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.

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.

Annie Twyneham’s house, presumed to have been actually physically built by her builder. Annie also owned the adjacent section, where an identical house was built. And, for the factoid: was a member of Our Father’s Church, a ‘free’ church established in Christchurch in 1882 (Lyttelton Times 6/6/1908: 6). Image: F. Bradley, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

Clara Ann Holder’s neat little house (somewhat modified in the 20th century). Clara was one of the two women who didn’t have any children. Image. P. Mitchell, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

Can you spot the very slight aysmmetry of this house? It was built by Maria Weidner, a widow. Maria was born in Prussia and became a naturalised British citizen in 1899 (Ancestry.com). The asymmetry puzzles me: there was just no need! Did the builder make a mistake? Image: P. Mitchell, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

Harriett Snell! Grocer, dress-maker, teacher of dress-making, co-owner of a successful secondhand good business. And builder and owner of this nice little rental property in New Brighton. Image: K. Webb, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

Tainui, the Sumner rental property built and owned by Susan Kirk. Susan and her husband would later move to Timaru, and become socially quite well-connected (Timaru Herald 19/12/1908: 2). Perhaps one of the advantages of small-town life… Image: K. Webb, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

We’re lucky this house survived until the earthquakes: Fanny Jane Langford nearly burnt it down when she spilled kerosene onto a pile of clothes that had caught fire (Press 14/5/1890: 6). Although we don’t have any information about what this house looked like inside, the lack of sidelights on either side of the front door suggests it may have had a cottage layout. A cottage layout would have saved in construction costs, and perhaps these savings were used to buy the rather lovely Chicago windows. Such trade-offs in costs were not unusual in house-building. Image: Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

The house that Matilda Sneesby built. About Matilda I can unfortunately say very little, except that this would have been a long way from her days as a stillroom maid in London - I wonder if that young woman dreamt of owning a lovely home like this in the suburbs? And, if so, did she ever imagine that dream would come true? And that several of children, including at least one daughter, would attend university (Press 7/11/1895: 6; Star (Christchurch) 20/12/1899: 4). Image: P. Mitchell, Ōtautahi Christchurch archaeological archive.

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