Black Beers and Ring Seals: the underdogs of the artefact world

This week’s blog was inspired by a Facebook comment on our previous blog post. You might remember that in the last blog we went through some of the artefacts we’ve uncovered over the past six months. One set of artefacts we included were black beer bottles of various shapes. In the blog post I wrote that black beer bottles weren’t particularly interesting or unusual as we find them all the time, but I included them in the blog as I liked the photo of the different shapes lined up together. One of our reader’s commented back saying that she found it interesting learning more about black beer bottles and the range of products they held.

This comment somewhat surprised me as I don’t always find black beer bottles the most interesting of artefacts, and led me to ponder the value we place on ‘rarity’. Does an artefact have more value if it’s unusual? Does an artefact have less value if it’s common? Arguably, for archaeologists, the value of an artefact is in its ability to tell us about the people who used it and discarded it – rarity is the realm of collectors and antique dealers. Yet rarity and commonness does have its use in interpretation – artefacts that are commonly found likely represent objects that were cheap, easily available, or fashionable. Artefacts that are more unusual suggest there were other factors behind their purchase. This means the ‘rarity’ or ‘commonness’ of an artefact is useful for interpreting what an artefact means, what it can say about the people who owned it. Yet when it comes to the physical object itself, there’s just not the same feeling of excitement and intrigue when pulling a broken black beer bottle base out of a bag when compared to pulling out a complete porcelain vase. You could say, that all artefacts are valuable, but some artefacts are more valuable than others. Putting that pondering aside, this week on the blog we’re going to focus on two of the artefacts we find in nearly every archaeological site: black beer and ring seal bottles.

Just last week one of our archaeologists exclaimed, “Black beer bottles! Again! Every site! Black beer bottles! We must have thousands of them!”. And I’d say we probably do. Black beer bottles and ring seal bottles are the most common glass artefacts that we find. For those of you who aren’t familiar with these bottles, this is what they look like:

Or at least this is what they normally look like by the time we get to them. If we’re lucky we find complete bottles but most of the time we’re just left with tops and bases. Image: C. Watson.

Black beer bottles appear black (they’re actually a dark olive colour) and ring seal bottles are green in colour (like the one in the top right corner). Black beer bottles come in pint and quart sizes in two different shapes, normal and squat. We refer to them as small, tall, small squat and large squat, but that’s just our terminology and you might see different names for the shapes. Ring seal bottles look like a champagne bottle (they also get called that, along with ring seal beer and ring seal wine bottles). They typically come in pint and quart sizes, although we’ve found miniature ones before as well. In addition to these we also get stout, Bordeaux, hock or rhine, and cognac bottle shapes.

This image brings to mind the song ‘99 bottles of beer on the wall’ (you can thank me later for getting it stuck in your head). Some of the many black beer and ring seal type bottles we get. From left to right: stout, tall black beer, small black beer, large squat black beer, small squat black beer, small ring seal, large ring seal, cognac, Bordeaux. Image: C. Watson.

While many of these names are also a type of alcoholic beverage (such as cognac), they’re used to describe the shape of the bottle rather than the specific contents. Typically, these styles of bottles were used for all types of alcohol, be that beer, wine or spirits. The bottles were  usually imported into the country with the alcoholic content already inside  – we found hundreds of still sealed bottles that contained Pale Ale at a bonded warehouse site (presumably they went off on the journey over and that’s why they were thrown out). Once in New Zealand the bottles were sold, the contents consumed, and the empty bottles collected by local brewers who refilled the bottles with their own product and re-labelled them. Alternatively, the bottles were just thrown out leaving us to find them quite a few years later. Prior to 1922 all glass bottles were imported into New Zealand, meaning there was a limited supply of bottles and companies often advertised in newspapers for more. Bottle shortages affected all businesses that sold bottled products, not just brewers, which led to companies bottling their product in whatever type of bottle they could get their hands on. In other parts of the country, ring seal and black beer bottles have been found with labels for ginger beer, lemonade, and lemon essence, although in Christchurch we’ve mostly only come across labels for alcoholic drinks.

A typical sight in a nineteenth century newspaper: an advertisement for a company wanting wine and beer bottles.

Some of the labelled ring seal and black beer bottles we’ve found to date in Christchurch: a Bass Ale (that had a message inside), a Crown Brewery, and a Treble London Stout. Image: J. Garland and C. Watson.

When we analyse these bottles, we look at several different attributes. Many of these focus on describing the physical appearance of the bottle – what colour it is, the shape of the different portions including the finish (top), the neck, the shoulder, the body and the base (who knew there were so many parts to a bottle), and which portions are present. Recording these allows us to see what variation exists within a bottle type, and (where possible) to link those variations to specific processes in the manufacture of the bottle.

Typical variation in black beer bottle finishes and bases. Looking at the bottle finishes we have a finish that tapers up on the left, a finish that is flat with a bead or collar below the flat section in the middle, and one that is curved with a skirt below the curved section on the right. The bases are a bit easier to see the differences. The one on the left has a conical profile whilst the one on the right is more domed and has a small pimple off-set from the centre. Image: C. Watson.

We also record how the bottle was manufactured.  In the nineteenth century, manufacture of glass bottles was done by hand, with the glass-blower blowing the bottle into a mould. Different types of moulds were used, with each mould leaving different types of seams on the body of the mould. Black beer bottles were normally formed in single or three-piece dip moulds, whilst ring seals were either dip-moulded or turn-moulded. Occasionally they were made in a two-piece cup bottom mould, but this is less common. The types of moulds used by glass blowers changed over the nineteenth century, giving us an indication of when the bottle was likely made. If you’re interested in bottle manufacture, I definitely recommend checking out the SHA Website as it’s an absolute treasure trove of information.

Some of the many moulds used by nineteenth century glass makers. The glass was blown into the mould to form the body and base of the bottle, with the finish applied by hand (finishing the bottle- get it). Images taken from the SHA Website.

Finally, we record any embossing or labels on the bottle. When these are present, they can tell us either who made the bottle or what it likely contained. This in turn can help us to date when the bottle was likely manufactured. Unfortunately, paper labels don’t normally survive being in the ground for over a hundred years and we don’t find them that often. Embossing is more common, normally found on the base of black beer bottles.

Sometimes these marks are just a letter or a number, other times they’re a manufacturer’s initials. Two marks that turn up time and time again are those for Richard Cooper and Thomas Wood. Cooper and Wood were partners at the Portobello glass works in Scotland between 1859 and 1866. During that time the bases of their bottles were embossed with “COOPER & WOOD”.  In 1866 the pair broke their partnership and divided the company and factory into two separate glass works. Cooper retained the larger portion of the glass works and operated under the name Richard Cooper and Co until 1895, when the firm became a limited company. Thomas Wood built a new glass works next to the old factories, remaining in business until 1920. Richard Cooper and Thomas Wood both continued to emboss the bases of their bottles using their surname and Portobello.

Cooper and Wood black beer bottle bases. The one on the left was made by Thomas Wood whilst the one on the right was made by Richard Cooper. Both were likely manufactured between 1866 and 1885 after the separate glass works were established. Image: C. Watson.

So there you have it, black beer and ring seal bottles. Not the most unusual or unique of artefacts but still interesting in their own right. And in many ways the fact that these bottles are so common is what makes them valuable, as they represent an everyday quintessential item of nineteenth century life.

One of my favourite photos from the nineteenth century. Entitled “Scandinavian picnic with beer bottles”, it looks like a lot more fun than any picnic I’ve ever been on. I can count at least 23 ring seal bottles in the photograph. From the looks of it they’re all quart sized meaning there’s about 20 litres of beer being or waiting to be drunk. Not bad for an afternoon’s effort. Image: Scandinavian picnic with beer bottles, Lowry Bay. Ref: 1/2-052226-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/23033621.  

Clara Watson

Bits and Bobs (again)

It’s been a while since we last did one of these, so here are some of our most interesting finds from the past six months.

I love this plate, but really, how could you not?! A Roman soldier on a rearing horse standing on a plinth, very majestic. The Latin phrase in the maker’s mark Vincit Veritas translates as Truth Conquers or Truth Prevails, very fitting for the image. This phrase was used by C. and J. Shaw in all their marks, although it’s not known if they were the manufacturers of the vessels, or if they were retailers who applied their own mark to the wares they bought and sold. The pair seem to have been operating roughly between 1841 and 1850, making this plate over 150 years old! Image: C. Watson

Black beer bottles are one of the most common artefacts we find on archaeological sites (I know I promised you interesting finds at the start of this post, but they look so nice all lined up in a row). Black beer is a generic term applied bottles of this style. We divide that into four sub-types: tall, small, large squat and small squat to differentiate between the different shapes and sizes. Whilst they might be called black beers that doesn’t mean they contained beer, these were used as general bottles for all types of alcohol and spirits, along with non-alcoholic beverages and sometimes even condiments and essences. Image: C. Watson.

It’s always exciting when we find multiple plates with the same pattern- leads us to wonder if people were cleaning out their china cabinet, and if so, why? These plates are decorated with the Columbia pattern which was a serial pattern produced by a variety of manufacturers, meaning there’s lots of variations to the design (Coysh and Henrywood 1982: 90). Common elements of this pattern are the shrine, the trees, a central river, distant mountains, and figures in the foreground. These plates were made by Davenport, and due to the “2.65” mark we know they were manufactured in February of 1865 (Gibson 2011: 61). Image: C. Watson.

This style of button, known as a trouser button in Britain and a suspender button in America, was used to fasten work shirts and trousers (Lindbergh 1999: 52). The buttons were made from a single sheet of copper alloy and often have an inscription running around the edge- like this one! Image: C. Watson.

I think I may just like images of bottles all lined up in a row, as none of these are overly unusual either. I guess that’s because so many of the artefacts we find are just fragments, meaning when we have complete or near complete objects it’s always exciting, even if we’ve found them complete before. Here we have a selection of various sauce and salad oil bottles, my favourite is the one in the middle. Image: C. Watson.

How idyllic does the farmhouse depicted on this cup and saucer look. It seems very quaint and summery, possibly the perfect destination for a weekend getaway. Unfortunately, we don’t know who made the cup and saucer, or what the pattern is called, so I’m unable to offer any real commentary other than isn’t it lovely. Image: C. Watson.

This artefact is cool, even if I have absolutely no idea what it is. It’s made from leather and is folded into a roughly cuboid shape, although a crease running diagonally along the front face suggests it might once have been ovoid. There’s no stitching at all, although one side is open so there may have been and it’s worn away. But the thing that makes this artefact so interesting is the small wooden sphere which sits perfectly inside the hole- blocking it. Based on that, the running theory is that it was potentially some type of water bag or storage bag, but we’re really not that sure. The fun and games of finding weird objects! Image: C. Watson.

I assumed this pot lid was going to be for toothpaste when it first appeared on my desk. I was wrong. It actually held anchovy paste, which sounds absolutely revolting. When complete the pot lid would have read “REAL GORGONA/ ANCHOVY PASTE/ SO/ HIGHLY APPROVED OF/ FOR TOAST SANDWICHES &c”. I can certainly think of nicer things to put in a sandwich! Whilst there’s no brand name included on the lid it was most likely made by John Burgess who sold imported luxury foods, including anchovies that were caught by fishing boats off Leghorn, from 1760 onwards. Image: C. Watson.

If you’re into makeup then the brand Rimmel is probably familiar. Believe it or not the company was founded all the way back in 1834 by Eugene Rimmel and his son. Eugene Rimmel was a perfumer and we find these Rimmel perfume bottles relatively often, suggesting the brand was popular even back in the nineteenth century. Image: C. Watson.

Once again, I don’t know the maker of this bowl, or the pattern name. I just think it’s pretty. Image: C. Watson.

Clara Watson

References

Coysh, A., & Henrywood, R. 1982. The Dictionary of Blue and White Printed Pottery 1780-1880. Michigan: Antique Collectors’ Club, 1982.

Gibson, E. 2011. Ceramic Makers’ Marks. Walnut Creek: Left Coast Press.

Lindbergh, J. 1999. Buttoning Down Archaeology. Australasian Historical Archaeology, 17, 50–57.

Maids of Misfortune

Every year on the 14th February we celebrate St. Valentine’s day with the exchanging of small tokens of our love and affection with our significant others. As so often is the case, the exact origins of this holiday are clouded in mystery. It is commonly believed to have begun as the pagan festival of Lupercalia, which was celebrated by young Roman bachelors and maidens by drawing out ballets from an urn revealing the name of their ‘valentine’ for the ensuing year, and was followed by raucous feasting and festivities.

During the third century, the Fathers of the Christian Church substituted the pagan festival for a more subdued festival in memory of St. Valentine, who was martyred on the 14th of February. While the exact hagiography of the saint is debated, one popular account suggests Valentine was martyred for secretly marrying Christian couples against the will of Rome, and while imprisoned is said to have written a note to the daughter of his jailor which he signed “from your Valentine”. This Christian St. Valentine’s festival also involved a feast at which rejoicings and amusements were indulged in (though of a more subdued kind than the pagan festival it had replaced), as well as the simple and innocent exchange of tender amenities between the sexes.

It was during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries that St. Valentine’s Day became a very popular festival with the aristocracy, and expensive presents began to be exchanged between Valentines. The Duke of York, for example, is recorded to have sent his Valentine (Miss Stuart, later the Duchess of York) a jewel worth £8OO! Presents were not always confined to jewels. Perfumes and articles of attire were  common gifts — mantles, girdles, gloves, and even shoes adorned with diamond buckles were bestowed (Globe 14/2/1881: 3).

By the eighteenth century the festival had been more significantly embraced by the lower classes. Couples eagerly anticipated a token of affection from their significant others on St. Valentine’s morning, while young singletons would anxiously await secret communications from the object of their adoration. During the first decades of Christchurch’s settlement the popularity of these billets d’amour (love letters) is evident in the increased number of letters being sent through the postal service. In 1878, it was reported that 13,430 letters were received and dispatched through the Christchurch post office on St. Valentine’s day alone (Lyttelton Times 16/2/1878: 2). The commercialisation of the holiday is also evident in the local newspapers, as advertisements by booksellers and stationers for valentines pop up in the count down to the big day (Lyttelton Times 27/2/1891: 1; Star 4/2/1871: 2). The holiday was celebrated not only with the exchanging of letters but also by public fetes and moonlight excursions where music and dancing abounded (Auckland Star 12/2/1881: 1; Lyttelton Times 11/2/1865: 6). By the 1880s however, the popularity of St. Valentines day seems to have dropped from its once esteemed position, which is particularly evident in the declining number of letters being sent through the post (Ashburton Guardian 19/2/1887: 2; Lyttelton Times 15/2/1888: 4; Star 15/2/1881: 2; 14/2/1882: 3; 15/2/1883: 2; 15/2/1889: 3).

Despite the decline in its popularity, the celebration of St. Valentine’s day provides an insight into an area of Victorian daily life that is not always clearly evident in the archaeological record – love, romance, and relationships. So, in honour of this historic day of love and romance, our historians have selected to share two tales which provide insight into nineteenth century relationships, and which cover everything from love, marriage, defiance, illusion, and manipulation. Enjoy!

Blind Love

Today, many of us may not think twice about asserting our right to follow our hearts and make our own decisions about who we date and choose to spend our lives with. But for many in the nineteenth century (particularly women) this freedom was not always a given. Our first tale is about a woman whose life was not always her own to direct, but who, despite a strict and controlling upbringing, managed to follow her heart and become one of the most loved women in Christchurch. This is the tale of Annie Quayle Moore.

Annie Moore was the only daughter of George Henry Moore and Anne Kermode. George Moore emigrated to Tasmania from the Isle of Man in 1830 with his friend, Robert Quayle Kermode, to work on the Kermode family sheep run, which was called Mona Vale. Almost a decade after his arrival, on 9 July 1839, Moore married his friend’s eldest sister, Anne Kermode (The Hobart Town Courier and Van Diemen’s Land Gazette, 12/7/1839: 2). Was this a love match? A way for Moore to solidify his position within the Kermode family and their sheep run? Or simply a marriage of convenient proximity – a match made in the Tasmanian countryside where men were abundant and women were few? The answer to these questions is not known. However, despite the relationship producing four children (only two of which survived to adulthood), the marriage appears to have been a loveless and unhappy one, and after a few years the pair were separated (Gardner, 1990; MacDonald 1952-1964: M544).

While young Annie was sent to be raised at her father’s birth place on the Isle of Man, the man himself travelled to New Zealand in 1853 to investigate prospects of runholding in Canterbury. Despite his separation from Anne, Moore was bankrolled by his estranged wife’s family, and he was able to select the large Glenmark sheep station, which contained one hundred and fifty acres of freehold and leasehold land. Moore proved to be an able run manager, and at one point he had extended the estate to a remarkable 81,000 acres of freehold land, upon which he managed 90,000 sheep (Acland, 1946: 271-275).

It is at this point in the tale that our heroine re-enters the scene. At 19 years of age Annie left the Isle of Man to travel to Canterbury to keep house for her father (Christchurch City Libraries, 2019). This appears to have been no easy task as, by all accounts, Mr. Moore was a difficult man to deal and live with. Moore was known as the “king of scab” and nicknamed “Scabby Moore”, because he refused to clean his sheep of the pestilence. Keeping his country scabby was believed to be a tactic which allowed him to buy up the neighbouring land cheaply (Acland, 1946: 271-275). When questioned about his obligation to his neighbours, he retaliated by asking: “What are my neighbours to me? What do I care for my neighbours?” (Lyttelton Times 15/5/1879: 7). Another account of Moore’s harsh nature is the story of a begging swagman, who Moore not only turned away from his own door on a wet bitter night, but also commanded his servants to refuse the man entry to their own homes. Being thus turned away, and with no anticipation of shelter, the man committed suicide. With no remorse for his actions, it is said that Moore even refused to let his carpenters build a coffin for the poor dead man. When news of the incident spread, the local newspapers chastised Moore as a “mean, hard-hearted, barbarous, blasphemous man” and implored their readers that “no hand of a Christian should clasp that of Mr. Moore till he has done penance for his deep crime against the laws of God and man” (Lyttelton Times 21/3/1860: 4).

For young Annie, living with this severe and harsh man dictated the way she was to live much of her life. It is believed that Moore insisted that any would-be suitors seeking Annie’s hand in marriage could only be after her money, and thus Annie spent her youth as an isolated spinster (was Moore’s assumption regarding the suitors’ intentions based on his own experience of marrying Miss Kermode for her money?). Despite the strict conditions, Annie appears to have at least lived in comfort, especially after 1888 when the construction of Moore’s grand castle-like mansion was finally completed on the Glenmark run, and allowed the father and daughter to live in secluded splendour (Figure 1). Unfortunately this was short lived as the uninsured structure was gutted by fire a few years later (Christchurch City Libraries, 2019).

Photograph of the Glenmark Station house prior to its destruction in the 1890s. Image: Glenmark Station, Waipara. Ref: 1/2-127240-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/23134000

In his later years Moore began to go blind. It is at this time that Annie finally appears to have seized her chance to take control of her own life. In 1900, Annie entered into a secret union with Dr. Joseph Henry Townend. Dr. Townend was born in Wolverhampton and studied medicine at Guys Hospital, London. He arrived in Canterbury on board the Rakaia in 1875 as a medical officer in charge of 500 emigrants. He was married shortly after his arrival to Miss Harriet Cox, with whom he had five children. Dr. Townend appears to have enjoyed a successful career, as well as a happy marriage until Harriet died in 1893 (MacDonald 1952-1964: T345). By all accounts Dr. Townend was a well-liked man, being described at one time as Christchurch’s “popular Doctor” (New Zealand Herald 24/1/1901: 3). It is not clear when Annie and Joseph’s paths first crossed (was he the Moore family’s doctor?) but it was almost certainly a love match as the two secretly conspired to be married. Annie and Joseph’s wedding took place at St. Barnabas’ church at 11 o’clock on Saturday 15 September 1900. Contemporary newspapers described the wedding as “a very quiet one” with the only witnesses being two friends, Mr R. W. Stringer and Mr. H. W. Bishop. One conspicuous absence from the wedding party was Annie’s father, and indeed it was Mr H. W. Bishop who is recorded as walking Annie down the matrimonial isle. Annie was fashionably attired for the event in a fawn silk poplin, richly trimmed with silk velvet and Maltese lace, and with a hat and sunshade to match, all made by well-known local drapers J. Ballantyne and Co. (Press 18/9/1900: 5). This romantic elopement feels like it could have come straight from a Jane Austen novel!

George Moore is believed to have never found out about his daughter’s wedding and subsequent marriage (Christchurch City Libraries, 2019). This begs the question: where did the newly married couple live after their wedding? Did Dr. Townend quietly sneak around the Glenmark estate concealed from Mr Moore’s blind eyes? Or did the new Mrs Townend come to live at the Townend family home in Park Terrace where some of Dr. Townend’s children still resided? Surely if it is the latter, then Mr Moore would have wondered at the absence of his daughter from their family home? Or was the truth hidden from him by some fiction of her travelling abroad or taking up a house of her own? Unfortunately the answer to these fanciful questions are uncertain. Mrs Townend’s place of residence is not listed in the contemporary street directories or electoral rolls, and while Mr Townsend is still recorded in 1900-1902 as occupying premises on Park Terrace, this could merely be a reference to his family doctors practice and not a true representation of his place of abode (H. Wise & Co. 1900: 220, 1902: 339).

Sadly, Dr. Joseph Henry Townend died just two years after he and Annie were married (Star 11/7/1902: 3). It is interesting to note that Dr. Townend bequeathed all of his estate to his widow, Annie, without any inheritance being set aside for his children (Archives New Zealand, 1902). This shows the trust Dr. Townsend had in his wife to continue to provide for his family (sadly records from the Probate Court show that this is not always the case!).

Annie’s father died in July 1905 at the good old age of 92 (Star 7/7/1905: 3). Annie was the sole benefactor of Moore’s large fortune (Moore’s son, William, had died young and estranged in London in 1865). The inheritance made Annie the wealthiest woman in Canterbury, but even in death Moore managed to ensure one last input in Annie’s future and scare off any suiters who were after her money. In his Will he included a clause that if Annie were ever to marry, her future husband was to have no control over her money:

I give and bequeath to my daughter Annie Quayle all my real and personal estate for her absolute use and benefit and I wish her to have all the powers to deal with it that I possessed in my lifetime. Should she marry it is my most earnest wish that her interest in my estate both real and personal be so securely settled upon her that her husband can have no control over it (Achieves New Zealand, 1905).

With Moore’s money Annie purchased the Karewa property on Fendalton Road, and renamed it Mona Vale after her mother’s house in Tasmania. Annie continued to own Mona Vale until her death in 1914 (Oamaru Mail 18/5/1914: 5). Unlike her father (or maybe in spite of him?) Annie was a very charitable woman. This is not more evident than in her Will in which she generously bequeathed a large portion of her extensive estate (which was estimated at £800,000!) to her step children, cousin, servants, friends, and to various public institutions. So generous was her endowments that local newspapers even published part of her Will for all to read:

Copy of Annie Quayle Townsends Will printed in the Press in 1914. Image: Press 30/5/1914: 11.

Annie’s obituary printed in the Oamaru Mail in May 1914, succinctly summarises her kind nature and charitable spirit, and reveals how she became one of the most cherished women in Christchurch:

The deceased lady, who led a most retired life, was chiefly known for her charitable work. She was one of the kindest and most humane of women. She was a most liberal contributor to charitable and deserving objects, in many cases anonymously. She was greatly loved by all who knew her (Oamaru Mail 18/5/1914: 5).

Er steht einfach nicht auf Dich (He’s just not that into you)

Nineteenth century Canterbury was to be the bastion of an Anglican utopia, a prime colonial example of good social order. But even a brief foray into the records of the day unveils that the love life of the early settlers was often the cause of the more interesting accounts of the Canterbury settlement. Love manifests in many ways and can create a heady concoction of misjudgement, illusion, and sometimes manipulation.

Some of us (or a lot of us) have had that brief but embarrassing delusion that someone is totally into you. Sometimes in that haze of infatuation (sometimes mistaken for the real deal) we get that niggle of reality that all is not what it seems. The wakeup call is either getting dumped unceremoniously, ghosted into oblivion, and the oh-so often allocation to the ‘friend zone’, or in the case Wilhelmina Klaus (despite her tenacity) completely replaced by an imported wife…

Johann Grabau had been part of a migration of German settlers to the Halswell/Tai Tapu area in the 1850s and 60s. In 1864 Grabau, a single man at the time, had gone into a brief partnership with another German immigrant Wilhelm (William) Klaus. Wilhelm was married to Wilhelmina (cute I know!). Current research indicates that Wilhelm and Wilhelmina were married circa 1858 in London. Klaus and his wife were recorded immigrating from London to New Zealand on the Regina which arrived in Lyttelton 4th December 1859. Klaus was listed as William Klaus, aged 43, and his wife Wilhelmina, aged 28 (Figure 1). By 1862 Klaus was naturalized and listed as a farmer originally from Hanover, Germany.

The Klaus couple’s arrival to New Zealand. Image: Archives NZ, 1859: 4.

By 1866 it appears all was not well in the marriage as William advertised in the Lyttelton Times that he would not be answerable for any debts that his wife, Wilhelmina Klaus, may contract from this date: 20th September 1866 (Lyttelton Times 21/9/1866: 4). From research conducted in a later court case, it was noted that Wilhelmina (possibly affronted by this development) took things into her own hands and on the 1st December 1866, it was alleged that she cohabitated with Johann Grabau.

By March 1867 Klaus was suing Grabau (also recorded as Graban or Grabow) for £500 over the alleged cohabitation of Grabau and Wilhelmina (Lyttelton Times 8/3/1867: 2). During the Supreme Court case the legality of the Klaus marriage was called into account – were they actually married? Two witnesses who knew the couple in London attested that they were married as they witnessed the couple coming out of an East End church in London approximately five years prior. Historic documents show that a Wilhelm Heinrich Jacob Klaus, aged 41, married Wilhelmine (Wilhelmina) Johanna Wespfahln (Westfall), aged 28, on the 31st of October 1858 at St. George’s German Lutheran Church in Whitechapel, London. The cross-examination of the witnesses even covered the sleeping arrangements of the married couple’s one roomed cottage on Lincoln Road, Christchurch. Apparently, Wilhelmina had other ideas for her sleeping arrangements. Whilst staying at the Wellington Hotel in Tuam Street (which she had stayed at on a prior occasion with Mr Klaus) she was collected by Mr Grabau, along with all her boxes.  Some two weeks later Wilhelmina was back at the hotel this time with Mr Klaus. Grabau arrived at the hotel to inquire of her whereabouts only to be told that Wilhelmina was booked in at the hotel with her husband. Grabau infuriated at the situation stated he had a great mind to go upstairs and knock the old *&^%$’s eye out! Mrs Fuchs, the proprietor of the hotel, reminded Grabau of the married state of Mr and Mrs Klaus, to which Grabau retorted “why does he not keep her!” Grabau, good to his word, stormed up the stairs of the establishment causing a great commotion. Back down in the bar after his outburst, Grabau was soon joined by Wilhelmina speaking German in low tones. Grabau then went to get a horse and carriage, while Wilhelmina collected herself and later left with Grabau. Various other witness testimonies also confirmed that Wilhelmina and Grabau were indeed cohabitating for weeks at time (Lyttelton Times 8/3/1867: 2).

The upshot of the instance was to prove a case for Klaus to divorce his wife, and to be remunerated for it. Prior to this accusation, Klaus and his wife had planned to travel to America, resulting in the conveyance of a rural section to Grabau. The case eventually concluded that adultery had occurred, with the verdict to the plaintiff with damages of £40 (Press 8/3/1867: 2). It must be noted that Grabau’s conduct as recounted by witnesses, appeared to be reluctant. When confronted of the fact of taking another man’s wife he replied he did not want Klaus’s wife, and that she had come after him.

In 1877 (yes all was not over yet) Johann Grabau became naturalised at the age of 42 years. Grabau was also recorded in 1877 in newspapers as noting that all money due to him must be paid in full to Mrs Klaus (it seems that no trip to America eventuated…) during his absence from Canterbury (Press 13/3/1877: 4). By 1879 Grabau and Klaus were back in the district court, with Klaus claiming wages for his wife – yes, they were still married! Mrs Klaus (Wilhelmina) deposed that she had been living with Grabau as a housekeeper for eleven years and had paid her £200 in 1873. In March 1877 Grabau left for Germany and returned the following year. During this time, Mrs Klaus acted as farm manager for his property and was to receive all payments regarding the farm. On cross examination, Mrs Klaus said she had argued with Mr Klaus, and was living with Mr Grabau as a result of having nowhere to go. During her management of the farm the property had produced a good profit. On Mr Grabau’s return in 1878 he had promised payment of her wages. Grabau did return but not with payment of wages, but with a wife! Grabau had married in Germany. Grabau testified saying the £200 was a goodwill payment as they were going to part ways and it would pay for the construction of a dwelling. Grabau also stated that Mrs Klaus persuaded him to keep her as his wife. Mr Klaus at this time lived not far away. The rather convoluted court case had the judge dryly commenting that the witness, Mr Klaus, after being cross examined and insisting that Mrs Klaus was living with Grabau as a servant, that servants must very scarce if it was necessary to take such energetic exertions to secure one. Mr Klaus replied (with poor English), ‘how could she (Mrs Klaus) have two mans?’ The case closed in favour of the defendant with no costs.  The judge commented that the judgement was with regret as there was no doubt the contract between Mrs Klaus and Mr Grabau was an immoral one (Lyttelton Times 21/2/1879: 3).

To be honest it is hard to say who was playing who in this unfortunate triangle of monetary tit for tat and whether the concept of love and romance ever entered the equation. Whatever was the truth, Grabau produced his trump card in the form of a legitimate marriage, to remove himself from Wilhelmina’s entanglement. Nothing more was recorded of Klaus and Wilhelmina in local newspapers, suggesting that they left the region and Grabau to live a much more uneventful but by all accounts, happy married life.

Lydia Mearns and Annthalina Gibson

References

Acland, L.G., 1946. Early Canterbury Runs and Glossary of Station Words. Whitcombe & Tombs.

Archives New Zealand, 1859. New Zealand, Archives New Zealand, Passenger Lists, 1839-1973.

Archives New Zealand, 1902. Probate, Joseph Henry Townend. Archives New Zealand, Christchurch Regional Office, CAHX-2989-CH171-123-CH4478/1902. Available at: https://familysearch.org/

Archives New Zealand, 1905. Probate, George Henry Moore. Archives New Zealand, Christchurch Regional Office, CAHX-2989-CH171-144-CH5328/1905. Available at: https://familysearch.org/

Christchurch City Libraries, 2019. Annie Quayle Townend. [online] Unsung Heroines. Available at: <http://christchurchcitylibraries.com/Heritage/Publications/UnsungHeroines/AnnieQuayleTownend/>.

Gardner, W.J., 1990. Moore, George Henry. In: Dictionary of New Zealand Biography. [online] Te Ara – the Encyclopedia of New Zealand. Available at: https://teara.govt.nz/en/biographies/1m52/moore-george-henry

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Year, New Me

Every January I find myself saying the phrase “new year, new me” any time I do anything remotely healthy or out of the ordinary. Ate a salad: new year, new me. Went to the gym: new year, new me. Read a book rather than binge watching seven hours of Netflix in a row: new year, new me. I’m a big fan of New Year’s resolutions. Every year I resolve to get fit, do more with my free time, actually put money into my savings account, make more of an effort to catch up with people, stop buying a coffee every day. But as February dawns and 2019 really kicks into action, all of those January New Year’s resolutions are already falling by the way-side. So, as I sit here sipping my iced mocha that I guiltily spent seven dollars on, I can’t help but wonder if the nineteenth century residents of Christchurch were also in the habit of making (and breaking) New Year’s resolutions.

It turns out the practice of making New Year’s resolutions long pre-dates the Victorian era, by around 4,000 years. The ancient Babylonians are said to be the first people to celebrate the beginning of the New Year and to make New Year’s resolutions. During Akitu, a 12-day religious festival taking place in mid-March (their new year), the Babylonians either crowned a new king or reaffirmed their allegiance to the current king. As part of this festival they also made promises to their gods to pay their debts and return borrowed objects (not dissimilar to my recurring New Year’s resolution to actually save money). In return for keeping their word the gods would bestow favour on them for the coming year. So not quite my resolution to stop buying daily coffees, but a resolution nonetheless.

Whilst we can’t really associate any of the artefacts we find with the concept of New Year’s resolutions, we do find ceramic vessels that are connected to the ideal of being a better person. For instance, this coffee can is decorated with a pattern inspired by one of Dr Benjamin Franklin’s maxims. This particular pattern is illustrating the idea that you need to work hard in order to achieve success. Image: C. Watson.

Many other cultures also made New Year’s resolutions (or promises similar to a New Year’s resolution). The Romans made promises of good behaviour and offered sacrifices to Janus, the two-faced god that symbolically looked backwards to the previous year and forwards to the up-coming year. In 1740 John Wesley, founder of the Methodist Church, started the tradition of the Watch Night service. During the Watch Night service, Wesleyans would show penitence over shortcomings and failures from the previous year, whilst making resolutions of greater faithfulness for the year ahead. By the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries the practice of making resolutions at the start of the year was common; but it was not until 1813 that the phrase “New Year’s Resolution” was first used.

The first reference to New Year’s resolutions that I found in New Zealand newspapers was written by the Lyttelton Times in 1860. Following their recap of the 1859 year in which they accused residents of talking too much, praised the progress of the settlement, and discussed the plans for a tunnel and railway between Christchurch and Lyttelton, the newspaper announced their New Year’s resolution was to fully support the building of the railway. Unfortunately for the Lyttelton Times, this resolution did not come to be, with work beginning in 1860 but stopping shortly after the contractors struck rock. It was not until 1867 that the Lyttelton rail tunnel was officially opened.

Similar to us now, many New Year’s resolutions were made to give up smoking and alcohol. Although it would seem that like us, people weren’t very good at keeping those resolutions.

Given that this joke was printed in the December 1907 issue of the Lake Country Press , it would appear that “Bronson” made it a whole 11 months before he went back to smoking.

The cycle of a typical January: making various excuses for cheating on New Year’s resolutions until ultimately deciding life is better with without New Year’s resolutions .

Given the quantity of satirical stories and jokes written about New Year’s resolutions, it would appear the making (and breaking) of resolutions was a common practice in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. These satirical resolutions included promising to get on better with the boss, not being so stressed about things, and women resolving not to speak to their husbands (I highly recommend clicking on the links and reading the articles for yourself, they are quite hilarious).

When your New Year’s resolution is to accept the fact you’re single and embrace it.

As well as being used for humour, New Year’s resolutions appear to have become a big marketing ploy for businesses by the early twentieth century. Many advertisements listed in December and January encouraged potential customers to make it their New Year’s resolution to purchase new items from their stores, with everything from umbrellas to hats, and shoes advertised. My favourite marketing campaign that played on the idea of a New Year’s resolution is the one pictured below for Valaze, a type of skin cream. The New Year’s resolution the advertisement appeals to is the resolution to be beautiful, which I love because it makes it sound like women woke up on January 1st and said “Right, this year’s my year, I’m going to be beautiful now”.

Valaze, the ultimate solution for if you New Year’s resolution is to be beautiful .

From reading through these old newspaper stories and advertisements, it seems like our Victorian and Edwardian era ancestors had a similar approach to New Year’s resolutions as we do today. People made resolutions to be a “better” person, be that by giving up smoking, drinking, or becoming beautiful. But it was commonly accepted that many people did not stick to their resolutions, leading to the many satirical stories about people breaking their resolution. This practice of wanting to start the New Year afresh, to make it better than the last, is one we continue on today, and is one of the few ways we aren’t so different from our forebearers.

Clara Watson

2018: We Out

And just like that another year has passed us by. 2018 has been a year of changes here at Underground Overground. It’s with a very heavy heart we’ve said a few goodbyes to some tremendously talented archaeologists; Chelsea, Shana, Matt, Jessie, Teri and Maria. All of which have left a very big hole in the UOA family. We have however had a new addition with Michael joining the team along with Clara and Jamie becoming permanent full-timers following the completion of their Masters at Otago (Congrats – you guys rock!). Let’s take a look at some of our highlights from the year.

We got to work in some pretty cool places…

Costa del Timaru. Image: Megan Hickey.

Tikao Bay. We get paid to go to these places, it’s a pretty sweet deal I know! Image: Megan Hickey.

When the Christchurch office met the Dunedin office. The two joined forces for our dig at Redcliff. Image: Tristan Wadsworth.

Just when you think these locations can’t get any better,  we met some furry friends that really were the icing on the cake. And if you missed Hamish’s We Dig Cats blog now’s the purr-fect time to give it a read (sorry, that was claw-ful).

Did you get my good side? Image: Hamish Williams.

RIP Muncho (pictured here on a 19th century salt-glazed sewer pipe.. We also sadly lost another team member this year, the best archaeology cat you could wish for; Muncho. Image: Hamish Williams.

But on a slightly more positive note, Monty the sausage dog joined the team. Image: Clara Watson.

Of course we found some cool features…

Perhaps the best road reserve find of the year – a 1880s stone pedestrian crossing on Norwich Quay, Lyttelton. Find out more about this fine feature, and road formation archaeology here. Image: Hamish Williams.

Our buildings archaeologist’s have been busy finding hidden 19th century gems in Rangiora. Images: Jamie Hearfield.

A gully in Akaroa containing (literally) hundreds of artefacts. Image: Maria Lillo Bernabeu.

We also came across some interesting people from the past.

This year we celebrated the 125th anniversary of women’s suffrage, which saw New Zealand become the first self-governing country in the world in which all women had the right to vote in parliamentary elections (check out our blog post A tea cup as a symbol of political change from September to read our tribute to those amazing women who helped make it all happen). Not only did women get the right to vote, but women were also eligible to sit on many councils and boards (although women were not eligible to become members of Parliament until 1919!). Mrs Elizabeth Yates became the first Mayor of the Onehunga District in Auckland in December 1893, just three months after women had been given the right to vote (Star 20/11/1893: 3, Press 1/12/1893: 5). Unfortunately this was an exception and not the rule, and Canterbury’s local governing bodies continued to be populated by men throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth century.

During our research of Canterbury’s past we often come across some interesting insights into those men who made up these governing bodies. For example, the Superintendents of Canterbury. When the New Zealand Constitution Act was passed in Government in June 1852, the Province of Canterbury was officially formed and a Provincial Council was elected to govern it. At the head of the Council was the position of Superintendent. During the tenure of the provincial system Canterbury had four Superintendents; James Edward Fitzgerald (1853-1857), William Sefton Moorhouse (1857-1863), Samuel Bealey (1863-1868), and William Rolleston (1868-1876). These four gentlemen held different opinions on the best way to govern and what ought to be prioritised, and not unlike the government today, their opinions sometimes conflicted. In 1869 Alfred Charles Barker, a prominent Christchurch photographer, took two photos of two of the Superintendents of Canterbury, Rolleston and Fitzgerald, which highlighted and made fun of this fact. The first photo, entitled “The Argument”, shows the two superintendents apparently having a heated discussion (Figure 1), while the second photo, entitled “Result of the Argument”, shows them apparently resolving their differences with a (mock) fist fight (Figure 2).

Photgraph entitled “The Argument”, showing Superintendents James Fitzgerald (Left) and William Rolleston (Right) in discussion. Image: Barker, 1869b.

Photograph entitled “Result of the Argument” showing Superintendents James Fitzgerald (Left) and William Rolleston (Right) having a mock fight. Image: Barker, 1869.

Unfortunately, not all of the disagreements between Canterbury’s official elite were so jovially represented. In 1900, a disagreement between Sumner’s Mayor William Rollitt and Councillor Charles Hulbert, resulted in a heated argument which was recorded in the local newspapers the following day. The two men exchanged impassioned words before members began to storm out of the session without a quorum being met (Figure 3). We can only hope if women had been present their behaviour would have been more considered!

Excerpt from the Star newspaper, recording the heated argument between Sumner Mayor William Rollitt and Councillor Charles Hulbert. Image: Star 20/4/1900: 1

As always we found some cool artefacts to keep our specialists busy…

Some lovely tea wares from one of our favourite suffragists (not suffragette) here at underover, the infamous Ada Wells! Image: Clara Watson.

Anyone would think Cantabrians enjoy a beverage or two…at least one of our Lichfield Street sites would suggest. Image: Clara Watson.

And of course we couldn’t talk about 2018 and artefacts without doing a wee shout out to the Convention Centre. One of our largest sites to date, but also one of the coolest with some amazing artefacts found!

Some of the many many cool artefacts recovered from the Convention Centre.

From everyone here at Underground Overground Archaeology we wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. The blog will be back at the end of January.

Underground Overground Archaeology