Affordable Eating: Meat and three veg in Victorian Christchurch

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ll be aware that Aotearoa New Zealand is facing a cost-of-living crisis. That weekly visit to the supermarket seems to be getting more expensive each time. Throughout history people have sought ways of making their household budget go that little bit further. Turning cheap cuts of meat and inexpensive vegetables into a delicious meal for the family has been the subject of books and newspaper articles for generations, including in the 19th century. This blog will look at what kinds of evidence we have for the types of cuts of meat people were using and how this reflects social status. We’ll then have a look at the kinds of dishes that Christchurch’s residents might have served up during the 19th century and the differences in the kind of dishes working-class and upper-class households might have enjoyed. Finally, we’ll undertake a bit of experimental archaeology and try cooking one of the more economical 19th century recipes, and get feedback on what my family, and UOA team thought of it.

First published in 1861, Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management was written by Mrs. Isabella Beeton, who lived in London during the height of the Victorian period. The book is a compendium of recipes, cleaning tips, and advice on children-rearing, finances, and the how to manage the day-to-day running of a good household. The book had sold nearly two million copies by 1868, making it a common guide for households across the British Empire, including here in New Zealand. The recipes within the book are typical of Victorian trendy cooking, with dishes such as Lobster Curry, Mock Turtle Soup (sans turtle and instead using a calf’s head), an assortment of preserves, puddings and cakes, and many French recipes (such as Boeuf a la Mode or Claves head à la Maître d’hôtel). The recipes are usually easy to follow and generally include the cost, presumably based on the prices in London at the time of publication.

The title page to Beeton’s Book of Household Management, 1861 Wikicommons.

What is clear from reading a book such as Beeton’s, is that those in the Victorian period ate a lot of meat-based protein. To cater for this need, butchers were there to provide. Because of a lack of refrigeration, most people went to the butcher daily or every few days (although Mrs Beeton has advice on ‘restoring’ meat that was getting a bit old and dodgy). Butchers themselves also didn’t have refrigeration, so would rely on a quick turnover of goods to ensure everything was nice and fresh. Nineteenth century butcher shops would often hang their stock off the shop front or verandah. This utilised the natural cooling effect of the breeze and helped promote their stock to potential customers. Catering to all sorts of budgets, butchers would sell almost every part of the animal; a truly nose to tail experience that has gained a revival in recent years. Just as it is today, the best cuts were expensive, while others, such as offal and those that required a bit more preparation, were more affordable.

The delivery carts wait to be loaded outside G. Bull’s butcher’s shop in Cashel Street, Christchurch, in the 1870s.Christchurch City Libraries.

Faunal remains are a component of the archaeological assemblage that comprise bones, shells and other surviving elements of animals. In New Zealand historical archaeological sites, faunal remains include beef, sheep and pig bones, shellfish (such as oyster, cockle, pipi, and mussel), bird bone (such as chicken, goose, turkey and duck), as well as other species, such as rabbit and deer. The kinds of species present and the types of bone can shed light on the types and cuts of meat being consumed by a site’s occupants. Just as they are today, certain cuts of meat were more expensive than others and the amount of disposable income people had would often determine what cuts of meat they were eating on a regular basis. This isn’t to say that the working-class of 19th century Christchurch were not eating nice cuts of meat, but rather that these expensive cuts were probably consumed less often in favour of more affordable cuts.

Butchery has changed since the 19th century, and this means that the way in which meat is butchered has changed. The cuts we see at the butcher now is not necessarily the same as those going to the butcher in the 19th century would have seen. As such, we need to be careful comparing the remains we find in archaeological sites to the kinds of cuts we can buy from a butcher now. Thankfully, historical archaeologists have undertaken studies to compare and account for these differences using archaeological assemblages, and historic documents like that from Mrs Beeton and others, to identify the kinds of cuts that existed in the 19th century. Researchers in Australia used this research to categorise the types of bones found in archaeological assemblages and related them to the cultural quality, or ‘class’, for the cut of meat (in this case beef). They also gave an example of the kinds of recipes given by cookbook authors of the period. Cuts like sirloin and rump were considered ‘First Class’ cuts; middle-rib, and flank – Second Class; chuck and brisket – Third Class; while sticking-pieces (from the lower part of the neck), shin, head (e.g. cheek and tongue), hocks, trotters, and marrow bones fall into the lowest classes, from Fourth to Sixth.

Table 1. Individual cattle skeletal elements recorded for Quadrant interpreted as beef cuts of various quality (after Table 3 in Colley 2006: 50-51).

Skeletal Element Gross Body Part Butchery Section
(Steele 1999a)
Beef Cut(s) Beef Quality Beef Recipes
Horn core Horn core Head Non-food Various Not applicable
Vertebra Spine Trunk Unknown Various Various
Rib Rib cage Trunk Various Various Various
Pelvis Pelvis Hindquarter Aitch-bone and/or rump Various Various
Acetabulum Pelvis Hindquarter Aitch-bone and/or rump Various Various
Long bone fragment Limb Unknown Unknown Various Various
Unidentifiable Unknown Unknown Unknown Various Various
Articular cartilage Unknown Unknown Unknown Various Various
Lumbar vertebra Spine Trunk Sirloin First Class Roasted baron of beef; roast fillet of beef (larded)
Sacrum Spine Trunk Rump First Class Beef-steak and kidney pudding; fried rump steak
Ilium Pelvis Hindquarter Rump First Class Beef-steak and kidney pudding; fried rump steak
Patella Lower Hindlimb Hindquarter Thick-flank Second Class Beef a la Mode
Thoracic vertebra Spine Trunk Fore–rib and/or middle-rib First and/or Second Class Various
Sternum Rib cage Trunk Brisket Third Class Boiled or stewed beef; excellent
salted, boiled & eaten cold
Scapula Upper forelimb Forequarter Chuck-ribs Third Class Roast beef with bone or rolled
Ischium Pelvis Hindquarter Aitch-bone Third Class Beef stew; salted beef; poorer quality
roast beef
Pubis Pelvis Hindquarter Aitch-bone Third Class Beef stew; salted beef; poorer quality
roast beef
Costal cartilage Rib cage Trunk Thin flank and/or thick flank Second and/or Third Class Various
Femur Upper hindlimb Hindquarter Aitch-bone and/or buttocks Second and/or Third Class Various
Atlas Spine Trunk Sticking piece Fourth Class Beef soup or a cheap beef stew
Axis Spine Trunk STicking piece Fourth Class Beef soup or a cheap beef stew
Cervical vertebra Spine Trunk Sticking piece Fourth Class Beef soup or a cheap beef stew
Humerus Upper forelimb Forequarter Clod Fourth Class Beef soup or a cheap beef stew
Radius Lower forelimb Forequarter Shin Fifth Class Excellent beef stock or soup; top of
shin beef stew
Ulna Lower forelimb Forequarter Shin Fifth Class Excellent beef stock or soup; top of
shin beef stew
Radius and Ulna Lower forelimb Forequarter Shin Fifth Class Excellent beef stock or soup; top of
shin beef stew
Tibia Lower hindlimb Hindquarter Hock (shin, leg) Fifth Class Excellent beef stock or soup; top of
shin beef stew
Fibula Lower hindlimb Hindquarter Hock (shin, leg) Fifth Class Excellent beef stock or soup; top of
shin beef stew
Astragalus Lower hindlimb Extremity Hock (shin, leg) Fifth Class Excellent beef stock or soup; top of
shin beef stew
Calcaneis Lower hindlimb Extremity Hock (shin, leg) Fifth Class Excellent beef stock or soup; top of
shin beef stew
Centroquartal Lower hindlimb Extremity Hock (shin, leg) Fifth Class Excellent beef stock or soup; top of
shin beef stew
Skull fragment Cranium Head Cheek and/or tongue Sixth Class Beef stews and soups
Maxilla Cranium Head Cheek and/or tongue Sixth Class Beef stews and soups
Hyoid Cranium Head Cheek and/or tongue Sixth Class Beef stews and soups
Mandible Jaw Head Cheek and/or tongue Sixth Class Beef stews and soups
Tooth Teeth Head Cheek and/or tongue Sixth Class Beef stews and soups
Incisor Teeth Head Cheek and/or tongue Sixth Class Beef stews and soups
Canine Teeth Head Cheek and/or tongue Sixth Class Beef stews and soups
Premolar Teeth Head Cheek and/or tongue Sixth Class Beef stews and soups
Molar Teeth Head Cheek and/or tongue Sixth Class Beef stews and soups
Deciduous tooth Teeth Head Cheek and/or tongue Sixth Class Beef stews and soups
Caudal vertebra Spine Trunk Ox-tail Sixth Class Stewed ox-tails; cow heel jelly; beef
stock for stew
Carpal Lower forelimb Extremity Cow heel (trotters) Sixth Class Fried ox-feet or cow-heel
Metacarpus Lower forelimb Extremity Marrow bones Sixth Class Boiled marrow bones
Tarsal Lower hindlimb Extremity Cow heel (trotters) Sixth Class Fried ox-feet or cow-heel
Metatarsus Lower hindlimb Extremity Marrow bones Sixth Class Boiled marrow bones
Sesamoid Foot Extremity Cow heel (trotters) Sixth Class Fried ox-feet or cow-heel
First phalanx Foot Extremity Cow heel (trotters) Sixth Class Fried ox-feet or cow-heel
Second phalanx Foot Extremity Cow heel (trotters) Sixth Class Fried ox-feet or cow-heel
Third phalanx Foot Extremity Cow heel (trotters) Sixth Class Fried ox-feet or cow-heel
Metapodial Lower hindlimb Extremity Marrow bones Sixth Class Boiled marrow bones
Phalanx Foot Extremity Cow heel (trotters) Sixth Class Fried ox-feet or cow-heel
Carpal or tarsal Foot Extremity Cow heel (trotters) Sixth Class Fried ox-feet or cow-heel

 

Underground Overground Archaeology has recently completed a project within the four avenues than spanned across parts of seven former town sections. During the project, numerous rubbish pits were identified and these yielded a range of faunal remains. These remains showed the people who occupied these sections were consuming a wide variety of animal protein sources including: beef, lamb and mutton, pork, rabbit, chicken, fish, and shellfish including oyster and cockle. Most of the cuts of beef tended to be from cheaper cuts, such as brisket, chuck, flank, foreshank (shin), and neck. But we also had a few examples of bones related to rump cuts, suggesting the occasional splash out on good quality meat. Shellfish and rabbit were common within the assemblages, and were affordable protein sources at the time. Lamb and mutton was also well represented and based on the published prices during the 19th century, was also an affordable option for families on a budget. All in all, the assemblage that we uncovered suggests that the occupants across these town sections were working-class, and the faunal assemblage suggested that they were frugal and purchased cheaper and more cost-effective cuts of meat.

But fear-not dear reader, Mrs Beeton gives recipes for all sorts of types and cuts of meat, including fancy cuts like rump, as well as ways to turn ‘economical’ cuts into something that everyone will enjoy. Let’s dive in and have a look at some of the recipes she has for us. Bones from the rump meat cut were found on our site, but as mentioned previously, these were identified in limited numbers, suggesting that rump, a ‘First Class’ cut, was only consumed occasionally. However, bones relating to beef shin, a ‘Fifth Class’ cut, were some of the most common faunal remains we found. This suggests that beef shin was a regular on the menu of the working-class families. So, what kinds of dishes were these cuts turned into? Let’s have a look at two recipes from Mrs Beeton: Rump steak and Stewed shin of beef.

Rump steak in Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. Internet Archive.org

Stewed shin of beef in Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management  Internet Archive.org

For these recipes, Mrs. Beeton gives a cost of around 2s per pound for the rump steak and 4d or four pence per pound for the beef shin recipe. For reference, the beef shin recipe calls for a whole shin, which equates to about 4kg (or around 8.8 lbs) bone-in weight, giving a cost of around 2s 11d for a meal for seven to eight people, which equates to around 4 ⅓d per serve. Meanwhile the rump steak serves half the number of people at a cost of around 6d to 9d per serve, and that doesn’t include any side dishes.

Prices of meat in Christchurch (Lyttelton Times 19 September 1860)

The price of beef in 1860 Christchurch appears to be fairly similar to the London prices suggested by Beeton, with the cheaper cuts of beef probably being 4-5d per pound, however this fails to take into account the price of the vegetables, sauces, etc. In 1861 the median real wage for unskilled labour was estimated to be £1 4s 7d a week, or £64 6s 7d per annum (Brooke 2011). This meant that Beeton’s beef shin recipe for eight people equated to around 12% of the real wage, while the fancy rump steak for eight people equated to up to 22% of the real wage! That’s quite the difference!

Always interested in history, and even more so in saving a few dollars feeding my family, I decided to give the beef shin stew recipe a go. Most of the ingredients were fairly simple to find. I was even able to find the mushroom ketchup in the supermarket. Mushroom ketchup is the OG ketchup in Victorian times and Isabella Beeton says “is one of the most useful store sauces to the experienced cook” (Beeton 1861: 227; link to her recipe for mushroom ketchup here). For the savoury herbs, I used what I had in my garden: rosemary, thyme, sage, parsley and bay leaves. I couldn’t find turnips, but substituted with a half a swede (which, after all, is actually just a Swedish turnip). Next was the beef, which I got from my local supermarket. After following the recipe, I was left with an appropriately beige-brown stew of shin beef, which smelled pretty good.

For a half portion of the recipe, it came in at a cost of around $44. Based on the recipe, this was meant to serve four people, but in truth it was more like five to six serves. So, how does the cost compare to today? If we still assume that the half portion results in four very large serves, then it would mean that the full recipe would have cost around $88. The current take-home median weekly income in Aotearoa New Zealand is around $948.34. This means that a modern recreation of Beeton’s beef shin recipe for eight people equates to around 9.3% of the real wage. Mrs. Beeton’s economic cooking still seems to be on the money (pun intended). Oh, and as for the cost of rump steak; is it still 22% of the take home wage to feed 8? Apparently not, and now steak for a family of eight will set you back around $65, or just 6.9% of the weekly wage. Mind you, this is just for the steak and doesn’t account for any side dishes. So, while it seems there is certainly a cost-of-living crisis happening at the moment, and things seem to be getting more and more expensive, spare a thought for those living in the mid-nineteenth century.

An appropriately brown-beige dish of stewed shin of beef. Image: N. Bruer.

But how does a 142-year-old recipe taste? To find out, I served it to my wife and 14-month-old son. The verdict? The vegetables are a bit soft, and the gravy was definitely flavoured heavily by the turnip, but the mushroom ketchup made for a really tangy, salty, umami gravy, and the beef was meltingly tender. The little one also found his delicious, with most ending up in his mouth and only minimal amounts ending up in his hair.

This tasty recipe was small human approved. Image: N. Bruer. 

With lots of leftovers, I next served it up to a panel of perpetually hungry archaeologists and asked for their thoughts. Here was some of their feedback:

“Delicious, soft meat and vege, with some delicious meat water to accompany it.”

“I thought it tasted fine and was nice and tender but could have used a bit more seasoning.”

“Just tangy enough, but try adding more mushroom sauce! It won’t necessarily be beneficial, but I did accidentally pour in about four tablespoons worth, so that probably influenced the flavour profile. And I loved it!”

“Nah, it was alright. It is a pretty classic European cuisine that seems like it is trying to double down on the savoury flavours. I think I’m glad for the greater variety spices and seasonings that we have now because the recipe did seem a bit limited; you’d throw in way more other stuff were you making the same thing now”

So, the beige colour was matched by a somewhat similar beige flavour. But there you have it, a bit of experimental archaeology: looking at faunal remains from a Christchurch site, selecting an economical recipe from the 1860s, and giving it the taste test.

Nigel Bruer

References

Colley, S. A Preliminary Beef Meat Cuts Typology for Nineteenth-Century Sydney and Some Methodological Issues. Australasian Historical Archaeology 24: 47-54.

 

 

 

 

Where did that wood come from?

Archaeology is a broad discipline, with a multitude of subsects and specialisations. One of these is buildings archaeology, where we use archaeological methods to record and analyse buildings and see what that can tell us about the people that constructed them. We’ve written various blogs before about some of the different houses that we’ve recorded, and while this blog is also within the realm of buildings archaeology, it’s also quite different to those other blogs. Part of our work as archaeologists is to place things within the historical context of the period that they date to. If we were excavating a Roman villa and we found glass windowpanes, then we’d be interpreting that villa as probably belonging to a pretty wealthy individual. However, when we find window glass in Christchurch, that doesn’t really tell us anything about the status of the person that built that house, as window glass was readily available and used in the majority of buildings. We’re really lucky as historical archaeologists that there are large historical datasets that we can use to help us with determining the context of the period that our sites date to. However, there’s hours and hours of research that goes into building a database from raw historical data, and even more hours spent looking at patterns and trends to help us establish that historical context.

Returning to buildings archaeology, one of the key elements that we look at when we record a building is what it was made from. Here in Christchurch, that’s almost always timber. From our recording, we know what types of timbers were typically used here in Christchurch for houses, but that’s only half the story. By doing detailed historical research on the timber industry, we can find out if there were patterns in what species were available for purchase and then use that historical information to provide more context to what we find in the archaeological record. It all sounds so simple, but let me tell you it’s not. I’ve spent countless hours doing research into the Christchurch timber industry, and I’ve only gotten through the first 20 years. That period is going to be the focus of this blog.

That sure is some nice timber, I wonder where it came from?

Prior to 1850, the year that the city of Christchurch was founded, the Canterbury Plains were largely devoid of forests. Although opinion is divided on the exact extent of forested area in Canterbury at the time of Pākehā settlement, Roche (1990) estimates that the combined forest area in the Canterbury settlement added up to only 240,000 acres, or 12 % of the total land area (Roche 1990: 75). Near Christchurch there was a small forest of 54 acres where Christchurch’s most notable pioneers, the Deans brothers, established their Riccarton farm in 1843 (Orwin 2015: 25-26). The largest areas of forest were located some distance away. These included the native podocarp forest of Banks Peninsula, comprised mainly of matai (then known as black pine), kahikatea (white pine) and totara (for some reason just known as totara); and the mixed podocarp and beech forest at Harewood Forest, with kahikatea, rimu (red pine), matai and totara, with silver and black beech (they called it birch back then and were big time into their colour naming system; Roche 1990a).

Map of bush cover in Canterbury collated and reconstructed from 1850s and 1860s surveyor’s notebooks and maps by W. B. Johnson and redrawn for Pawson and Holland (2005: 171).

An 1851 sketch of the upper reaches of the Waimakariri River showing Harewood Forest, one of the largest areas of bush close to the city of Christchurch. Image: Fox, W. and Allom, T., 1850-1851.

Suitable building timber was not readily available in Christchurch and so Canterbury’s pioneer settlers built their houses from materials that they either brought with them from elsewhere, such as canvas, calico and sheets of iron to form tents and rudimentary temporary dwellings, or resources that might have been available on or near their chosen sections. These included volcanic stone, rammed earth, sod or mud brick for the walls and thatched or slab roofs made from raupo, toetoe, tussock, or bark (Bowman 1941, Isaacs 2015, Salmond 1986). In areas where timber was more plentiful wooden slabs or logs were used to build basic wooden structures, but even then, some timber had to be imported because of the difficulty in getting the logs milled once they were cut down.

Although it was located right beside one of the largest stands of forest near Christchurch, Deans Bush, the first house on the Canterbury Plains built by the eponymous Deans brothers was constructed from framing timber that they brought with them from Wellington (Bowman 1941).

Photograph of the first house built by the Deans brothers near Riccarton Bush in 1843. The house was built with timber brought from Wellington but was dismantled in the late 1890s. Image: Canterbury Times, 1900.

With the founding of Christchurch city and the rapid expansion of its Pākehā population, an increasing number of settlers had to obtain the materials they needed to construct their permanent residences, fuel their fires, and fence their farms. Although Canterbury was comparatively bereft of a sustainable supply of timber, wood was still the dominant building material for houses in Canterbury in the nineteenth century (Government Statistician, Registrar-General’s Office 1874). This all led to the establishment of a burgeoning timber importation trade (Roche 1990).

Banks Peninsula was the largest and most easily accessible source of timber close to Christchurch, meaning this region was one of the major suppliers of building timber and firewood to the colony. If you want to read more about sawmilling on the peninsula and what happened after the timber arrived in Christchurch, I highly recommend that you read Lydia’s excellent post on the topic from earlier in the year. The timber supply from Banks Peninsula was, however, short lived and the capacity to saw and ship it was limited, so in this post we’re going to explore exactly where Christchurch got all its wood from.

By combining the magic of PapersPast and the dark arts of Excel, I tracked the ups and downs of the Canterbury’s timber economy over the first few decades of Pākehā settlement in Christchurch to figure out where the town was getting its timber from and how this changed over time.

January 11, 1851, was the first issue of the Lyttelton Times to be published and the first issue to include a list of vessels that had arrived in Lyttelton Port since the previous December, including the first four ships carrying the pioneer settlers and all of their possessions to Lyttelton (Lyttelton Times 11/1/1851: 5). Included was a schedule of the cargo each vessel carried, with the schooner, Phoebe, the first reported timber carrying vessel arriving from Wellington carrying a load of timber. For the first few years of settlement Wellington was to be the predominant supplier of Canterbury’s timber.

Not the Phoebe. Also not Lyttelton, but this is probably what it looked like when the first load of timber arrived in Lyttelton. Image: Frederick Nelson Jones.

Although several gangs of pit sawyers had established themselves in many of the bays of Banks Peninsula by this time, their contributions to the overall timber supply in the first years of settlement were negligible in comparison to other regions. Timber imports soon picked up though, as did the quantity of timber arriving in the city from Banks Peninsula. By the mid to late 1850s, imports from Tasmania were contributing a significant quantity of timber to the market, and from the early 1860s vessels from North America and the Baltic region were bringing large cargoes of Northern Hemisphere timber, such as Baltic pine, Douglas fir and cedar.

Within the first ten years of the arrival of the settlers, timber imports had increased considerably. This coincided with an increase in the population of Canterbury, as well as the number of wooden dwellings that were being built. This was a pattern observed across the study period, although population tended to increase in a more or less linear fashion, while timber imports fluctuated more but trended upwards almost exponentially overall.

A steep decline in the quantity of timber being imported to Christchurch and Lyttelton occurred in the late 1860s. There were several factors that probably contributed this. The population had continued to grow, and wooden dwellings were also being constructed at an increasing rate, so it was not likely a lack in demand for house building materials. The market commentary in the newspapers around this time suggests that the timber supplies were overstocked, likely due to huge shipments arriving from overseas and the from the Nelson and Marlborough region. On several occasions in 1866 newspaper correspondents reported that the timber market was depressed, Sales were low and likewise timber prices had tanked (Lyttelton Times 7/7/1866: 2, 2/11/1867: 2). This glut in the market likely caused timber merchants to refrain from importing new stocks until the oversupply had diminished and prices had increased. Due to the time lag between orders and shipment this reduction in imports was not fully realised until 1867-1868.

Customhouse Street wharf area, Wellington, circa 1868, with the harbour and Queens wharf in the background. The sailmaking premises of John S Burn, a boat under construction, and a timber yard, are visible.  Couchman, (Mrs), active 1967. Customhouse Street wharf area, Wellington. Ref: 1/2-029401-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/22751906

A notable shift in the regions supplying timber occurred after 1864. Shipments from the Wellington and Auckland/Northland regions declined towards the late 1860s, but were replaced with considerable supplies from the upper South Island. Imports from the West Coast were non-existent until around 1867, which coincided with the end of the gold rush in this region. The milling industry in Westland was initially established in order to supply the requirements of gold miners, but, after the rush was over, had expanded significantly. By the 1870s the West Coast milling industry was supplying sawn timber to other regions, including Canterbury, as well as a thriving trans-Tasman export trade (Roche 1990a: 179).

While mainland Australia was a consistent, albeit minor, contributor to timber imports over the study period, Tasmania remained an important supplier to the Canterbury timber economy, from the first cargoes that arrived with the pioneer settlers in 1850, up until at least the early 1870s. It is likely that most, if not all of the timber that was imported from Tasmania at this time was harvested by convict labour. From 1804 convicted felons were transported to Van Diemen’s Land, as it was then known, and forced undertake hard labour while also forming a founding population for the new British colonies. Convict labour was employed in the harvesting of timber, a task that served both as punishment and progressed the economic ambitions of the colony by generating an exportable commodity, which found a ready market in Christchurch (Tuffin and Gibbs 2020; Tuffin et al 2020).

The original human centipede? Convicts hauling a log at Port Arthur c.1836. Image: State Library of Victoria: ML 185. 

The predominant target species were varieties of Eucalyptus, mainly stringy bark and blue gum. Stringy bark was favoured for construction and blue gum was used as a general-purpose timber and for ship building (King 2019; Tuffin et al 2020). The Tasman Peninsula remained a timber production centre until the closure of the Port Arthur penal settlement and prison in 1877. Although Tasmanian timber was available on the Christchurch market, imports from there declined towards the 1870s, possibly as a result of the decline in the use of convict labour.

The number of inward arrivals and quantity of timber being imported dramatically increased again towards the mid-1870s when large quantities of timber began arriving from Auckland. Commonly known as ‘The Vogel Era’, the 1870s was a boom time for the New Zealand economy, stimulated by the flow of money from the gold rushes of the previous decade and the success of the wool export market, and accelerated by a public borrowing programme instituted by Julius Vogel (McLintock 1966). Vogel instigated heavy public investment in infrastructure, such as a roads and railways, which saw a corresponding expansion in timber milling, including the revival of milling at Harewood Forest (Roche 1990a). This increase in arrivals to Christchurch is, therefore, predictable, as millers geared up to supply timber for railways and ports.

Over the course of the entire study period Banks Peninsula supplied the greatest quantity and the highest proportion of timber in total, though this supply began to decline towards the end of the study period. Roche (1990a: 79) notes that the number of sawmills in operation on Banks Peninsula had dropped from at least ten in the late 1850s to just four by 1876; although those that remained were by all accounts “doing a brisk trade”. Milling on the Peninsula had all but ceased by the 1880s, and although the study period doesn’t cover these later years, the data for 1875 seems to reflect the decline of the milling industry on Banks Peninsula with a diminishing contribution to the Christchurch timber market.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to continue the shipping research beyond the latter 1870s. Scrolling through PapersPast collecting this data takes an extraordinary amount of time, but I really want to know what happened to the Canterbury timber economy in final decades of the nineteenth century, through the decline in milling on Banks Peninsula (and the regions that replaced this supply), the 1880s depressions era and the subsequent economic recovery. I probably wouldn’t get your hopes up, but one day I might write a sequel to this story.

Kirsa Webb

References

Bowman, A., 1941. The study of the historical development of domestic architecture in Canterbury, New Zealand. Thesis submitted for membership of the Royal Institute of British Architects.

Government Statistician, Registrar-General’s Office, 1874. Results of a Census of the Colony of New Zealand taken for the night of the 1st March 1874. Wellington, NZ: Government Printer.

Isaacs, N.P., 2015. Making the New Zealand House 1792-1982. Thesis submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. Victoria University of Wellington, Wellington, New Zealand.

King, S., 2019. The Architecture of Van Diemen’s Land Timber. Fabrications, 29(3): 338-358.

Lyttelton Times 1851-1920. Newspaper [online]. Retrieved from https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/lyttelton-times. Accessed: April 2022.

McLintock, A. H. (ed.), 1966. “The Vogel Era: economic history”. An Encyclopaedia of New Zealand [online].Retrieved from: http://www.teara.govt.nz/en/1966/history-economic/page-3. Accessed: July 2022.

Orwin, 2015. Riccarton and the Deans Family – History and Heritage. Auckland: David Bateman Ltd.

Pawson, E. & Holland, P., 2005. Lowland Canterbury landscapes in the making. New Zealand Geographer, 61:167-175.

Roche, M., 1990. History of New Zealand Forestry. Wellington: New Zealand Forestry Corporation.

Salmond, J., 1986. Old New Zealand Houses 1800 – 1940. Auckland: Heinemann Reed.

Tuffin, R. and Gibbs, M., 2020. The Archaeology of the Convict Probation System: The Labor Landscapes of Port Arthur and the Cascades Probation Station, 1839–55. International Journal of Historical Archaeology, 24: 589–617.

Tuffin, R., Gibbs, M., Clark, D., Clark, M. and Rigozzi, P., 2020. ‘…One of the Most Severe Duties …’: Landscapes of Timber-getting at a Former Tasmanian Convict Station. Industrial Archaeology Review 42(2): 126-140.

Hats: Curiouser and Curiouser

Hats are one of those clothing items that have mostly fallen out of modern fashion; we use them for warmth and keeping the sun out of our eyes, or for special occasions, but not much in between. Historically, hats were a required part of dress, but they fell out of fashion very quickly in the second half of the 20th century (Hughes, 2017: 9). It’s probably a surprise for most of us to learn that, for a now relegated clothing item, hats and hat making formed a substantial part of the economic, social, and moral fabric of the colonial world. A note on terminology before we disappear down the rabbit-hole of hats: hat makers created hats of felt, straw and eventually silk. This trade employed men, women, and children, who made both men’s and women’s hats. Millinery emerged as a distinct trade from the end of the 18th century, namely trimming and decorating existing hat blanks, although millinery manuals existed for the construction of hats from 1890-1920 (Bates, 2000). Millinery was predominantly staffed and patronised by women, and only created women’s hats (Hughes, 2017: 27). In New Zealand, 19th century dressmakers often completed millinery projects due to an insufficient market to support operating solely as a milliner (Hunter, 2011).

Hat making formed a significant part of England’s import and export trade from the 16th century onwards, to the extent of laws limiting the re-export of beaver skins and hat manufacture in the North American colonies being introduced in the 18th century following pressure from numerous English felt-makers (Nevell, 2007: 4-6). The industry employed both skilled and unskilled workers and remained a largely manual process even following industrialisation. The working conditions of both hat making and millinery were abysmal, even by 19th century standards, with long hours, high risk of fire in cramped workshops, and exposure to chemicals like mercury and sulfuric acid. Mercury poisoning is where we get the term ‘mad as a hatter’ from, as hat markers used mercury salts to break down the oil in beaver fur and breathed in mercury fumes from the furs while they dried (Hughes, 2017: 19).

The hat making and millinery industries also had substantial environmental impacts, namely in the use of beaver fur and bird feathers. Beavers went extinct in Europe in the 1600s, partially as a result of the hat trade, and fur traders turned to North America and Canada to meet supply demands (Hughes, 2017: 15

An example of an exceptionally furry beaver hat was worn by Joe Cannon upon his retirement from Congress circa 1922. Image: Library of Congress.

Bird feathers, wings and even whole birds were used in millinery, particularly towards the late 19th century as hats became larger and more extravagantly decorated (Regnault, 2021: 266). Millinery was held responsible for the extinction of species like the American passenger pigeon, and several pieces of legislation were introduced to curb the use and sale of feathers and skins of native bird species in America as a result (Cramer-Reichelderfer, 2019: 9; Regnault, 2021: 275).

A model wearing “chanticleer” hat, circa 1912. A chanticleer is another name for a rooster. The more you know and can avoid including in your hat decoration. Image: Library of Congress.

Gaby Deslys, an American singer, wearing an extravagantly feathered hat circa 1913. Image: Library of Congress.

An estimated 20,000 tonnes of plumage was shipped to England each year between 1870 and 1920 to be sold for use in millinery and clothing production, including from New Zealand. One London dealer advised an enquirer in 1880 that he had ‘something like 385’ kākāpo and ‘upwards of 90’ little spotted kiwi skins in stock and would be in the market for additional species of kiwi skins if any came available (Regnault, 2021: 264-5). Hector Liardet, a Wellington based ‘feather furrier’, sold a hat made of speckled shag plumage to Baroness Rothschild at the Paris Exhibition in 1890 (Hunter, 2011). Legislative protection for native bird species in New Zealand was slow to develop compared to other areas of the world, with full protection for native species only extended under the Animals Protection Amendment Act in 1910 (Regnault, 2021: 275).

A comic satirising the use of feathers in 19th century millinery with the caption ‘The cruelties of fashion, “fine feathers make fine birds”’. Image: John Hyde, 1883. Sourced from: Library of Congress.

While hats served a functional purpose, i.e. to protect one’s head from sun, hats were also a social and moral requirement, and often had implications for the wearer’s class and place in society. For example, wearing a top hat might indicate wealth and rank, but choosing a top hat that was too shiny, wrongly angled or worn could imply “duplicity, drunkenness or destitution” (Hughes, 2020). Churches, hotels, theatres, weddings, mourning periods, horse races and many other locations and events all required hats or head coverings of some variety for both sexes. Requirements for where and when hats may be worn, and where they must be removed, took up entire sections of society etiquette manuals, and transgressions of these rules were remarked upon in newspapers (Hughes 2016; 2020). For example, hats should be worn to the theatre by both men and women but should be taken off once seated ‘in consideration for those who sit behind’ (Wells, 1891: 338; Hughes, 2020).

Spectators at Riccarton Race Course, Christchurch circa 1905. The Press (Newspaper): Negatives. Ref: 1/1-008259-G. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/23220317. 

A substantial complaint was made by a Wellington reporter in 1907 regarding the size of hats worn to the cricket, and the practice of wearing the hats so “the crown of the hat is perched as far back as the law of gravity will permit” which apparently defeated the hat’s purpose in keeping the sun off the wearer’s face (Dominion 5/12/1907: 3). The same report has equal disdain for women who “look as though they were endeavouring to keep their hats on by their eyebrows”. There is an apparent middle ground for hat-wearing that the frequenters of this cricket match had missed entirely. I would also complain if I had to sit behind either of these women pictured below at the cricket.

A substantial hat worn by an unknown woman circa 1905-1926. Maclay, Adam Henry Pearson, 1873-1955 :Negatives. Ref: 1/2-184033-G. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand./records/30645320.

Another substantial hat worn by an unknown woman circa 1905-1926. Maclay, Adam Henry Pearson, 1873-1955: Negatives. Ref: 1/2-185754-G. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand./records/30119197

Outside of high society, hats were also a source of humour. There’s a rather lovely pencil sketch of an early surveyor around Moeraki lamenting his now squashed wide brimmed hat, which someone had sat on.

Sketch of a great hat tragedy from surveyor Walter Mantell, 1848. Mantell, Walter Baldock Durrant 1820-1895 :[Sketchbook, no. 3] 1848-1849. Ref: E-334-089. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand./records/23225090

The hats we encounter as part of the archaeological record in Christchurch are a far cry from those written about in high society pages or adorned with extinction levels of bird plumage. Most of the hats we find are simple, wide brimmed, woollen felt hats in various states of disrepair, like these ones below:

A mostly complete woollen felt hat that would have once had a hat band and possibly ribbon, or other trim stitched to the brim. Image: C. Watson.

A slightly plainer woollen felt hat with a possible hat band and not stitching or trim on the brim. Image: C. Watson.

A woollen felt hat with quite a bit of metal rusted to the surface. Some stitching remains around the brim, unclear as to whether there was a hat band due to the amount of metal rusted on there. Image: C. Watson.

And some further hats in worse states of repair:

Two woollen felt hats in various states of disrepair. note the double line of felt stitching around the brim. Image: C. Watson.

The problem with the archaeological record is that we mostly see items that people have discarded, and for clothing, that is mostly items that are too worn to be used any longer. Hats like those above are likely men’s hats based on the size, fabric, and what style we can make out after they’ve been flattened in the ground for 150 years or so. There are a significant range of hat styles shown in 19th and early 20th century photography in New Zealand, used both for working and for more formal occasions as shown by the images below.

Makohine viaduct workers wearing a variety of hats, between 1898-1902. If you look carefully one of the men in the front row has lost his serious photo expression when the dog jumped into the frame, or he had to sneeze. Child, Edward George, 1860-1949. Ref: 1/2-057719-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/22895851

A group of farm workers wearing a range of hats at the Mendip Hills sheep farm. Godber, Albert Percy, 1875-1949. Ref: APG-0469-1/2-G. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/22822271.

Four men sitting on top of a gate, likely wearing their Sunday best. Gant, Robert, 1854?-1936 :Photograph albums. Ref: PA1-q-962-32-1. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand./records/22886745

This produces an interesting question for us archaeologists, why are we only seeing men’s wide brimmed, wool felt hats in 19th century Christchurch archaeological samples? We know that men and women wore hats, and they wore a variety of styles to a number of different places as required in 19th century society, so why aren’t we finding fancy hats as well as simple ones? Straw, or silk hats rather than just wool? Why just men’s hats as far as we can tell?

There are several possible answers to the above questions. Firstly, a survival bias: we find things that people throw away because they’re too worn or damaged to be used anymore. Plain, everyday, work hats are more likely to be used until they can’t be anymore, and then discarded. Hats worn for special occasions or for church were carefully kept to avoid damage, as these hats were a little more expensive and people couldn’t afford to replace them as often. Women’s hats tended to be kept and re-trimmed or re-decorated to keep up with current fashions, and mostly only wealthy women could afford to buy and replace hats to keep up with changes in style. These hats were also unlikely to be thrown away, and were more likely passed on to servants, charities, or to the second-hand clothing market. The nicest examples of hats are kept and end up in museums and private collections.

We also have a taphonomic bias: wool is the most commonly recorded fabric in textile deposits in 19th century Christchurch. This may be due to a higher amount of wool being worn and deposited, but potentially also because the ground is slightly too acidic or alkaline for non-woollen fabric to survive as well as wool. As far as I can tell, our office hasn’t recorded any examples of hats of other fabrics like cotton, linen, straw or silk.

While most of our hats are recovered from domestic rubbish pits, we do have a neat example of a commercial deposit of hats from the Justice Precinct project. Right at the base of the gully that was found on the site were 29 hats, including nine nested hats, some in the process of being blocked, and some completed. These nine hats all had a gilt maker’s mark on the inside, which had transferred partially or completely to the surface of the hat underneath. The mark appears to have read BOURNE / CANADIAN / TRADE MARK around the symbol of a seated lion. Unfortunately, this could not be traced to a specific style or milliner. These hats were accompanied by a number of cotton reels and other fabric fragments, all of which showed signs of burning. This feature was interpreted as a mass deposition following a fire in a nearby dressmakers or tailors’ shop, who also engaged in hat-making and/or millinery (Williams, Garland and Greary Nichols, 2017).

One of the nested hats from the Justice Precinct excavation with the gold maker’s mark from the hat above adhered to the top of the hat. Image: J. Garland.

Hats have a surprisingly varied history, and a curious representation in the archaeological record within Christchurch. We generally seem to find only men’s woollen felt hats in archaeological deposits, even though we can see from the images included above that many more styles of hats were worn in and around Christchurch and New Zealand in the 19th and 20th centuries. This is odd, since hats were a social requirement up until the mid-20th century, and where and how they were worn was significant enough to earn comment in public newspapers. It is also truly saddening to think about the numbers of birds that are now extinct or endangered due, in part, to the millinery industry, especially since hats are no longer a required part of fashion today. Even if our selection of woollen felt hats doesn’t meet with your sartorial approval, the social, economic, and environmental impacts of the 19th century and early 20th century hat trade are interesting to learn about, given how infrequently we consider hats today. On the plus side, you’d have to be wearing a pretty extravagant hat to get written up in the paper in this day and age.

Neda Bawden

References

Bates, C. 2000. Women’s Hats and the Millinery Trade, 1840-1940: An Annotated Bibliography. Dress 27(1): 49-58.

Cramer-Reichelderfer, A. L. 2019. Fall of the American Dressmaker 1880-1920. Unpublished Masters Thesis. Write State University.

Hughes, C. 2017. Hats. London, New York: Bloomsbury Publishing.

Hughes, C. 2016. Hats On, Hats Off. Cultural Studies Review 22(1): 118-43.

Hughes, C. 2020. Review of Stutesman, D. 2019. Hat: Origins, Language, Style. London: Reaktion Books. Fashion Theory 24(7): 1043-1047.

Hunter, K. 2011. A Bird in the Hand: Hunting, Fashion and Colonial Culture. Journal of New Zealand Studies 12: 91-105.

Nevell, M, D. 2007. The rise and fall of the felt hatting industry. In Denton and the Archaeology of the Felt Hatting Industry, The Archaeology of Tameside 7. Tameside: Tameside MBC: 1-25.

Regnault, C. 2021. Dressed: fashionable dress in Aotearoa New Zealand 1840-1910. Wellington: Te Papa Press.

Wells, R. 1891. Manners, Culture and Dress of the Best American Society. Springfield: King, Richardson & Co.

Williams, H., Garland, J., and Greary Nichol, R. 2017. Christchurch Justice and Emergency Services Precinct Archaeological Report Vol 1-3. Unpublished report for the Ministry of Justice.

Death and Taxes

Link

He is bed maker to the dead. The pillows which he lays never rumple. The day of interment is the theatre in which he displays the mysteries of this art.

Thomas Lamb 1811.

 

Nothing in this would can be certain except for death and taxes. Benjamin Franklin’s proverb was never more true than in the case of John C. Felton, a cabinet maker/undertaker from Rangiora who went bankrupt just before the turn of the 20th century. In fact, a site that I was working on recently was occupied by a string of undertakers who moonlighted as carpenters of some description during the 19th and early 20th centuries. The men in question – George Dale, John C. Felton, and J. M’Auliffe – left little evidence of their macabre craft behind, save a chisel and a few nails and bolts. But this was not unexpected – it isn’t often that we find artefacts which form an obvious link to a more ephemeral business like undertaking (we do find the odd ‘mummified’ cat underneath demolished houses, but that’s a bit different). In cases like these, we rely heavily on historic records of land ownership and newspaper reports to connect archaeological assemblages to their 19th century owners.

New Zealand Tablet 2/2/1894: 32

New Zealand Tablet  2/2/1894: 32

Despite the fact that humans have been dying for as long as they have been alive, ‘the undertaker’ is a relatively new profession. Before the mid-19th century the term ‘undertaker’ referred to anyone who undertook a task or enterprise, and the ‘laying out’ of a corpse in preparation for burial was a task generally carried out by female family members of the deceased, or by individuals with other nurturing roles, such as mid-wives. This role eventually transitioned into a male dominated one, in conjunction with the rise of the ideas of feminine sensibility and Victorian female respectability (Burrell 1998).

 

The profession developed as a part-time industry, associated largely with cabinet makers and carpenters, who used their skills to build coffins on the side – Dale and Felton were also both cabinet makers/carpenters – and because of the early undertaker’s associations with furniture dealing, these individuals were probably more familiar to their clients and neighbours as handymen rather than being associated exclusively with death. This early picture of the undertaker developed as populations and commercial specialisation grew – as a result, undertakers were able to dedicate all of their time and effort to the one profession (Burrell 1998). As mourners required evermore elaborate funerary displays, as characterised by the mourning obsessed Victorian era, livery men joined the funerary procession. This group of merchants acted as the suppliers of the horses and carriages to transport the deceased. This in turn gave rise to the hearse bearing undertaker (Polites 2011).

Typical turn of the century Brisbane undertaker (1902).

Typical turn of the century Brisbane undertaker (1902). Image: Polites 2011

All of this sounds relatively profitable, right?  Multifaceted business ventures in an industry which theoretically had a steady and very reliable stream of potential clientele – particularly as the world was still coming to grips with the concept of germ theory (Tremlett 2016)… But alas, John Courtney Felton went bankrupt nonetheless (Star 20/11/1899: 2). One can only speculate as to why his business was unsuccessful.

Figure 3. Hard times for the undertaker (New Zealand Herald 15/09/1923: 3)

Hard times for the undertaker (New Zealand Herald 15/09/1923: 3)

 

The same fate was not met by another notable 19th century Christchurch undertaker – a prosperous business man: Herman Franz Fuhrmann, who was German. We have met Herman Franz Fuhrmann on the blog before, and it’s possible that his business success could be related to the catchiness of his name – it sounds like it was just made for a jingle! – but regardless, he managed to expand his own undertaking and cabinet making business to include a saddler, branched out into insurance, and made a killing in the sale of the Molesworth station in Marlborough.

 

Figure 4. Rhyming makes ads cooler (Free Lance 29/03/1902: 21 ) - Is it just me or do the finials on this hearse look like shrunken heads on spikes to anyone else? Creepy!

Rhyming makes ads cooler (Free Lance 29/03/1902: 21 ) – Is it just me or do the finials on this hearse look like shrunken heads on spikes to anyone else? Creepy!

This more capitalist version of undertaking brings us a little closer to some of the more recent attitudes toward modern funerary directors. Exposés starting in the 1960s tackled the controversy of the idea of the modern undertaking and funeral industry as a profit-driven empire – making a commodity out of death, and manipulating mourning people at their most vulnerable (Mitford, 1983). This is a large and complex debate that won’t be covered here. No price lists were found for any of the undertaking services of Felton, Dale or M’Auliffe, and their advertisements and others like them from this era seemed to focus more on being sanitary, speedy and available on short notice.

 

M’Auliffe is the only one of the three undertakers in question who also advertises an embalming service (Press 3/07/1903: 8). The idea of embalming corpses (the science of preserving human remains intact, for the sanitation, presentation and preservation), can be traced to at least 5000-6000 BC and the Chinchorro culture in present day Chile and Peru (Brenner 2014). Modern embalming began in the 17th century but really didn’t take off until the American Civil War, which saw soldiers dying far from home and their families wishing their bodies to be returned home for burial. The long journeys presented the need to slow down decomposition, and led to injecting various solutions into arteries of a corpse to prevent this natural process (Chiappelli, 2008). During the 19th century, arsenic was the most favoured embalming fluid, although it was eventually replaced with less toxic chemicals in the 1900s. This occurred in order to alleviate growing concerns about ground contamination from buried embalmed bodies seeping into local water supplies – not to mention the possibility of homicide cover-ups in which any evidence of arsenic poisoning could be disguised by embalming fluid (Mettler 1890). Formaldehyde eventually replaced arsenic as the favourite solution and is still used today.

 

M’Auliffe’s multifaceted service also appeared to have run more successfully than his predecessor Felton’s, although he also had his share of hiccups. M’Auliffe may have been a funerary director who harboured a death wish, as he was charged with riding bicycle in the street in the dead of night without a light, and a mysterious fire broke out at his premises in 1912 (also in the middle of the night), destroying his house and workshop. Luckily, the property was insured (Star 21/10/1902: 3, North Otago Times 16/10/1912: 3). Dazzling reports described a scantily-clad Mrs M’Auliffe having to make her way to the ground by a rope fire escape, “with a three-year-old child clinging to her neck. Fortunately, before making her descent she had the presence of mind to throw down a mattress, otherwise the child, who let go its hold when eight or ten feet from the ground, might have met with injury” (Star 15/10/1912: 3). I can only imagine how creepy it would have been to witness the local funeral home or mortuary burning down at the start of the 20th century!

Here’s a picture of another enterprising dame escaping from a building via bedsheet rope- not the same incident, but you get the idea.

Here’s a picture of another enterprising dame escaping from a building via bedsheet rope- not the same incident, but you get the idea. Image: The Amateur Examiner

But even without the burning building, why do we generally find the concept of an undertaker creepy, particularly one from ‘olden times’? When I hear the word ‘undertaker’ or ‘mortician’, the picture of a solitary guy in black and white, with a bit of a mad scientist vibe comes to mind. Pop culture, through the horror novel and film industry, is probably largely to blame for the demonisation of the profession, but the concept of ostracising those who handle the dead is not a new one. It can also be explained by human desire and the need to survive by disassociating one’s self with dead bodies and death. The idea has been explored by acclaimed social anthropologists such as Bronislaw Malinowski, making reference to the Philadelphia yellow fever epidemic of 1793, where the townsmen charged free blacks with the responsibility for picking up the dead and then “shunned them as infected, vilified them as predatory” (Burrell 1998).

 

Well that brings me to the end of this undertaking… Until next time…

 

                                                                                                                                                                Chelsea Dickson.

 

 

References

 

Burrell, D. 1998. Origins of Undertaking: How antebellum merchants made death their business. Seminar in Early American History.

Brenner, E. 2014. “Human body preservation – old and new techniques.” Journal of Anatomy. Vol. 224: 316-344.

Chiappelli, J. 2008. “The Problem of Embalming”. Journal of Environmental Health 71 (5): 24.

Lamb. T. 1811. “On Burial Societies, and the Character of an Undertaker.” The Reflector: A Collection of Essays on Miscellaneous Subjects of Literature and Politics. Vol. 2. London: 1812. 143.

Free Lance. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz. [Accessed June 2016].

Mettler, L. Harrison. “The Importance, from tire Medico-Legal Standpoint, of Distinguishing Between Somatic and Molecular Death.” Medico-Legal Journal 8 (1890): 172-79.

Mitford, J. 1983. American Way of Death. Fawcett.

New Zealand Herald. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz. [Accessed June 2016].

New Zealand Tablet. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz. [Accessed June 2016].

North Otago Times. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz. [Accessed June 2016].

Polites, T., M. 2011. The Undertaker Undertakes [online] Available at: http://taylorpolites.blogspot.co.nz/2011/11/undertaker-undertakes.html. [Accessed June 2016].

Press. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz. [Accessed June 2016].

Star. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz. [Accessed June 2016].

Tremlett, L. (2016). Medical Buildings and Medical Theory: An Archaeological Investigation of Ashburton Hospital, New Zealand. MA Thesis, University of Otago.