Brewery to bonded store (or a tale involving beer, misfortune and the casualties of long distance trade)

From Staffordshire pottery to American made glass-ware, we’ve come across artefacts from all over the world on archaeological sites here in Christchurch. This prevalence of internationally made artefacts, and what it means for the city’s history, is something that’s come up frequently in previous posts on this blog. Today’s post continues to discuss that theme, albeit from a slightly different perspective – that of the importer.

Over the last little while, we’ve been looking at the artefact assemblage from a site in the central city that was associated with a bonded store from the 1860s onwards. Bonded stores (also known as bonded warehouses) were buildings in which goods could be stored and remain exempt from customs duties. They were usually used to store goods and bulk merchandise until they were distributed for retail, at which time those duties and taxes would have to be paid.

We found numerous archaeological features (mostly rubbish pits) on the site, almost all of which contained artefacts. Many of these rubbish pits contained a large number of alcohol bottles. This is not particularly unusual. What is unusual is that within each feature most of the alcohol bottles were identical and almost all of the bottle tops found were still sealed – with cork, wire seal and metal capsule.

One of the rubbish pits found at the site, containing a large number of J & R Tennent sealed bottles.

One of the rubbish pits found at the site, containing a large number of J & R Tennent sealed bottles. Image: J. Hughes.

One rubbish pit contained a total of 130 artefacts (in 454 fragments), 126 of which were black beer bottles. Although the bottles were broken, the tops and bases were almost equal in number. More significantly, all of those black beer bottles were still sealed, or found in association with their corks and capsule seals, and every single seal bore the distinctive trademarks of J & R Tennent’s Pale Ale, brewed at the Wellpark Brewery, Scotland. Most of the capsules were also stamped with the mark of Betts & Co, the company who patented and manufactured this type of metal capsule seal for bottles. Similarly trademarked bottle capsules have been found at other 1860s-1880s sites throughout New Zealand, although not in such large quantities (Petchey and Innanchai 2012).

A couple of the J & R Tennent sealed tops found in the rubbish pit. The side of the seal reads: "Bottled by J & R Tennent" and (not pictured) "Betts & Co/Patent/Patent/ Trade Mark/ London."

A couple of the J & R Tennent sealed tops found in the rubbish pit. The side of the seal reads: “Bottled by J & R Tennent” and (not pictured) “Betts & Co / Patent / Patent / Trade Mark / London.” Betts & Co were the original patentees and manufacturers of metal bottle capsules like these. They were founded in 1804, but weren’t established in London until 1840. The company continued to manufacture bottle capsules until the 1960s: these particular seals were probably made between 1860 and 1915 (Nayton 1991). Images:  J. Garland.

J & R Tennent capsule drawing

A drawing of one of the J & R Tennent bottle capsules found at this site. Note that the beer is a pale ale, and the reference to Wellpark Brewery in Glasgow. Image: J. Garland.

John and Robert Tennent were Glaswegian brewers and bottlers who began operating in the 1770s. Their business continued to be run by their descendants throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, right up until the present day (Petchey and Innanchai 2012). By the end of the 19th century they were increasingly known for the quality of their beer and were a relatively large presence in the export market for bottled beer throughout the English speaking world (Hughes 2006). In Christchurch, Tennent’s Pale Ale was sold in large quantities from the 1850s onwards by a number of Christchurch merchants such as Robert Symington, Charles Wesley Turner (my great great grandfather!), Longden & Le Cren, Robert Wilkin & Co, and Tonks, Norton & Co, among others (Lyttelton Times 6/11/1852: 312/8/1865: 1Star 22/10/1869: 4; Press 18/9/1879: 3,14/1/1891: 8).

A second rubbish pit at the site contained a similar assemblage: 125 artefacts, 88 of which were identical dark green beer bottles. Like the Tennent bottles, almost all of these were still sealed or found in association with metal capsules, wire seals and corks. Unfortunately, the seals from this feature weren’t in the best condition: only eight of them could be definitively identified to the bottler, T. B. Hall & Co, Liverpool. It seems likely, however, given the similarity of the bottles (a handful of which still had the remnants of T. B. & Hall labels on the glass), that all 88 were originally T. B. Hall & Co products.

Some of the T. B. Hall & Co bottle capsules found in the second rubbish pit. Image: J. Garland.

Some of the T. B. Hall & Co bottle capsules found in the second rubbish pit. Image: J. Garland.

This drawing of one of the T. B. Hall & Co metal capsules shows the distinctive boar trademark used by the company. Image: J. Garland.

This drawing of a T. B. Hall & Co bottle seal shows the distinctive boar trademark used by the company. Image: J. Garland.

T. B. Hall refers to Thomas Bird Hall, who operated an export bottling company in Liverpool in the latter half of the 19th century. The company became well known for their ‘Boar’s Head’ brand, which we see on the bottles found in Christchurch.  They started bottling beer under this brand in 1874, much of which was exported to British colonies, including Australia and New Zealand. They bottled a range of beers, spirits and liqueurs, including the well-known Bass and Guinness ales and stouts (Hughes 2006: 131). We have evidence for the brand being sold in Christchurch from at least 1878 until the late 1890s (Press 22/4/1878: 2; Press 23/10/1899: 4).

Interestingly, during the excavation of this rubbish pit, it was noted that most of the bottles were complete, but cracked, while they were still in the ground. Many of them fell apart as they were lifted out, suggesting that they had broken or cracked from the impact of being thrown – complete and still sealed – into the pit.

The partially excavated rubbish pit containing numerous T. B. Hall & Co sealed bottles. A couple of complete bottles are visible, sticking out of the top of the feature: one of these fell apart as it was lifted, due to the cracks already present in the glass. Image: J. Garland.

The partially excavated rubbish pit containing numerous T. B. Hall & Co sealed bottles. A couple of complete bottles are visible, sticking out of the top of the feature: one of these fell apart as it was lifted, due to the cracks already present in the glass. Image: J. Garland.

As archaeologists, we’re used to finding old or broken artefacts in archaeological assemblages  – objects that have clearly been used and discarded, due to damage, age, changes in fashion or simply because they’ve reached the end of their uselife. The fact that two rubbish pits at this site contain artefacts that have clearly not been used and, in one case, were complete when they were discarded, indicates that there must be another reason for their disposal.

Given the association of the site with a bonded store, it seems likely that these bottles were originally imported and stored at the warehouse with the intention of being distributed to local retailers and consumers. The question then remains: why were they thrown out? There are numerous potential answers to this, from damages incurred during transport to a bad quality batch of beer, a lack of demand or old, unsaleable stock. Bottled beer was a hell of a lot more unpredictable – both in quality and preservation – during the 19th century than it is now, and it wasn’t uncommon for batches to go bad, or simply be bad.

This extract from a legal case involving the supply and sale of bad beer lists just a few of the ways beer could go bad in the 19th century. Image: Colonist 26/07/1911

This extract from a legal case involving the supply and sale of bad beer lists just a few of the ways beer could go bad in the 19th century. Image: Colonist 26/7/1911: 4.

It’s easy to forget, in this age of air freight and controlled temperatures, that these goods had to come a very long way in relatively difficult conditions in order to reach our shores (and our stomachs) in the 19th century. British export beers travelled to colonies like Australia and New Zealand by ship, a journey that could take anything upwards of 100 days (by clipper, the fastest non-steam powered ship at the time). These voyages often encountered rough seas and extreme temperatures, both of which could damage cargoes of bottled beer (Hughes 2006). High temperatures (when sailing through the tropics, for example) could cause the beer itself to go off: sometimes, if it caused rapid fermentation, the bottles would explode (my personal favourite). On top of the sea voyage, of course, the bottles had to survive loading and unloading as well as transport over rough roads to their final destination. It’s hardly surprising that breakages occurred!

There were also issues with supply and demand: agents in New Zealand would have been ordering the stock well in advance (remember, 100 days or more to get here), based on predicted demand. If their predictions were wrong, products might not sell and be left, instead, to age to the point where they were both undrinkable and unsaleable, and had to be discarded. All of which leads to rubbish pits such as these, containing the physical casualties and failures of the 19th century import/export trade.

Analysis of this site is continuing but, as you can see from the small part of it that I’ve discussed here, it has the potential to provide us with a window into the realities of the goods trade in Christchurch – internationally and locally. It’s also an excellent example of the importance of archaeological context in the interpretation of artefacts and archaeological features.  Just one of these bottles, out of context, wouldn’t have nearly such an interesting story to tell.

Jessie Garland

References

Colonist. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz

Hughes, David. 2006. “A Bottle of Guiness Please”: the Colourful History of Guiness. Phimboy: Berkshire, England.

Lyttelton Times. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz

Nayton, G., 1992. Applying frontier theory to a Western Australian site: the problem of chronological control. Australasian Historical Archaeology 10: 75-91.

Petchey, P. and Innanchai, J., 2012. Bottle top capsules in New Zealand historic archaeological sites. Journal of Pacific Archaeology 3 (2): 1-16.

Press. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz

Star. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz

Three years on…

People often ask what we’re learning as a result of all this post-earthquake archaeology. Quite a lot, as this blog reveals. But, to date, the blog has focused on the individual sites and/or stories – there’s not been much of the big picture stuff. So, as the third anniversary approaches, we thought we’d share some of that higher level stuff with you. These are not well-researched, academic observations. These are our own personal observations about what all this archaeological work is telling us.

Buildings

Old houses fascinate me: there’s that sense of walking into someone else’s life and, as with all archaeology, that sense of mystery and the possibility of discovery. In spite of this, when I started to think about this post, I was surprised to realise that I rarely imagine the lives of those who lived in these houses. It turns out that I’m more of a scientist than I thought: I want to quantify the details of these buildings, and establish chronologies and typologies, and then think about what those patterns mean. I guess that’s what makes me an archaeologist.

A double-pane sash window with no lugs, in a c.1875 house. Image: K. Watson.


A double-pane sash window with no lugs, in a c.1875 house. Image: K. Watson.

Thus far, we’ve learnt little details about houses (there’s been no time yet for any detailed overarching study). The progression from double-pane sash windows without lugs, to the same with lugs and then onto single pane sash windows (and then to casement windows, in the early 20th century). There was a change, too, from bow to box bay windows. And a change from match-lining to lath and plaster, although that may have been a class difference (and in some cases room lining related to room function). Rusticated or ship-lapped weatherboards were big in the 1870s. Rooflines changed in shape and pitch as the villa became the predominant house type. And the villa reached maturity in the 1880s.

 A match-lined room in a c.1875 house. Image: K. Watson.


A match-lined room in a c.1875 house. Image: K. Watson.

I love the variables that tell us about class, status and use of space: the hallway arch that differentiates public and private spaces; the skirting boards that shrink from the front to the rear of the house; the ceiling roses (far fewer around than I expected, although that may be a product of how well they survive); and that the number of windows into your front rooms (two or three) tells me something about the wealth of the builder/occupant, as does the size of the house.

 1870s sash windows used in a late 1880s villa. Image: K. Watson.


1870s sash windows used in a late 1880s villa. Image: K. Watson.

 A c.1875 house with rusticated weatherboards on the street front and plain weatherboards on the side. Image: K. Watson.


A c.1875 house with rusticated weatherboards on the street front and plain weatherboards on the side. Image: K. Watson.

And these details add up to much more. The fact that you used sash windows without lugs in an 1880s villa tells me that you’re using recycled building materials (yes, even then). The fact that you have rusticated weatherboards on the street front of your house but not the sides tells me that you were aware of fashions but couldn’t quite afford to keep up with them. Your skirting boards are the same size throughout your house? Well, clearly you were well-off – or had more money than sense. Likewise if you had quite an odd arrangement going on with your skirting boards and architraves. Or if you built a brick house – although in this case it was equally likely that you were a bricklayer or a brickmaker.

 An arrangement of skirting board and door surrounds only found (thus far) in the 'grander' houses. Image: K. Watson.


An arrangement of skirting board and door surrounds only found (thus far) in the ‘grander’ houses. Image: K. Watson.

So you see, by observing and recording those small details and, yes, by quantifying them, I’m starting to build up a picture of the people who lived in the house. As the book title goes: “in small things forgotten”. And it’s seeing these things in bulk, as it were, that makes a difference. That’s what makes us so lucky to be carrying out archaeology in Christchurch right now: the size of the sample. In the space of three years, we’ve generated the quantities of data that would normally take decades to come by. The next challenge is to do something more with that data.

Artefacts and people

Just a fraction of the material culture excavated from sites in Christchurch over the last three years. So many boxes!


Just a fraction of the material culture excavated from sites in Christchurch over the last three years. So many boxes! Image: J. Garland.

It’s quite difficult to articulate some of the things that we’ve learned from the archaeology of Christchurch over the last three years, largely, I think, because of the sheer scale of material that’s been found. There’s just so much information to be gained from individual objects and individual sites and from those sites and objects as whole assemblages or landscapes.

As an artefact specialist, I have to say that one of the things that has jumped out at me most during my time working here is the diversity of Christchurch’s archaeology and past. It’s not just the variety of artefacts that’s noteworthy – although we are finding a range of artefacts on a scale that’s unusual and exciting – but also the diversity among the people who owned and used them.

A selection of the various artefacts found in Christchurch over the last three years. Top row from left:


A selection of artefacts found in Christchurch over the last three years. Top row from left: trepanned bone toothbrushes, effigy pipe bowl, frozen Charlotte doll, children’s ‘Father Lion’ cup. Middle row from left: toy horse, Pickering’s polish pot, ladies’ fobwatch, ‘Bouquet’ decorated plate. Bottom row from left: bottle (originally found with message inside) with Bass Pale Ale label, Nassau selter water bottle, Codd patent soda water bottle, black beer bottle, torpedo bottle (top), child’s shoe (bottom), clay pipe decorated with lady riding side-saddle (top), 19th century penny (bottom). Image: J. Garland.

As an archaeologist and anthropologist, the variety that exists among people isn’t something that I should be surprised by, but I have been a little, I think, in this context. The ‘English’ origins and culture of Christchurch are so often talked about as one of its defining characteristics as a city, yet we’re finding connections to places all over the world in its archaeological record.

What do you think it says? Photo: J. Garland.

Our message in a bottle, found in a bottle of English beer on a Christchurch site with German and Danish history. Photo: J. Garland.

We’ve found artefacts from  Australia,  England,  Scotland Ireland, Wales, Germany, France, the Netherlands, Denmark, the USACanada  and China on sites throughout the city. Many of these are just as varied in their uses as they are in their origins, from children’s toys to unusual foodsmessages in bottles and barbaric or ill-conceived medical products. We’ve also come across the stories of settlers from as far afield as Palestine  and as close to home as Australia, settlers who came from every echelon of society, with all kinds of social and professional backgrounds. Connections like these – to people, places and materials – remind me that Christchurch wasn’t just a small colonial settlement at the bottom of the world. Instead it was an integrated part of a much broader story of migration, trade, globalisation, and changing ways of living in the English-speaking world during the 19th century. The archaeology of this city has as much to contribute to that story as it draws from it.

However, it’s not just where these people have come from that stands out to me, but also what we’ve learned of their lives here in Christchurch, particularly the way so many of them contributed to building of this city. There’s a real sense of entrepreneurship in much of the archaeology and history of Christchurch, in the stories and products of people like John George Ruddenklau, James and William Jamieson, H. F. Stevens, John Baxter and George Bonnington, James and William Willis , John Grubb, Thomas Raine and all of the city’s soda water manufacturers – even Charles Henry Cox, our resourceful shoe-polish fraudster. So many of these people built and ran successful businesses from the ground up, in a totally new and untested environment and, regardless of whether those businesses were successful or not, it’s this adventurous, entrepreneurial spirit that, I think, plays a large part in the character of Christchurch – both at its origins and now, as the city rebuilds after the earthquakes.

Katharine Watson and Jessie Garland

The archaeology of an archaeologist’s desk

This week’s post is a bit different. It’s not directly about Christchurch archaeology, but it is about an archaeologist working in Christchurch. We’ve taken a bunch of photographs of one of the desks in our office and we want you to take a look at them and tell us what you think the material culture on that archaeologist’s desk tells you. Which is pretty much what archaeologists do every day, albeit with things we find in the ground, or in old buildings – that is, we look at objects (artefacts) and try and interpret people’s behaviour, thoughts, beliefs, etc, from them. And it’s what everybody everywhere does all the time. We make all sorts of assumptions about a person based on the clothes they wear, the car they drive and the house they live in, amongst many other things. It’s just that archaeologists put quite detailed research into understanding the artefacts they recover, and the context from which they are found – because, after all, the past is a foreign country.

Post your thoughts in the comments (yes, I know the equation thing is a pain, but you should see the spam we were getting), and we’ll get back to you early next week with all the details about that desk…

You can think about some basic things, like what they’ve been working on, or go a bit deeper, and consider how they work.

NB: The scale in the photographs is, quite literally, to give a sense of scale. It’s not part of the story!

The desk.

The desk.

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The pile of papers above, 'excavated'.

The pile of papers above, ‘excavated’.

DSC_2277DSC_2275

DSC_2273

The desk.

Public faces and private spaces: domestic pride and hygiene in the 19th century

Today’s post continues the theme of the last one (a little), in terms of exploring the relationship between products and industries in the past and their connection with our lives today. It’s easy to scoff at some of the things we learn about the 19th century – like how backward the ideas were – but there are certain aspects of history that remind us how some human traits transcend time and generations. One such aspect of human behaviour that’s come to my attention recently, thanks to some artefacts we’ve found in Christchurch, is to do with cleaning the house, of all things. Specifically, how we can see delineations between public and private spaces in the products used by a 19th century household as much as we can see it in the actual physical structure of the house itself.

The object that triggered this train of thought was found recently, on a site in the Christchurch CBD. It’s a small ceramic pot, similar to others that we’ve come across before, that has the useful distinction of still having its label attached. This label identifies the original contents of the pot as Joseph Pickering & Sons’ “celebrated polishing paste”, for “cleaning and beautifying” a range of metal objects. The significant word here, I think, is ‘beautifying’. Products like this polishing paste had a very specific purpose, and that purpose had everything to do with appearance. After all, something is polished so that it can be seen, is it not? Shiny harness ornaments, gleaming silver and brass, burnished copper – they’re there to look good, and to make the people associated with them look good in the eyes of others. The virtue of keeping a clean house, and the reflection of that virtue on a person’s character, is not a new concept to any of us (even if we don’t always follow through as much as we should). Pickering’s polishing paste is a product that has everything to do with this concept, with that public face of a household or business and the social construct of domestic pride.

This pot of Pickering & Son's polishing paste was found on a site in Christchurch's CBD. The label reads:

This pot of Pickering & Sons’ polishing paste was found on a site in Christchurch’s CBD. Often, ceramic pots like this are identified as toothpaste pots. However, the  attached label on this one reads: “JOSEPH PICKERING & SONS / CELEBRATED POLISHING PASTE / For cleaning and beautifying brass, copper, tin, German Silver, Brittania metal goods, harness ornaments, carriage glasses, windows.” Another piece of the label was found inside the pot. Not all of it was legible, but what we could make out reads: “Directions of Use / Take piece of wet flannel or woolen cloth with  little of the …tion and rub well on the article to best… afterwards polish….cloth for ornamental….” Image: J. Garland.

It got me thinking about the other household products we find in archaeological sites and how they fit within this notion of public and private space in the home. With the exception of polishing paste, almost all of the other cleaning products we find are disinfectants. Products like Kerol, Jeyes Fluid & Lysol were all advertised primarily as disinfectants for the home (and on the farm, in some cases), although they also claimed medicinal properties among their applications. Kerol was advertised as a remedy for infantile paralysis (polio), due to its germ-killing properties (Wanganui Chronicle 24/03/1916: 6), while Lysol had some interesting (and disturbing) alternative uses (Evening Post 4/10/1930: 27). In the early 20th century, along with causing a number of deaths, it was marketed and used as a form of birth control and feminine hygiene product (Sanger 1917). Unfortunately for women, the extremely caustic and highly toxic disinfectant, which was applied by douching, created all manner of disastrous and highly painful health problems rather than solving them (Palmer & Greenberg 1936:142-146).

These astoundingly sexist advertisements for Lysol claim "in easily understood language", that good feminine hygiene can protect a woman's youth & vigor and save her marriage. Clockwise

These astoundingly sexist advertisements for Lysol claim “in easily understood language”, that good feminine hygiene can protect a woman’s youth & vigor and save her marriage. Clockwise from left: 1934 advertisement for Lysol; Lysol bottle base found in Christchurch; Lysol advertisement from 1930. Images: Museum of Women’s Health;  J. Garland; Evening Post 4/10/1930.

All of these disinfectants are associated with the gradual acceptance of germ theory during the late 19th century, along with the new understanding that personal and household hygiene formed an important aspect of individual health. For that very reason, as cleaning products, they form something of a contrast to Pickering’s polishing paste as products that sit firmly within the private sphere of household cleaning. Their ability to kill germs notwithstanding, disinfectants like these would have little to contribute when it came to presenting the public spaces of the household to guests and visitors. In fact, horrifying feminine hygiene aside, their use in the home hasn’t really changed during the past 100 years.

Kerol bottle found in Christchurch, along with 1920s poem singing the praises of the disinfectant. Images:  Colonist 24/02/1920; J. Garland.

Kerol bottle found in Christchurch, along with 1920s poem singing the praises of the disinfectant. Images: Colonist 24/02/1920; J. Garland.

This is what I’m getting at, really. The products themselves may have uses that seem barbaric (douching with disinfectant, ouch), or ingredients that we wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole, but the driving force behind their use hasn’t changed so much. The average household today might not have a lot of silver and saddlery to polish (to be fair the average household then probably didn’t either) but a bottle of furniture polish wouldn’t be unusual in most cleaning cupboards. Nor would glass cleaner, starch, or shoe polish, all of which are used more for the presentation of a clean house (or footwear) than for hygienic reasons. At the same time, although many solely ‘private’ products, like bleach or disinfectant, are common in modern households, so too are products that combine the appearance-based cleaning with the hygienic side of things. Anti-bacterial Spray & Wipe is an excellent case in point.

Perhaps that’s the real difference between then and now. There’s still the same drive to have a clean house, the same kind of domestic pride and same wish to be free from illness or disease: it’s just easier to fulfil now. More convenient. The people haven’t changed, not so much, but we’ve changed the world around us, one product at a time.

Jessie Garland

References

Colonist. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz.

Evening Post. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz.

Museum of Menstruation and Women’s Health, 2014. [online] Available at http://www.mum.org/

Palmer, R. L. & Greenberg, Sarah K., 1936. Facts and Frauds in Women’s Hygiene: A Medical Guide Against Misleading Claims and Dangerous Products. Vanguard Press. 

Sanger, M., 1917. Family Limitation. [online] Available at http://archive.lib.msu.edu.

Wanganui Chronicle. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz.