talk (there was by no means a direct relationship between class and money in Britain, although there was a strong correlation) – and where it was possible for a far greater range of people to make significant amounts of money. Not only were class boundaries more porous, there was no true upper class (in the British sense) here, and occupations that were generally considered middle class in Britain were upper middle class occupations in New Zealand (McAloon 2004, Olssen and Hickey 2005). It’s important to recognise that the class system I’m writing about applied to New Zealand’s colonial settlers, not iwi Māori. Nor would it have applied to Chinese settlers.

One of the decorative salad oil bottles Edward threw out. Image: M. Lillo Bernabeu.

Edward grew up in a middle class household in London (his father was a lawyer) in the 1830s and 1840s, immigrating to Christchurch in 1851, aged 21 (Ancestry 2024). Here, he founded the company Tippetts, Silk and Heywood with his fellow shipmates, Alfred Silk and Joseph Heywood (Macdonald 1952-64: 264). I’d like to hazard a guess that, Edward’s name being first in the business’s name, he put up the bulk of the funds for it. The partnership was dissolved in 1855 (Lyttelton Times 14/7/1855: 1). At around this time, Edward had a brief foray into the Australian goldfields, before returning to manage the Steam wharf in Heathcote. This was followed by a fairly short-lived investment in a hotel at Woodend, and then a lengthy period of employment as a goods shed manager on the railways (Macdonald 1952-64: 264).

A buff-bodied Bristol glazed jug thrown out by Edward. The relief moulding is of a pastoral scene, with people drinking under some trees. Image: M. Lillo Bernabeu.

All this delving into Edward’s employment history is important, because I use occupation to define class. It’s not a perfect method (there isn’t one), but in Aotearoa we’re fortunate to be able to draw on some rigorous historical research about occupational class and status in the late 19th century (although the authors would note that this was developed in south Dunedin and should be applied with caution elsewhere; Olssen and Hickey 2005). Drawing on Olssen and Hickey’s work, then, Edward’s various occupations – small business proprietor and white-collar – were solidly middle class. But in his parents’ eyes, he would essentially have taken a step down the class ladder, as it were. But the archaeological and historical record show that Edward’s lifestyle in Christchurch befitted a member of the upper middle class in this city.

The sale of Edward’s goods and possessions, 1878. Image: Lyttelton Times 15/2/1878: 4.

Edward lived in Avonside for more than 10 years, in a house he probably built (LINZ c.1860: 425). This house had a drawing and a dining room, both of which were more typical of upper middle class that middle class houses (the latter typically had a parlour, as opposed to a drawing room, and was unlikely to have a dining room). These rooms were fitted out with, amongst other things, a loo table, various sideboards and set of croquet (which was surely more use outside, but no matter). The sale of Tippetts’s household goods in 1878 revealed a range of specialised dining accoutrements, such as dessert spoons, entrée dishes, a fish knife and a dessert service (Lyttelton Times 15/2/1878: 4). From the rubbish Tippetts threw out, we know he also had fancy glasses, some of which would have been used for serving sherry, as well as rather ornate salad oil bottles, Chinese export porcelain, a rather fabulous jug and a surprisingly pretty chamber pot, alongside your more standard black beer bottles and Willow pattern china.

Two of the sherry glasses Edward threw out. Image: M. Lillo Bernabeu.

It’s the things with specialised forms and functions – the dining room, the entrée dish, the fish knife, the sherry glasses – that are particularly indicative of upper middle class status in New Zealand in the 19th century (Lawrence et al. 2012, Watson 2022: 336). At this point, it’s important to note that, in England, these objects would have been associated with middle class status, demonstrating how class changed between the two settings. The purchase of specialised objects indicates sufficient disposable income to do so. More than that, though, it indicates the desire to embrace the lifestyle – and class – that these things embodied, whether it was because it was the class you had grown up in, thought appropriate for you or because it was the social class you aspired to (Bell 2002: 261). Something else that’s important to note is that it wasn’t just the ownership and use of these things that mattered, it was the ‘correct’ use of them – numerous advice and etiquette manuals of the day provided, well, advice on the correct (upper) middle class ways to behave, both recognising and feeding into social anxieties about not behaving correctly (Fitts 1999: 58-59). Given Edward’s background, it seems likely that he would have known how to use his sherry glasses and fish knives, and that he was replicating the lifestyle he was familiar with from his childhood and one that he felt befitted him. Research suggests that this lifestyle wouldn’t have been familiar to many of his middle class contemporaries in Christchurch.

The story of Edward, his house and his things highlights the twists and turns class takes as the context changes, as well as how the simple ascription of a particular class based on a category such as occupation is not the whole story. This was not news to me, but I loved exploring how this particular example played out. If nothing else, it highlights that everyone’s experience is different, and that it is all to easy to lose the nuance when you start talking about large categories, such as “the middle class”. These terms obfuscate and hide the reality of people’s lived day-to-day experiences, and how they adapted to their circumstances. Edward arrived in a new city, where class definitions and boundaries, although more porous than he was used to, were still very real, but things were changing, and there was the opportunity to move beyond the strictures of the world he had known. Whether or not he saw his life in these terms is hard to tell: while the occupations he pursued might suggest this, the material culture and lifestyle he embraced suggests that he had not left behind many of the cultural norms he was familiar with and that defined his family’s social class.

References

Ancestry, 2024. Edward Watson Tippetts. [online] Available at: https://www.ancestry.com/family-tree/person/tree/70543637/person/392303379650/facts [Accessed 12 July 2024].

Bell, Alison, 2002. Emulation and empowerment: material, social and economic dynamics in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Virginia. International Journal of Historical Archaeology 6(4): 253-98.

Fitts, Robert K., 1999. The archaeology of middle-class domesticity and gentility in Victorian Brooklyn. Historical Archaeology 33(1): 39-62.

Lawrence, Susan, Alasdair Brooks, and Jane Lennon, 2009. Ceramics and status in regional Australia. Australasian Historical Archaeology 27: 67-78.

LINZ, c. 1860. Canterbury Land Index Deeds Index ‐ C/S 1 ‐ Subdivisions of rural sections register. Archives New Zealand, Christchurch office.

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

Macdonald, G. R., 1952-64. Macdonald Dictionary of Canterbury Biography. [online] Available at: https://collection.canterburymuseum.com/explore [Accessed 12 July 2024].

McAloon, Jim, 2004. Class in colonial New Zealand: towards a historiographical rehabilitation. New Zealand Journal of History 38 (1): 3-21.

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

Watson, K., 2022. 101 demolitions: how a disaster shed light on life in nineteenth century Christchurch. PhD thesis, University of Canterbury.

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].

Straight to gaol

“The practice of inflicting pain on children as punishment was widely accepted in Pakeha [sic] society as an essential child-raising tool for parents and other caregivers” (Maclean 2006: 7). It’s a confronting statement, and refers to 19th century New Zealand, where, indeed, the right to physically punish a child was enshrined in law. Somewhat ironically (to 21st century eyes), a section of the Children’s Protection Act 1890 stated that “[n]othing in this Act contained shall be construed to take away or affect the right of any parent, teacher, or other person having the lawful control or charge of a child to administer reasonable punishment to such child.” This law reflected broad societal acceptance amongst Pākehā of the practice of physically punishing children, as well as preserving the right of the courts to sentence a child to such a punishment.

Not only were physical punishments handed out to alarmingly young children in 19th century New Zealand (and numerous other countries), so too were sentences of incarceration. These punishments reflected a society – and legal system – that saw little difference between children and adults and did not recognise that children might be both more vulnerable than adults and less able to think through the implications and rights and wrongs of their actions. These attitudes began to change towards the end of the 19th century with the passage of the 1893 Criminal Code Act. With this act, children under seven could no longer be prosecuted for their actions, while those aged between seven and 14 could only be prosecuted if there was evidence that they knew they were doing wrong (Watt 2003: 7). 

These legislative changes, though, came too late for Robert Bruce Hardie. Robert was the son of Andrew and Maria Hardie, born in Shoreditch (not Scotland, as you might have expected with that name) in 1868, the fourth of their eight children (only six of whom survived childhood; Ancestry 2006-24). The Hardie family arrived in Christchurch in 1874 and by 1879 had bought land and built a very small house (just over 50 square metres!) in the Avon loop, on the outskirts of central Christchurch. It is through this house that Robert came to my attention. Robert’s first encounter with the law was in 1878, when he was arrested and charged with stealing a horse blanket and some apples. During the court case that followed, the policeman involved described Robert as a good boy who’d not been in trouble with the law before but noted that he was in “bad health”. Given these mitigating circumstances, he was sentenced to six hours in prison (Star (Christchurch) 1/11/1878: 3). He was 10.

The house that Andrew and Maria Hardie built in the Avon loop, in Christchurch (the door and windows had been replaced in the early 20th century). Andrew and Maria built this small house in 1879, and lived here until 1886. Image: P. Mitchell, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

Prison in this case was probably the rather forbidding Addington Gaol. Surprisingly little has been written about the history and operation of this gaol, and it is not clear how children imprisoned there were treated. Late in the 1870s, it was noted that it was difficult to keep boys in the gaol separate from other prisoners there, implying that this was at least the intention, if one that was not always observed (Lyttelton Times 7/10/1879: 6).

The only surviving building from Addington Gaol, in 2005 (the building is now a backpackers). In the same way that little has been written about the history of gaol, there are surprisingly few photographs of it. Image: Wikipedia.

If this short spell in prison had been intended to deter Robert from future criminal behaviour, it wasn’t successful. The following year, he was in trouble with the law again, this time for being involved in the theft of some bags. While some of the other boys involved were sent to Burnham Industrial School, Robert and one other received a harsher punishment – they could not be sent to the school because they had previous criminal convictions (Globe 29/5/1879: 3). Burnham Industrial School had been established in 1873, under the Neglected and Criminal Children Act 1867 (HNZPT 2023). Under this act, neglected children were to be sent to industrial schools (to receive an education and vocational training), and ‘criminal’ children to reformatory schools, recognising the different circumstances leading to their situation, and to prevent the latter influencing the former (Globe 8/7/1881: 2). In reality, however, both ‘types’ of children were often sent to the same institution, as can be seen in the case of Robert’s contemporaries.

Robert, however, was less fortunate. This time, he was sentenced to 24 hours in prison, and 24 lashes with the cat-o’-nine tails (Globe 29/5/1879: 3). No, I didn’t know that the cat-o’-nine tails was a legal punishment for crimes in New Zealand either. Until 1941 (NZHistory n.d.). I still find it somewhat mind-boggling that ‘the cat’, which was specifically designed to inflict “intense pain”, could fall within the parameters of ‘reasonable force’ (MHNSW 2024). (And it feels like delving into this particular issue might provide some insight into Aotearoa’s current high rates of child abuse.) Maria, Robert’s mother, observed during the court case that “if he got a good flogging it would do him good,” reflecting the broader societal view that physical punishment was not only appropriate, but beneficial (Globe 29/5/1879: 3). In case you’ve missed it, I’d like to state here that Robert was just 11. Subsequent events would prove Maria quite wrong.

A cat-o’-nine tails, held by the New Zealand Police Museum. The label on it states that it was authorised for use by Minister of Justice A. L. Herdman on 6 October 1913. Image: Te Ara - the Encyclopedia of New Zealand.

Robert appeared before the court again several times over the succeeding years, always for petty thefts (e.g. Star (Christchurch) 28/12/1880: 1, Lyttelton Times 25/3/1881: 3). On most occasions, he was both incarcerated and whipped, with the lengthiest imprisonment being for 3 months, to be accompanied by 18 lashes at the beginning and end of the sentence (Lyttelton Times 19/8/1879: 3). He was 11. A notable exception came in March 1881 when, rather than being imprisoned, his father was instructed to “chastise” him – given what had gone before, I assume that this was an instruction for Andrew give him a flogging and thus that this is state-sanctioned violence by a parent against a child (Lyttelton Times 25/3/1881: 3). I may be reading too much into this, but I doubt that a stern telling-off was going to be considered sufficient chastisement. Later that same year, Robert was sent to the Caversham Industrial School (in Dunedin) for three years, and this brought his youthful offending to an end (Globe 13/7/1881: 3). It’s not clear why Robert was sent to the Caversham school and not Burnham, but it may have been because Burnham would not accept children with a criminal conviction (Globe 8/7/1881: 2).

Robert’s offending may have come to an end at this point, but the story doesn’t end here. In 1897, his children, Dorothy (aged five) and Bland (three) were removed from his care and taken to Burnham Industrial School, after being found in the company of their drunk father (described as a “habitual drunkard”) and other drunk men and women, including a prostitute (Star (Christchurch) 26/1/1897: 3). Their mother had died the previous year (BDM Online n.d.).

From a 21st century perspective, there are many details of this story that are shocking. The sheer brutality of the punishments meted out to Robert Hardie are hard to fathom, and seem completely out of proportion to his crimes. They reflect a world where it was deemed appropriate for the state to undertake the painful physical punishment of its citizens, and where such punishments were seen as a deterrent. Not only did the state carry out these punishments, it also enabled parents and other caregivers to do the same (see the work of Debra Powell (2012) for a discussion of the tensions that this led to when it came to courts prosecuting caregivers for child abuse). Aside from the brutality, what is most notable for me is that there was no attempt at reform – which, to be honest, feels like a loaded, paternalistic word. What I mean is that there was no attempt to change Robert’s circumstances, there was only punishment: there was no examination of the broader context in which his offending was carried out, or the reasons for, or attempts to change this. It was just straight to punishment. Actually, literally, straight to gaol. Which would have disrupted his education – if, in fact, he was attending school (legally, he should have been, but it is not clear whether or not this was the case) – and thus affecting his future opportunities. This situation reflects very different attitudes from those that guide our justice system today but, perhaps, in some of what I have outlined can be seen some of – if not the roots – at least the symptoms of our horrifying child abuse statistics.

Katharine Watson

References

Ancestry, 2006-2024. Andrew Douglas Hardie. Ancestry. [online] Available at: https://www.ancestry.com.au/family-tree/person/tree/14687068/person/148513297/facts?_phsrc=AxX355&_phstart=successSource [Accessed 21 March 2024]. 

BDM Online, n.d. Death search – Lillian Annie Hardie. Births, Deaths & Marriages Online. [online] Available at: https://www.bdmhistoricalrecords.dia.govt.nz/search/search?path=%2FqueryEntry.m%3Ftype%3Ddeaths [Accessed 21 March 2024].

HNZPT, 2023. Burnham Camp Post Office. Heritage New Zealand Pouhere Taonga. [online] Available at: https://www.heritage.org.nz/list-details/3063/Burnham%20Camp%20Post%20Office [Accessed 21 March 2023].

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

Maclean, Sally, 2006. Child cruelty or reasonable punishment? A case study of the operation of the law and the courts 1883-1903. New Zealand Journal of History 40(1): 7-24.

MHNSW, 2024. Cat-o’-nine-tails. Museums of History NSW. [online] Available at: https://mhnsw.au/stories/convict-sydney/cat-o-nine-tails/ [Accessed 21 March 2024].

NZHistory, n.d. Flogging and whipping abolished. New Zealand History – Nga korero a ipurangi a Aotearoa. [online] Available at: https://nzhistory.govt.nz/flogging-whipping-abolished [Accessed 21 March 2024].

Powell, Debra, 2012. Reading past cases of child cruelty in the present: the use of the parental right to discipline in New Zealand court trials, 1890–1902. In: Kirkby, Dianne (ed.). Past Law, Present Histories. Australian National University e-Press, pp. 107-124.

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

Watt, Emily, 2003. A history of youth justice in New Zealand. Unpublished report prepared for Principal Youth Court Judge Andrew Becroft.

Banner image: Canterbury Stories.