Conveniences and inconveniences: on toilets in 19th century houses

For something colloquially referred to as ‘the convenience’, toilets in 19th century Christchurch were often anything but. There were the smells, the difficulties of dealing with the waste, their role in the spread of deadly diseases and, even once they moved inside, their location. Today, many of us regard the indoor toilet as a fundamental necessity – ideally, it will flush, be connected to a sewerage system (but see also composting toilets) and be conveniently located. Oh, and, very likely, there will be more than one toilet. None of these things were standard in houses in 19th century Christchurch. This blog grew from my curiosity about when this did become the norm. Spoiler alert: I still don’t know the answer to this question, but I did learn some quite interesting things along the way.

Before toilets moved into houses (as it were), they were of course outside, and chamber pots were used in the house, particularly overnight or, as in this case, by children. You can imagine how delighted we were to find a chamber pot in a privy pit. Image: Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

The only original toilet I’ve found in a 19th century house. This water closet had been modified, but water would have been tipped into the small draw visible in the middle. Image: K. Watson, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

I really should’ve learned my lesson with these seemingly simple questions. Although, to be fair, I already knew what the first difficulty was with answering this one. Not only is it highly unusual for an original toilet to survive in a house from the 19th century, even the part of the house it was in is likely to have been heavily modified since then. As such, it’s nigh on impossible to use buildings archaeology to investigate this question. Regular below ground archaeology, though, does provide some insights. Some of my favourite historical sources – house plans and 19th century newspapers – are also useful. But the available architectural plans (for Christchurch) date from the early 1880s and later and were drawn for the wealthy, so it’s a fairly skewed sample. Searching the newspapers was complicated by the fact you can’t search for “w c”, the abbreviation commonly used for a water closet (Papers Past requires at least three letters in a search term – and, yes, there are workarounds). And these results were inevitably skewed, too, again by available funds but also by what people thought was important to mention in a real estate advertisement.

Here’s what I learnt.

Water closets were available to purchase in Christchurch (or Lyttelton, in this specific example) from 1851 (Lyttelton Times 9/8/1851: 4). And they were being made in the city from at least 1863 (Lyttelton Times 7/1/1863: 1). Also, portable water closets were a thing (Lyttelton Times 22/6/1859: 6). Which perplexed me, given the somewhat essential requirement for water. The first house sale or rental notice that I found that mentions a water closet as a room dates to 1883 (Press 14/7/1883: 4). This was about the same time that it became possible to connect a water closet to the sewerage system (see the table below for information about the extent of the sewerage system at the time; Press 30/1/1884: 3). However, Dr Courtney Nedwell, medical officer to the Board of Health in 1884, noted that the cost of installing a water closet “will prohibit their use becoming general” (Press 30/1/1884: 3). It’s not clear, though, whether it’s the water closets themselves that were expensive or the sewerage connection (it wasn’t necessary to have a connection to have a functioning water closet, although it was surely a factor – as was a suitable water supply).

Details about the sewerage network and connections to it across Christchurch. Image: Press 30/1/1884: 3.

By 1890, there were 648 water closets connected to the sewerage system in Christchurch, in 217 houses (Star (Christchurch) 12/2/1890: 4). Indicating that most of these houses probably had more than one water closet. And, more importantly for answering my question, indicating that the distribution of toilets was not exactly what you might call ‘even’. The article doesn’t note how many houses had water closets that weren’t connected to the sewerage system, however, which would provide a more fulsome picture of the state of play. By 1903, 3436 houses were connected to the sewerage system, 1276 of which had a water closet (Press 9/9/1903: 7).

A surprisingly scenic chamber pot. Chamber pots peak in the archaeological record in the 1860s and 1870s, with their discard declining after this, as toilets begin to be added to houses. Image: J. Garland, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

To my surprise, of the 34 house plans I looked at, 10 did not have a toilet, including some of those built in the early 20th century (these houses were built between 1883 and 1904). The mere fact of these people commissioning an architect indicates that expense probably wasn’t the reason for this absence. And some of these houses sans toilet were certainly big grand homes. It’s possible that not being able to connect to a sewer was a contributing factor, but the location information available isn’t specific enough to be able to determine this – although the house described as being “near Rangiora” clearly wouldn’t have had this option (Armson Collins 1885).

Toilets moved into the house with varying degrees of, well, convenience. Some were located at the rear of the house – out of sight, out of mind, but also adjacent to all other service rooms and, more importantly, rooms where water was required, thus reducing plumbing costs. What’s more striking, however, are the number that were in the house but could only be accessed externally. Some of these were clearly toilets for use by servants, but others were the only toilet in the house, and these were in large, grand houses with two stories (e.g. Armson Collins 1898). Chamber pots or commodes probably remained in use in these houses, because who wants to get up in the middle of a cold frosty Christchurch night to creep through the house by candlelight to go outside to go the toilet? (Although, modern sensitivities may make this seem preferable to the alternative.) Just over half of the two-storeyed houses had a toilet on the first floor.

Another rather pretty chamber pot. Many were much plainer than the examples shown here. Image: J. Garland, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

The architectural plans are quite detailed, and show the actual form of the toilet installed. Up until c.1892, toilets were boxed in, a feature designed to hide the associated pipe work and paraphernalia (Ragland 2004: 59). The first plan showing a pedestal toilet dates to 1895 – this would have been of the same (or very similar) design as a modern toilet, with the pipes contained in the pedestal (Armson Collins 1895, Ragland 2004: 59). This toilet also happens to be in the bathroom, another first. People did continue to install boxed-in toilets, however (e.g. Armson Collins 1903, 1904).

Part of a Doulton toilet found on a site in Christchurch, made between 1882 and 1891. Image: J. Garland, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

The plans also clearly show the presence – or absence – of handbasins. To the modern eye, it seems quite shocking that very few of the rooms designated “W C” had a sink. And often there wasn’t even one nearby, although some WCs were next to the housemaid’s closet (used for storing cleaning equipment), which in some instances had an external sink. Yes, a sink on the outside of the house, and these were usually on the first floor of the house (Armson Collins 1884). In the late 19th century, however, the lavatory appears. Now, this confused me. I thought ‘lavatory’ was another name for a toilet. And it can be. But it was originally for washing. By 1882, the word was used to encompass a place to wash and a toilet (Oxford University Press n.d.). It’s clear from the architectural plans, however, that it was generally used here to refer to a washroom, and the only fixture in the room was a handbasin (e.g. Armson Collins 1899, 1902). Only a handful of houses had a lavatory, and these were all on the ground floor.

To return to my original question: when did toilets become commonplace in houses in Christchurch? Well, not until some time in the 20th century. Although the presence of inside toilets was becoming more widespread by the late 19th century, it was to be some time before they were the norm. While one of the reasons for this is likely to have been a lack of suitable infrastructure, the evidence from architectural plans also suggests that there may have been fears and suspicions about having toilets indoors, related to the smells and perhaps ongoing misconceptions about miasmas and the spread of disease. Surely, though, the humble chamber pot (or even the slightly more salubrious commode) would have been even more concerning from this point of view?

 Katharine Watson

References

Armson Collins, 1884. New Deanery building – No. 1. MB 1418 Armson – Collins Architectural Drawing Collection. Ref. code: 159646. Macmillan Brown Library, University of Canterbury.

Armson Collins, 1885. Arthur T. Chapman – house – No. 1. MB 1418 Armson – Collins Architectural Drawing Collection. Ref. code: 159650. Macmillan Brown Library, University of Canterbury.

Armson Collins, 1889. G. E. Way Esq. house. MB 1418 Armson – Collins Architectural Drawing Collection. Ref. code: 158811. Macmillan Brown Library, University of Canterbury.

Armson Collins, 1895. Dr de Renzi house – No. 1. MB 1418 Armson – Collins Architectural Drawing Collection. Ref. code: 15880. Macmillan Brown Library, University of Canterbury.

Armson Collins, 1899. C. J. Price Esq. – house. MB 1418 Armson – Collins Architectural Drawing Collection. Ref. code: 158831. Macmillan Brown Library, University of Canterbury.

Armson Collins, 1902. Thomas Teschemaker Esq house. MB 1418 Armson – Collins Architectural Drawing Collection. Ref. code: 158874. Macmillan Brown Library, University of Canterbury.

Armson Collins, 1903. Mr W H Triggs. MB 1418 Armson – Collins Architectural Drawing Collection. Ref. code: 158882. Macmillan Brown Library, University of Canterbury.

Armson Collins, 1904. A M Paterson Esq house. MB 1418 Armson – Collins Architectural Drawing Collection. Ref. code: 158880. Macmillan Brown Library, University of Canterbury.

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

Oxford University Press, n.d.. Lavatory, n., 1.a. In Oxford English dictionary. Retrieved April 10, 2025, from https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/9241021341

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

Ragland, Johnny, 2004. The Hidden Room: A Short History of the ‘Privy’. Unpublished report.

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

Banner image: J. Garland, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

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…

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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

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.

A story of snuff: Christchurch’s respectable drug

Five years ago, rescue archaeologists uncovered a small ceramic jar where Te Pae Christchurch Convention Centre now stands. This jar serves as a portal to nineteenth century Christchurch.

Nineteenth century Christchurch

Let us imagine. It is the mid to late 1800s, and you are standing in the heart of Christchurch city. To your right, traders are noisily bustling in Market Square. To your left stands Christchurch’s tallest building, Christchurch Cathedral, and in front of you, there is a veranda-fronted wooden shop.

The shop in 1884. Image: Burton Brothers, 1884.

We can’t be sure whose shop you are standing in front of, but it might be James and John Mummery’s bakery, their hotel “The Fire Brigade Arms”, a corn store, a shop for draperies and fancy goods, a furrier, or a painter and decorator (Trendafilov et al. 2018a: 159-160).

Rubbish

You step forward, open the front door, and walk through the shop to reach the back yard. Here, you can be more certain about what you will discover: a common feature in every backyard - a rubbish pit.

An 1862 map, with the location where the bottle was found highlighted in red. This is the location of the shop highlighted in the 1884 photograph above. Image: Fooks 1862.

Snuff – status in a bottle

Inside the pit, amid the broken glass, ceramics, brick, and metal (Trendafilov et al. 2018a), you spot a small ceramic snuff jar. It catches your eye because you don’t see bottles like this every day – it’s fancy, imported, and has script printed onto it.

Taddy and Co. snuff/tobacco jar. Image: J. Garland.

You pick up the bottle and imagine its months-long voyage by sea, from central London into the hands of its eventual owner. “And who was the owner?”, you wonder.

While clay pipes are common, not everyone turns to snuff for their nicotine fix (Trendafilov et al. 2018b: 81-86). Snuff is a fashionable choice for both women and men and oozes respectability (Goodman 1993: 82). Even Queen Charlotte, “Snuffy Charlotte”, was a regular user in the early nineteenth century (Harrison 1986: 1649).

Still from Netflix’s “Bridgerton”, which fictionalised Queen Charlotte’s life but accurately portrayed her real-life snuff addiction. Image: Jeffrey, 2022.

What has changed?

As you turn to leave, you drop the bottle back into the pit and catch a waft of the tobacco that was ground to make the snuff. The bottle’s owner chose plain snuff – deciding against any of the fancy, fashionable flavours available (Harrison 1986: 1649).

You picture the bottle’s owner taking a pinch of snuff and letting out a “healthy” sneeze – sneezing was considered a tonic (Harrison 1986: 1649) – and then smiling as the snuff delivered its narcotic effect. Little do they know the story that their discarded jar will tell in the future.  

• This snuff jar is just one of approximately one million items held by the Christchurch Archaeology Project. To learn more about the project to build a free, online home for the objects, where anyone can easily search for information about their family, home or community, visit https://www.christchurcharchaeology.org/the-database

• While Canterbury Museum is closed for renovation, you can explore items from their collection relating to snuff at https://collection.canterburymuseum.com/objects?query=snuff And they have a pop-up too: https://www.canterburymuseum.com/visit

Jane Leighs

References

Burton Brothers, 1884. Christchurch. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa. Ref C.011604.

Fooks, C., 1862. Christchurch, Canterbury, New Zealand, 1862 [cartographic material]. Christchurch City Libraries.

Goodman, J., 1993. Tobacco in history: the cultures of dependence. London: Routledge.

Harrison, D. F. N., 1986. Dangers of Snuff, Both “Wet” and “Dry”. British Medical Journal (Clinical Research Edition), 293: 1649-1651.

Jeffrey, J., 2022. Wait, what is Queen Charlotte sniffing in ‘Bridgerton’? [online] Available at: https://www.today.com/popculture/tv/bridgerton-queen-charlotte-sniffing-snuff-rcna22208 [Accessed 26 October 2023].

Trendafilov, A., Garland, J., Whybrew, C., Mearns, L., Lillo Bernabeu, M., Hennessey, M. and Webb, K., 2018a. Christchurch Convention Centre Precinct - Volume 2: Final report on archaeological monitoring under HNZPT authority 2017/280eq, Christchurch, New Zealand.

Trendafilov, A., Garland, J., Whybrew, C., Mearns, L., Lillo Bernabeu, M., Hennessey, M. and Webb, K., 2018b. Christchurch Convention Centre Precinct - Volume 3: Final report on archaeological monitoring under HNZPT authority 2017/280eq, Christchurch, New Zealand.

Ink-credible inks

This past week (let’s be honest, this year) has been a bit chaotic, work-wise, so it’s another blog post of artefact photos from me. Hopefully, in the next post I write, I’ll be able to give a bit more of an update on the database project and what we’re up to, but that day is not today. This week, because I’ve been doing a lot of writing and scribbling with pens and pencils, I’ve decided to showcase writing implements, particularly ink bottles. Most of us don’t use ink for writing as much as we used to and, thanks to the ballpoint pen, we certainly don’t require ink in the same format as our ancestors did. The ink bottles used by people in the nineteenth and early twentieth century came in a range of forms and sizes, but can be separated broadly into inkwells - that is, small bottles into which the pen-nib was dipped directly - and larger, ‘bulk’ ink bottles, used to refill these smaller bottles and inkwells. As an artefact of daily life, they are an indication of literacy, although not the only one. From the marks and names on the bottles, we can see the trade relationships to Britain and Europe and learn something about developments in ink manufacturing; from the shapes, we can learn about changes and innovations in glass-making during the nineteenth century.

A small circular inkwell with black residue still visible inside the bottle. This was found on the site of the old Occidental Hotel and could have been used by a hotel staff or a guest staying there. Image: Maria Lillo Bernabeu.

Penny ink bottles! So called because of their price, these are a very common find on nineteenth century archaeological sites in Christchurch (and New Zealand). Image: Jessie Garland.

P. and J. Arnold were British based manufacturers and exporters of ink during the nineteenth century. Their company had its beginnings in the early eighteenth century under another name and, by the nineteenth century, they were producing up to 30 different kinds of ink that were sent around the world. Image: Jessie Garland.

These delightful little bottles are known as ‘boat inks’ by collectors, although you might have to squint to see the resemblance to a boat. They’re notable for the grooves along the shoulder of the bottle, which allowed the user to rest their pen on the bottle without it rolling off. Image: Jessie Garland.

A cone ink (otherwise known as a “ring cone” or “cone carmine”). The inspiration for the name is a little more obvious here, given the distinctive shape, while ‘ring’ refers to the ring of glass on the shoulder of the bottle. This was found in association with an 1890s-early 1900s burn layer on a site on the west of the city. Image: Chelsea Dickson.

A beautiful wee octagonal ink bottle. This has the crude “burst-off” finish characteristic of these bottles, which were cheap and easily made. This one is from a c. 1880s context in the central city. Image: Jessie Garland.

A tiny square ink well with a slightly uneven base (this would not have stood flat on a desk!). I love that you can see the uneven cavity of the inside of the bottle through the side - how the glass pools in one corner but thins in the other. Image: Jessie Garland.

Another very predictable name - this is what’s known as a “bell ink”, although the bell shape is not so distinctive in this example as it might be in some others. This was found in a c. 1860s-1870s collection of rubbish deposited into a central city gully channel. Image: Jessie Garland.

An ink bottle shaped like a shoe! Why not. Image: Jessie Garland.

I love this bottle. This is what’s known as a churchwarden ink bottle, most commonly associated with red ink and identifiable from the distinctive square finish (or top). This was found on a site in Lyttelton, although we can’t associate it with any one business or household. It was made by Doulton and Co., Lambeth, potters well-known for their stoneware bottles and jars. The registration mark on the side dates its production to some time after 1876. Image: Jessie Garland.

French ink! It wasn’t just English inks and ink bottles exported to colonies like New Zealand. Several of these bottles, which bear the mark of Antoine et Fils (Antoine and Son) ‘L’Encre Japonaise’ (Japanese Inks), have been found throughout the city in deposits dating to the 1870s and 1880s. Antoine et Fils were Parisian based ink manufacturers operating from at least the 1870s, although we don’t know much about their business. Image: Jessie Garland.

And last, but by no means least, an ink bottle with a truly literary link (beyond the obvious). This ink bottle is stamped with the mark of Smith, Elder and Co., a London based publishing company who famously published Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre in 1847. The company began as a bookseller and stationer, but became well-known as a publisher after the success of Jane Eyre. This bottle was found on a site associated with a local bookseller and stationer on Colombo Street in the 1860s. Image: Jessie Garland.

Underground Overground blog: shoes!

Got a thing for shoes? Well, head on over to the blog run by our excellent friends at Underground Overground to learn a bit more about shoes - and the shoe industry - in 19th century Christchurch.

A colourful compendium

One of the features of nineteenth century ceramics in New Zealand is how colourful many of them can be. Transferware - that is, ceramic vessels decorated with underglaze transfer prints, designs quite literally transferred onto the unglazed pottery with a sheet of paper - are easily the most common household ceramic type found on nineteenth century sites in Christchurch. While much of the transferware produced in the first half of the nineteenth century was the traditional blue and white, referencing blue and white Chinese porcelain, by the second half of the nineteenth century an array of colours were available in transfer printed vessels. The colourful nature of the ceramics found in New Zealand and its fellow commonwealth colonies of Australia, South Africa and Canada has actually been considered a characteristic of British colonial material culture in the mid-late nineteenth century - particularly because it contrasts with the popularity of undecorated or moulded (but not printed or painted) white ceramics among Anglo-Americans in the latter half of the nineteenth century (Lawrence 2003: 26-27).

This is the kind of material culture analysis and patterning that I find fascinating, because it makes us ask why. In the study cited, the American trends are discussed in terms of things like class preferences and the effects of particular trade choices, while there is an obvious shared British-ness between the colonial Australian, Canadian and South African examples. It makes me think about the patterns in our household ceramics today as much as it makes me want to ask more questions of the Christchurch dataset in terms of pottery preference and socio-cultural contexts. Would you describe your household ceramics today as colourful? How many people still have a ‘good’ dinner set that’s entirely white and undecorated? Why is that the good one and - maybe - the colourful set the everyday one? Is it about the aesthetic of food + dish at the table, or is it about a sense of what constitutes ‘refined’ in table wares? What are we buying into when we purchase these items? Something to think about, that’s for sure.

Here, then, are a selection of transfer wares from the Christchurch collection. Although they’re isolated items in these photographs, it’s worth imagining them within their household setting - carrying food, at a table with decorated table cloths, particular wallpaper, a certain type of furnishing. As a result of my own aesthetic choices in presenting this blog, these examples do veer more towards complete artefacts from the 1850s-1870s period.

This gorgeous pattern is called British Birds and is an example of the classic blue and white transferware most commonly found in the nineteenth century. The shade of blue varied across different transfer prints - sometimes it’s dark enough to be called navy, while other prints are more of a soft sky blue in colour. This saucer was made by Samuel Alcock and Co. and dates to c. 1855-1959. Image: J. Garland.

Green was a popular choice for transfer prints, often found in association with floral/foliage prints and geometric style motifs, including Greek key borders. The maker of this saucer is unknown, as is the pattern name, but it likely dates to the 1850-1870s period. Image: J. Garland.

Brown might seem like an odd aesthetic choice for household table wares, but while not as common as the blues and green, it turns up more than you might think. This pattern is the Dresden pattern (one of several with this name) and the platter was made by Ralph Malkin between 1863 and 1881. Image: J. Garland.

This is a colour referred to as ‘mulberry’ by archaeologists and collectors, a sort of reddish purple or purple-ish maroon. Mulberry was a popular colour in the mid-nineteenth century (c. 1840s and 1850s), although it was produced throughout (Samford 1997). This is the Mycene pattern, but the maker is unknown. It was found in an 1860s-1870s context. Image: J. Garland.

Green again! This matching cup and saucer are decorated with the Napier pattern and were made by William Brownfield between 1850 and 1871. Image: J. Garland.

This one’s a bit fancy, with gold highlights applied over the top of the transfer print to add a bit of decadence to the design. This technique - the application of paint over the top of an underglaze transfer print is sometimes referred to as ‘clobbering’, which I find very funny. The name of this pattern is unidentified, but it was made by William Taylor Copeland c. 1847-1867. This would have been a higher end vessel than some of the others depicted here. Image: C. Watson.

Red is sometimes subsumed into the mulberry category, but this bowl is a bit brighter and more vibrant than the other mulberry example above, so I’m just going to call it red. This pattern is the Ravenna pattern, made by William Emberton c. 1851-1871. Image: J. Garland.

I just think this one’s quite pretty. Another classic blue and white pattern, this time featuring branches and leaf sprays alongside stylised flowers and scrolls. Neither the pattern name nor the maker are known for this cup. Image: C. Watson.

Another clobbered example, albeit one that’s a little more garish and a little less fancy than the previous one shown. It’s the green, I think, contrasting so much with the purple. This is the Andalusia pattern, made by John Thomson at some point before 1865. Image: C. Dickson.

And lastly, an old favourite. This idyllic pattern has the somewhat odd name “Duncan’s Rural Scenes”, referencing a series of transfer prints based on watercolours by Edward Duncan, featuring rural landscapes and scenes. It’s actually a combination of two pattern series - the central motif of the sheep is part of the Duncan Scenes, while the bramble border is part of what’s known as the Rural Scenes border pattern. This plate was made by William Taylor Copeland and dates to c. 1850-1867. Image: J. Garland.

-Jessie

References

Lawrence, S., 2003. Exporting Culture: Archaeology and the Nineteenth-Century British Empire. In Historical Archaeology, Vol. 37(1): 20-33.

Samford, P., 1997. Response to a Market: Dating English Underglaze Transfer-Printed Wares. In Historical Archaeology, Vol. 31(2): 1-30.

American artefacts

As one of our project members is currently undertaking a research trip to the US (and UK), I thought that for this week’s blog, I might pull out some of my favourite American artefacts from the Christchurch collection. While British products and British-made materials (like glass and ceramic) are most common on nineteenth century European sites, we do find some items from the USA. Almost all of these are pharmaceutical products and remedies, a result of the thriving - and global - patent medicine and cosmetic industry in nineteenth century America.

First up, Gouraud’s Oriental Cream. Despite the name and the advertising, this was an American product, created by Dr F. Felix Gouraud, a.k.a Englishman Joseph W. Trust, an immigrant to the US in the 1830s. Trust was a bit of a hustler, who went into the patent medicine business and reinvented himself a few times, eventually landing on “Trust Felix Gouraud” or “the Doctor”. He died in 1877 and his business was continued by his third wife, Martha, and, eventually, her second husband, Ferdinand T. Hopkins. Surprisingly, the most interesting thing about Gouraud’s Oriental Cream was not the somewhat chaotic life-story of its creator, but the fact that the cream contained mercury. Used as a skin cream - and advertised as a ‘safe’ remedy for brightening the complexion - the product contained enough mercury to actually cause poisoning in some users, defying the marketing claims that it was “so harmless we taste it to be sure it is properly made”. Despite this, it continued to be made and sold into the 1930s, long after the harmful effects of mercury were known. Image: J. Garland; New Zelaand Herald 11/04/1927: 7.

Barry’s Tricopherous has long been one of my favourite artefacts, due to the completely outlandish claims made about its effects and the actual contents of the product. Alexander Barry of New York was another purveyor of patent remedies, although his success was more in the realm of haircare. His Tricopherous, first sold in the US in the mid-19th century, was marketed as a hair restorative with the extraordinary power to also “cure eruptions and diseases of the skin” and “heal cuts, burns, bruises and sprains”. The remedy was actually mostly alcohol, making it unlikely it would do even half of what it promised. Despite this, Barry’s Tricopherous - and other Barry’s products (including hair dye) - remained very popular. Barry’s Tricopherous is one of the most common haircare products found on 19th century sites in Christchurch. Image: J. Garland; Otago Daily Times 23/11/1871: 4).

Murray and Lanman’s Florida Water is another fairly common 19th century product, a perfume or “eau de toilette”, which sounds so much better than the English translation “toilet water”. Murray and Lanman were also based in New York and their Florida Water, an American alternative to the European ‘Eau de cologne’, became famous around the globe during the 19th century, to the point that the company was involved in several court cases to protect their trademark. The name came from an early 19th century mythical association of Florida with the fabled “Fountain of Youth”. The fragrance is still sold today and, as a side note, is mentioned in Gone With the Wind, perhaps an indication that it was one of those products whose ubiquity sees them absorbed into the cultural landscape of their time. Image: J. Garland; New Zealand Times 20/12/1884: 4.

Weston’s Wizard Oil is easily a contender for the best patent medicine name of the 19th century, although it is maybe not a name that inspires trust in its efficacy. Marketed as the “Great American Medicine”, Weston’s Wizard Oil was one of those “cure-all” patent medicines that claimed to fix everything with its combination of “healing gums, balsams, vegetable oils and rare medicinal herbs”. My favourite is the promise to “raise the bedridden”. Weston’s Wizard Oil was the brainchild of Frank Weston, a showman (he briefly ran an Opera House) who combined entertainment with marketing his patent medicines. Weston was American by birth, but spent a great deal of time in Australia, touring his Wizard Oil and Magic Pills, as well as his other ventures (see Foxhall 2017 for an interesting discussion of Weston’s career and attitudes in context of race and quarantine in Australia).

Finally, to prove that not all of the American artefacts in the collection are patent medicines, perfumes or cosmetics, here is an example of one of the most famous American brands of the last 200 years - Heinz. This olive jar, which still has a little bit of the label remaining, is a 20th century artefact, dating to the 1920s, but Heinz has its origins in the 1860s with Henry J. Heinz of Pennsylvania (Lockhart et al.). They famously marketed their “57 varieties” of pickles and sauces from the 1890s onwards, including the stuffed olives represented by this jar. Image: J. Garland; Evening Star 10/09/1935: 14.

Jessie Garland

Missing pieces

There are a lot of artefacts in the Christchurch assemblage. We don’t have an exact count, but I’d estimate there’s somewhere between 300 000 and 400 000 objects represented. Each of these artefacts has a story, but not all of those stories are fully known. In some cases, we know where an artefact came from, who made it, who sold it, who owned it, what it was used for, how it came to be here and why it was thrown away. In other cases, we may only know the answer to one of these questions or, as is typical of archaeology, the answers to these questions only raise other questions that we don’t have answers to. Sometimes there are so many possible answers that we may never be able to narrow it down to the correct option. It’s an aspect of archaeology that gets lost a little bit in light of the attention on the information and the things we do find out – there’s still a lot of mystery in the past and sometimes that mystery, that uncertainty about how something came to be here, why it was made or bought or thrown away, becomes as much the part of an artefact story as the things we know to be true. For today’s blog, then, I’ve decided to put together a little showcase of some of the artefacts from the Christchurch assemblage whose stories are still missing a few details.

This small dish was found on a mixed commercial and residential site in Christchurch’s CBD. It’s made from porcelain, decorated with a brown slip glaze, through which another design has been etched. This style of decoration, found on porcelain, was popular in the 1720s when it was known as Batavian ware, in reference to the port of Batavia, now known as Jakarta, through which some Chinese export porcelain was transported. Some of this porcelain, which had distinctive blue and white painted decoration, was then covered with a dark brown glaze and decorated by European engravers, who etched out windows in the brown glaze to the original design or created bird and branch motifs like the one here. Here’s where the mystery starts – this dish, while it has the brown glaze and etched design, does not appear to be Chinese export porcelain, nor is there any blue hand painting visible beneath the glaze. The decoration is quite crude, not nearly as refined as some examples from the 1720s. It was also found in an 1850s-1860s context in Christchurch, and we have to wonder how it came to be there. There was something of a revival in the style in the early 1800s, but even that is too early to for the dish to have been purchased in New Zealand or even purchased in Europe and then brought over with the early European settlers. It’s most likely that it was an inherited piece, something sentimental or valuable enough to be held onto, passed down through a family and brought to Christchurch by whoever owned it. But it’s still unclear who made it and when – is it less-refined original or a later imitation of the original Batavian ware and, if so, who made it?
Image: J. Garland.

This wee gem of an artefact was found in association with an 1860s shop and residence on Colombo Street. The Younghusband family occupied the site, with John Younghusband running a stationer’s and fancy goods store at the front, while his family resided to the rear of the section. This cutlery handle, likely from a knife, has “FOR A GOOD BOY” hand carved into the side. It’s a phrase that’s not uncommon to find on children’s artefacts from the time – we find a lot of christening cups, in particular, that say things like “a present for a good girl”, usually printed or hand painted in gilt lettering. This is the only example I’ve seen of the phrase used on a knife handle and I’m curious to know how it came to be there. Was it a gift from one of the Younghusband parents to one of their sons? Was it a reminder to the child to mind their manners at the dinner table? Could it have been something carved by the boy himself, for some reason obvious to him? Was it treasured? If so, why was it thrown away? Were there accompanying forks and spoons with similarly carved handles? I will never know.
Image: J. Garland.

This chamber pot base bears the mark of Sampson Bridgwood and Son and was found on a site on Gloucester Street in central Christchurch. What’s interesting about this mark is that the name “S. Bridgwood and Son” has been painted over, for no immediately obvious reason. It may have been a piece that the manufacturer didn’t want to claim as theirs? Perhaps it was resold by someone else who pretended to be the manufacturer? Was the mark printed on the base by accident (this seems unlikely!) and subsequently covered up? Was it produced by the pottery during a period when it was unable to trade as Sampson Bridgwood and Son? I wish I knew!

Image: K .Bone.

In the nineteenth century, retailers and distributors of ceramics would sometimes stamp their own mark on the vessels they sold or exported, advertising their business and asserting their status as reputable merchants through their wares. We have a few examples of this from nineteenth century Christchurch businesses – not just on ceramics, but also on clay pipes. What’s unusual about these two pieces is that the marks refer to merchants based in Chile and Indonesia. Rogers Y Ca, or Rogers and Co., were an importing firm based out of Valparaiso, Chile from the 1880s, while Herman Salomonson was a Dutch merchant linked to the port of Semarang in what was then the Dutch East Indies, now Indonesia. Neither of these were big trading ports for the import/export of domestic ceramics to New Zealand specifically, although they were part of the more general global trade network in which New Zealand (and the nineteenth century British empire) participated. How did these artefacts come to be in Christchurch? Were they picked up by a sailor or merchant at some point and eventually discarded in the city when broken or no longer wanted? Are they evidence of indirect trade with these two merchants or ports – items that were sold or distributed from Valparaiso or Semarang to somewhere else - London, maybe - to Christchurch? I have theories, but no certainties, unfortunately.

Image: J. Garland

Found underneath an 1880s house in Christchurch, this message in a bottle remains one of the most simultaneously exciting and disappointing artefacts I’ve ever worked with. The excitement was in the mystery of the artefact as it was found, with the message visible in the bottle but still unknown, not to mention the thrill of unrolling it when it had been extracted, knowing that we were reading words that had been hidden for more than a century. The disappointment was in the utter mundanity of the message, which simply states that the bottle had been put under the house on this day in this year by this person. No reason is given, there is no indication of who the culprits were in relation to the house (and no secrets to be revealed!). Maybe it was put there to commemorate something (but what!?), maybe it was put there out of sheer boredom. Who were these people? Why was it witnessed? Could it have been a hoax? I still have questions.
Image: J. Garland.

Not actually from Christchurch, this one. This book, which, despite its apparently salacious title, is actually a novel with temperance themes (the man trap is a pub, get it?), was found in the walls of a nineteenth century house in Ashburton. We know who wrote it, when it was published and even what the story was – I believe the text is freely available online if anyone wants to read it. What I’m still curious about, however, is how it came to be inside the wall of a house. We know people sometimes used paper as (very flammable) insulation, but if this book was meant to have the same purpose, it would likely have been found with many more books or pieces of paper than it was. Was it secreted away by someone whose tendency towards temperance was frowned up by other people in the house? Was it lost? Why, oh, why was the book in the wall.
Image: J. Garland

-Jessie