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.

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

What's in a name?

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

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

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

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

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

Como c.1878-c.1883*

Como. Image: P. Mitchell.

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

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

Cora Villa c.1879-c.189

Cora Villa. Image: P. Mitchell.

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

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

Aubyn House c.1883- c.1893

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

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

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

Aorangi c.1884- c.1916

Aorangi. Image: L. Tremlett.

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

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

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

Cotswold House c.1884- c.1895

Cotswold House. Image: M. Hennessey.

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

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

St Vedas c.1896- c.1930

St Vedas. Image: F. Bradley.

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

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

Tainui c.1896-c.1916

Tainui. Image: K. Webb.

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

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

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

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

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

 Katharine Watson

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

References

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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