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.

Up in the Clouds: Aerial Archaeology

Today on the blog we are taking to the skies to talk about aerial archaeology; the investigation of archaeological sites and landscapes from a higher altitude. There is nothing quite like having a bird’s eye view, and, when investigating archaeological sites or considering the archaeological potential of an area, one of the first things we look at is aerial imagery. For much of the 20th century aerial imagery was recorded via a plane, but in our modern era we have access to high quality satellite imagery and drone footage. Aerial archaeology is just another everyday tool in the archaeologist’s belt, and today we are going to go through a bit of background before diving into some local examples.

If we go back to the very beginning, on a small farm outside of Temuka, a humble Kiwi farmer was one of the first people to fly and land a powered heavier-than-air machine (Figure 1). I’m talking of course about Richard Pearse, who flew in 1902, nine months before the Wright Brothers – not that I am keeping score. While our friend ‘Bamboo Dick’ (yes that’s what they called him) didn’t take any photographs from his ‘monoplane’, his inventions and trials mark the beginning of flight in New Zealand – it would be rude not to give him a shout out.

Figure 1: Richard Pearse and his ‘monoplane’ forever remembered on a limited edition stamp and in our hearts (New Zealand Post, 1990).

Once people were up the air, it didn’t take long before the first aerial photographs were taken, including those of archaeological sites. To begin with this largely took place in Europe and America with iconic sites such as Stonehenge being among the first to be photographed from the air (Figure 2). In New Zealand things were a little bit slower, but by the 1920s aerial surveys were being completed in specific areas throughout the country. Within Christchurch, the 1920s aerials are pretty much limited to the coastline and the Port Hills. Unfortunately, we don’t have coverage of the CBD at this stage, but we do have a great view of Lyttelton. The quality is actually really good, and you can easily see the contours of the topography and individual buildings. But one of the most striking things we can see, is the development of the Lyttelton Port over the past 100 years (Figure 3).

Figure 2: Stone Henge from a hot air balloon 1906 (Renfrew and Bahn, 2012:78).

Figure 3: Above: Lyttelton Port late 1920s. Below: Modern aerial imagery (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

The 1940s, and the advent of World War Two, resulted in widespread systematic aerial surveys of Canterbury and wider New Zealand, including Christchurch’s CBD (Figure 4). Photos from this era and much of the 20th century are black and white, which is preferential for us as archaeologists. Black and white photos clearly show contours, shadows, and topography, especially if they are oblique (at an angle to the landscape). In contrast vertical photos are much better for understanding spatial layout and are handy for mapmaking (Figure 5).

Figure 4: Christchurch within the four avenues, early 1940s (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Figure 5: The two types of aerial image – yes, I took this from my first-year textbook (Renfrew and Bahn, 2012: 79).

Further aerial surveys were completed throughout the 20th century, with all of New Zealand photographed by the 1950s (Jones 1996: 25). By the 1990s we even had colour! But don’t get too excited as the quality is terrible, I tend to avoid the photos from 1995-2004 altogether (Figure 6).

Figure 6: A very blurry, but coloured, Christchurch Cathedral (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

By the 1950s and 1960s, the systematic use of aerial photographs for archaeological purposes had commenced and there are a few early reports and articles that talk about this ‘new’ technology (Gorbey, 1967). However, in the world of aerial archaeology in New Zealand, one person in particular comes to mind – the late great Kevin Jones. Kevin made both nationally and internationally significant contributions to aerial archaeology. I even learnt about him and his contributions while studying at university (and was just a tad starstruck when I met him). His book Ngā Tohuwhenua Mai Te Rangi: A New Zealand Archaeology in Aerial Photography is nothing short of quality research and sheer beauty. It showcases New Zealand’s archaeology much more eloquently than I could ever dream to discuss in a blog. For anyone who wants to check it out, his book is available digitally here (https://nzetc.victoria.ac.nz/tm/scholarly/tei-JonTohu.html). Thank you for all of your mahi Kevin <3

Figure 7: A key text typically found on most archaeologist’s bookshelf.

Let’s look at some archaeology!

Perhaps the most iconic archaeological site type we have in New Zealand is the pā. Many pā, particularly in the North Island, have been photographed and surveyed from the air, as their earthwork features are stunning from this viewpoint (Figure 8). Cascading pits, tumbling terraces, and extensive earthworks really shine in oblique black and white photographs. While pā are more common up north, we do have some spectacular pā here in Canterbury, including those accessible to the public. One example is Ngā Niho Pā on the Kaikoura Peninsula (Figure 9). Its location against the Peninsula’s rocky edge provides both a natural defence and clear viewpoint along the coastline. Another example a little closer to Christchurch is Ōnawe Pā, located at the head of Akaroa Harbour (Figure 10). Its long thin neck provides a natural defensive feature, and from black and white aerials we can clearly see further defensive earthworks on the interior of the pā (Figure 11). Make sure you stop in to visit these sites on your next road trip, just remember to be respectful and follow any outlined tikanaga. And, of course, if you want to learn more about these places, check out some indigenous resources like the Kā Huru Manu: the Ngāi Tahu Cultural Atlas.

Figure 8: Cascading pits at Kohukete, one of the largest pā in the Hawkes Bay (Jones, 1996: 27).

Ngā Niho Pā on Kaikōura Peninsula. Strategically located against the steep hillslope. This pā is open to public access (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Ōnawe Pā – using the environment to its advantage (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Close up of Ōnawe Pā – can you see the defensive ditches? (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Within the Christchurch CBD, most of what we see in aerial photography is buildings – no surprises there. But through aerial photographs we can see changes, additions, and demolitions, which is all useful information we need to understand the history of a site. Sometimes all we need to see is the roofline of a house to better understand how it has been added to over time (Figure 12). Sometimes all we have left to physically indicate a building ever existed is the footprint or the foundations (Figure 13, Figure 14, Figure 15). And sometimes you are just being nosey and stumble upon something a bit more interesting and uncommon than usual (Figure 16).

Figure 12: A cluster of late 19th century houses in Christchurch that were demolished after the Canterbury earthquakes. Can you see all those lean-tos? (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Figure 13: At first glance you may think this was another pā but no! This is the site of Christchurch’s first (of three) quarantine Stations. It’s located over in Camp Bay and those are the former building platforms. The cemetery is located on the headland (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Figure 14: The concrete foundations of ‘Mansion House’ in Cheviot (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Figure 15: A photo of ‘Manion House’ in Cheviot c. 1890 (unknown, 1890).

Figure 16: Ripapa Island – former pā, former quarantine station (the second one), Russian Scare fort, WW1 and WW2 defence. What an over achiever (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

From the air we also see scars of the former landscape and environment. A good Christchurch example is Horseshoe Lake over in Shirley. The lake is a redundant and cut off loop of the adjacent Avon River (Figure 17). It would have likely been cut off following a flood event where the Avon changed course, leaving the lake behind. Other former or remnant river channels are visible in aerial imagery throughout Canterbury, and they attest to the dynamic nature of our braided river systems.

Another major scar we see is the impact of the Canterbury Earthquakes. A review of aerial imagery from after 2010 is a particularly sobering experience. Collapsed buildings, liquefaction, spilling bricks, and sheer chaos can be taken in from above. Many of the gaps left behind in the city still lay vacant today and if we move outward into suburbia the rise of the Red Zone resulted in the death of many neighbourhoods (Figure 18).

Figure 17: Horseshoe Lake (top centre) now isolated from the main body of the Avon River(Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Figure 18: The extensive Burwood Red Zone (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

In contrast we also see the birth of new towns like Pegasus Town, to the north of the city (Figure 19 and Figure 20). When comparing different decades of aerial imagery, it can feel like these new towns and subdivisions spring up overnight. They may seem like a major change, but in reality, it’s just another step in the urban growth of the region and the start of a new story.

Figure 19: The location of Pegasus Town prior to development in the mid 2000s. Woodend is tucked in the bottom left corner (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Figure 20: Pegasus as it stands today (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

I could go on for hours showing off more sites and explaining the uses of aerial archaeology, but I am nearing my word count. So, lets park it for now and maybe we can come back again and share more finds from the sky in future. In the meantime, check out some historic aerial imagery and have a snoop! These resources are free and online. You never know what you will find!

Alana Kelly

References

Canterbury Maps, 2023. Canterbury Maps Viewer. [online] Available at: https://canterburymaps.govt.nz/

Gorbey, G. 1967. ‘Aerial Photography in New Zealand archaeology’, New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter, 10(4): 167-175.

Jones, K. 1996. ‘Aerial Archaeology in New Zealand Archaeology’, Australasian Historical Archaeology, 14: 25-33.

New Zealand Post, 1990. Heritage – the Achievers stamp issue. [Stamp]. Available at: https://teara.govt.nz/en/postage-stamp/6562/commemorating-new-zealands-first-flight

Renfrew, C. and Bahn, P. 2012. Archaeology: Theories, Methods, and Practice. 6th edn. London: Thames and Hudson.

Unknown, 1890. Mansion House, Cheviot Estate. [Photograph]. Available at: https://ndhadeliver.natlib.govt.nz/delivery/DeliveryManagerServlet?dps_pid=IE57788&dps_custom_att_1=emu Accessed March 2023.

 

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.

A Disturbing Discovery

Disclaimer: the topics discussed in this blog post include descriptions of murder, torture and rape. Reader discretion is advised.

 

It was around a year ago that Underground Overground Archaeology again hit the mainstream news, this time with stories about our excavations at the site of the new Court Theatre (a few of those stories here, here, and here). While it’s great when media outlets publish stories about the archaeological work that we do, there are definitely pros and cons to the pieces. The main pro is, of course, that a much wider range of people get to hear about the archaeological work that we do in Christchurch, rather than just those that follow us on social media or keep up with this blog. The cons are that because the journalists that are reporting the stories aren’t archaeologists and often have word or time limits to keep to, their stories can be quite brief and often focus in on the stereotype that the only thing us archaeologists are interested in is ‘treasure’. Now, don’t get me wrong, us archaeologists are the first to get excited when we find a rare or unusual artefact, but we’re not pirates. For us, the real ‘treasure’ is the stories that the artefacts tell us about the lives of people of the past, rather than the artefacts themselves. Working out those stories comes long after excavation is finished and only happens once we have gone through all of the information we’ve collected, the notes on the features that we took when we excavated them, the results of the artefact analysis, and the information that we can draw from the historical record, and see what these three information sources, along with anything else we might have access to, can tell us. A lot of the time when we’re getting mainstream media interest, it’s at the time of the archaeological excavation, meaning that we haven’t yet worked out all the interesting stories as we are only at the start of figuring them out. That was very much the case when we were being interviewed about the Court Theatre site, where one of the ‘treasures’ that the journalists were most interested in was a clay pipe. A year later, we are now at a point where we’ve done most of the artefact analysis and we can actually start to narrow down some of those stories that the artefacts from the site are able to tell us.

A classic example of the use of ‘treasure’ by the mainstream media. While they’re not wrong, it does perpetuate the stereotype of archaeologists as Indiana Jones type figures, which is very much not the case. Image: Otago Daily Times.

The clay pipe in question is probably the most violent and confronting artefact that we’ve had come out of an archaeological site in Christchurch, at least in recent years. The pipe was elaborately moulded and depicted a man, wearing a turban and Indian style dress, holding a sword above his shoulder, ready to strike. Next to him is a woman lying with one arm raised, her chest bare and her dress pooled at her waist. A baby lies at her feet. A woman is shown fleeing on the side of the bowl. Stamped on the stem of the pipe was “NA NA SAIB” and “DELHI”.

Image: C. Watson

The clay pipe is depicting an event known as the Bibighar massacre, which took place within the 1857 Indian Rebellion. This rebellion happened when sepoys, or Indian soldiers, mutinied against the East India Company. The East India Company had had a presence in India since the early 17th century, and by the 19th century was effectively responsible for the government of India and was employing sepoys within their army. The reasons behind the mutiny were complicated but were mainly a result of an accumulation of grievances, mostly around the structure of the army and treatment of the sepoys, and the treatment of landowners and high-status individuals by the British. Sepoys in Meerut and Delhi mutinied against the British officers in May of 1857, with the rebel sepoys taking control of Delhi. News of the mutinies spread, with sepoys in some regions also rebelling, while in other regions sepoys fought for the British. In June of 1857, the sepoys under the leadership of the British General Wheeler at Cawnpore (Kanpur) mutinied. This led to the Siege of Cawnpore, where General Wheeler, the British soldiers, and their families, were trapped by the rebel sepoys in an entrenchment for three weeks with little water or food. The siege came to an end on the 27th of June when Nana Saib, an Indian nobleman who was a prominent leader in the rebellion, offered safe passage to Wheeler and the British to the nearby river where they could board boats and leave Cawnpore. Wheeler trusted Nana, as prior to the rebellion he had been an ally to the East India Company. However, upon reaching the riverbank and beginning to board the boats, the Indian sepoys opened fire on the British, resulting in many casualties. The 120 women and children that survived the massacre were re-captured and taken as captives. They were taken to a local house, Bibighar, with a group of another 80 women and children captured from another town later also taken to the house. On July 15, this group of women and children were massacred in a brutal killing.

Sir Joseph Noel Paton painted In Memoriam in 1858 in honour of the victims of the Bibighar massacre. We suspect that this painting was one of the source works that inspired the design of the pipe, particularly the positioning of the central woman and child.

The Chamber of Blood’ is a tinted lithograph by Vincent Brooks after Lieutenant C W Crump, Madras Artillery, No. 2. It was part of the series ‘A Pictorial Record of the Cawnpore Massacre’ published by Henry Graves and Co., London, in 1858.

A memorial to the women and children killed in the massacre was erected by the British. The memorial is built over the well in which the women and children’s bodies were thrown.Image: S. Bourne.

Many reasons have been suggested for why the women and children were killed. Some historians have suggested that they were killed in the hope that it would stop East India Company forces from approaching Cawnpore. Others have suggested that it was to stop information from being leaked to the British if Cawnpore fell, or to undermine Nana Saib’s relationship with the British, or that it was simply an act of revenge for British murders of Indian civilians. Following the massacre at Bibighar, British soldiers retook Cawnpore and took the sepoys as prisoners. The British forced the sepoys to lick the blood that stained the walls and floors of the Bibighar as punishment. They were then hung, or ‘blew from the cannon’, a method of execution where the victim is tied to the mouth of a cannon, which is then fired. This method was used by the British in India as it destroyed the body and prevented Hindu and Muslim funerary rites from being carried out on the victim.  By the end of 1857, the British had largely regained control, with the final rebels defeated in June of 1858. The acts that took place as part of the Indian Mutiny included atrocious acts of violence by both sides. The rebellion resulted in the dissolution of the East India Company by the Government of India Act 1858, with the governing of India transferred to the British Crown.

Going back to the clay pipe that we found at the Court Theatre site, from an example in the Amsterdam Pipe Museum we know that the pipe was manufactured by French pipe manufacturers L. Fiolet. Louis Fiolet was a French pipe manufacturer based as St. Omer. Fiolet took over his grandfather’s business in 1834, adopting the usage of the ‘L. Fiolet’ mark at this time. Around 1885 Fiolet went into partnership with his son-in-law, George Audebert, as Fiolet and Audebert. Fiolet died in 1892 and the firm operated as Audebert Fiolet from 1893 onwards. Fiolet pipes are said to be second only to Gambier pipes in quality, and the company was one of the most prominent French pipe manufacturers in the 19th century, having a base in France and a shop in London (Hammond, 1987). While we can’t include a picture of the example from the Amsterdam Pipe Museum due to copyright, you can view it by clicking on the hyperlink. The Amsterdam Pipe Museum example shows that the pipe was coloured, with the Indian attacker’s skin coloured brown, and the British woman and the baby’s skin painted pink. Presumably our pipe was also painted, but that decoration  has weathered off our pipe due to it being buried in the ground for over 150 years.

At the time of our interviews a year ago, while we had worked out that the pipe was inspired by the Indian Mutiny, and we knew that it was made by L. Fiolet, we didn’t know the details of the Bibighar massacre that inspired the pipe. Having read the account of that massacre, it shines a new light on the brutality of the pipe. At the time of our interview, we made reference to how the pipe speaks to the globalised nature of the 19th century, the pipe being a French made pipe, inspired by Indian historical events, found in New Zealand. But it’s only now that we have done the more detailed research, that a more nuanced view appears.

The first reports of the Siege of Cawnpore and the massacre of British civilians were embellished by shocking tales of rape, torture and mutilation. Nana Saib, with his role in the munity and the massacre, became known as the ‘Tiger of Cawnpore’. Nana was the face of the massacre for the British public, and as a result of that became a pop culture villain who was referenced in tales about savagery and resistance to British authority within the empire. Plays, ballads, stories and paintings were quickly produced, with the sentiment of ‘remember Cawnpore’ an underlying message (Wallace, 2015). It is highly likely that Fiolet, with their presence in London and their targeting of the British market, were influenced by the popular culture of the period to produce the pipe, with the smoking pipe just one of several pop culture artefacts depicting the events of the mutiny and massacre. The depictions of Nana and the massacre in popular culture acted as propaganda, which was used by the British to generate public support for the British response to the rebellion, as well as justification for some of the atrocities carried out by British soldiers.

The design of the smoking pipe highlights the British view of the mutiny, and of Nana Saib as the ‘Tiger of Cawnpore’. The Indian sepoy’s skin is coloured brown, he is wearing a turban and Indian dress, and is armed with an Indian style sword, all clear indicators of his race and position. The woman is bare breasted, her clothes pooling at her waist and her hair loose. Her skin is painted pink, a clear reference to her ethnicity as British, and her half-nakedness both symbolises her vulnerability and gives connotations of rape. The baby at her feet is also painted pink and is naked, emphasising its vulnerability. The scene of the pipe depicts the atrocity of the Bibighar massacre and the most horrific of the actions by the Indians at the Siege of Cawnpore and is clearly designed for the British narrative of the events. The choice to depict women and children as the primary victims of the mutiny, rather than the largely male-dominated East India Company and military power structures the sepoys were rebelling against, was a deliberate one, and can be seen as the weaponization of white femininity in defence of the (patriarchal, European) imperial power structures at play in India at the time. Of course, historical events are often filled with contesting views. If the pipe manufacturer had been influenced by the Indian sepoy perspective on the Siege of Cawnpore, then the pipe might show the sepoys attacking the British, or the British forcing the sepoys to lick blood off the walls of the Bibighar, or tying them to cannons to execute them. In the 21st century we can’t ignore the power imbalances created by colonialism and the impossible standards that disempowered people were held to, where there was never a correct means of resistance. But we can acknowledge this and acknowledge that the British also committed atrocities, while still viewing what was done to the British women and children as a horrific act.

For the Victorian British and the perspective that was created through depictions of the mutiny in popular culture, Nana was the embodiment of the nightmare of British imperialism and empire building. He represented “the latent treachery of all subject races, the rejection of British Progress, the destruction of the sacred family unit” (Wallace, 2015: 611). The rubbish pit in which our smoking pipe was found dates to the 1860s, around the year 1866. In 1860s New Zealand, the New Zealand Wars were being fought in Taranaki and Waikato. By understanding the history of the events that the pipe depicts, and the image of Nana Saib in Victorian popular culture as the Tiger of Cawnpore, one has to wonder if the pipe’s presence in Christchurch was intended as a warning to British colonists living in the city, a reminder of what the local population can do when oppressed. The pipe is more than an example of the global trade connections that existed in the 19th century, it’s a symbol of British imperialism and the consequences of that. And understanding that history, and the relevance of that history to our current day society, is the true treasure that archaeology can uncover.

Clara Watson

References

Hammond, P., 1987. The London Commercial Agents of French Clay Pipe Manufacturers Fiolet and Audebert Fiolet. Society for Clay Pipe Research Newsletter. 15: 16-21.

Wallace, B., 2015. Nana Sahib in British Culture and Memory. The Historical Journal. 58 (2): 589-613.

 

Milsom, Mace and More

Today’s blog is the start of a three-piecer on one of Christchurch’s earliest aerated water factories, once located on St Asaph Street. Now we have written plenty of blogs about aerated waters in the past (see here, here, and here) so we won’t cover much of the general information on the industry. Instead, we will start by diving into the history of Milsom and Mace, two big fish in the pond of aerated waters, before getting into the archaeology discovered on site in our next blog. So, settle in with a glass of your favourite soft drink and enjoy.

The St Asaph Street aerated water factory, which is the subject of these blogs, was in operation from 1860, which is pretty early for the Christchurch setting. The only other manufacturer set up in central Christchurch before this was Thomas Raine, who was in operation from 1859. Raine (great name for a fizzy drink man) was initially located over on the corner of Peterborough and Colombo Street, but later moved to the corner of Gloucester Street and Cambridge Terrace.

The St Asaph Street aerated water factory was owned and operated by Joseph Milsom from 1860, although it wasn’t ‘officially’ purchased until 1863. The Milsom family became somewhat of a powerhouse in the world of 19th century aerated waters in Canterbury. So, before we get into it, J. Milsom is not to be confused with R. Milsom (his brother), H. J. Milsom (his nephew), G. P. Milsom (another nephew), J. B Milsom (yet another nephew), or any other potential Milsoms out there. The many Milsom businesses are summarised below.

Keeping up with the Milsoms. A summary of the many Milsom businesses of Christchurch and surrounds, their locations, names, and operation dates. Honestly, it was a whole family affair. Compiled based on information from Christchurch Antique Bottle and Collectables Club Inc (2022).

Once established in 1860, J. Milsom initially traded under his name, before entering a partnership with his brother Richard in 1861. Richard also had an aerated water factory, which was located on London Street in Lyttelton. For the next two years the pair traded as R. & J. Milsom, operating out of both Richard’s London Street factory and Joseph’s St Asaph Street Factory. For reasons unknown the partnership ended in 1863 and the two went back to operating out of their own factories under their own names

An advertisement for R. & J. Milsom, detailing their dual locations. Lyttelton Times, 8/5/1861: 8.

Advertisement for J. Milsom’s goods. Southern Provinces Almanac, 1864: 126.

During this early operation period, two buildings are shown to be located on the property. It is likely that the building fronting St Asaph Street was the house where Milsom and his family lived as it matches the placement of the other neatly arranged houses on the surrounding sections. The second building to the south was most likely the original aerated water factory. No buildings were established on the western town section and the southern areas of the two sections were otherwise vacant at this time.

The St Asaph Street aerated water factory site highlighted in red, as shown on Fooks 1862 map of Christchurch. The eastern section was ‘officially’ purchased in 1863, and the western section was purchased in 1875. Note: Southwark Street was originally named George Street.

In 1866 J. Milsom formed a new partnership with his nephew Henry J. Milsom, with the business operating under J. Milsom & Co. Unfortunately, the partnership filed for bankruptcy in 1871, which, to be fair, was a pretty common occurrence during the 19th century. A newspaper article from the time suggests that something a bit scandalous happened between the pair as Joseph Milsom declared that he was carrying on the business in his own account having ‘no connection with Henry Joseph Milsom’ who was a former business partner. Although whatever happened can’t have been too serious as Henry Jospeh Milsom remained in the employ of the Aerated Water Company. What exactly went on remains a mystery, but we haven’t seen the last of Henry.

A public notice. Lyttelton Times, 17/4/1871: 1

Following the resolution of the bankruptcy, the 1870s and 1880s proved to be a successful period for the Milsom family as branches were operated in Dunsandel, Ashburton, Sheffield, and Leeston (Christchurch Antique Bottle and Collectables Club Inc, 2022: 152). During these two decades, the family certainly had a strong hold on the market and by the mid-1870s, the St Asaph Street factory had grown. In Stout’s 1877 map of Christchurch, we can see the expansion of the factory in the centre of the site, with two smaller associated outbuildings to the east. Additionally, J. Milsom’s house in the northeast corner of the site appears to have been either expanded or replaced by this period.

Interestingly, Henry Joseph Milsom appears to have returned to the partnership with his uncle by 1876. It is possible that the returned partnership was triggered by Henry Joseph Milsom’s purchase of the neighbouring property to the west. There are two houses shown on this section in Strout’s 1877 map, a larger one facing St Asaph Street and a smaller one facing Southwark Street. It is likely that these were the original houses built on the property by Mr James Long Fleming who purchased it in 1863. A sales notice from 1864 describes the property as a quarter acre section of freehold land with a dwelling house of five rooms (likely the one facing St Asaph Street) and a cottage of two rooms (likely the one facing Southwark Street) (Lyttelton Times, 30/8/1864: 4).

The St Asaph Street aerated water factory site highlighted in red, as shown on Stouts 1877 map of Christchurch. Facing St Asaph Street are two houses, the large building in the centre is the new factory building, with two outbuildings to the east. Another small cottage faces Southwark Street.

Henry Joseph Milsom’s return to St Asaph Street appears to have been in preparation to take over the factory from his uncle, who seems to have retired in 1880. Although J. Milsom does seem to continue to have had some involvement in the business, as it was not until 1882 that the firm begun to trade as H. J. Milsom and Co. But all up that makes over 20 years in the aerated water industry, which is a pretty good innings.

The business seemed to have prospered under Henry’s lead, as in 1884 he was advertising the removal of an old house, buildings, sheds, and other things to make way for the construction of ‘new and extensive buildings’ (Press, 5/4/1884: 3). It seemed as though he was planning another revamp of the factory and accommodations. However, in less than a fortnight after placing the advertisement, Henry died of a ‘short but severe illness’ at the St Asaph premises aged 42 (Press, 14/4/1884: 2). Henry’s widow, Mrs Amelia Jane Milsom, initially took over the running of the business, and later sold it in December of 1884 to Henry Mace (Star, 6/01/1885: 2). Thus, marking the end of the Milsom era at St Asaph Street.

Auction notice for the removal of buildings at the Milsom’s Lemonade and Cordial Factory, 1884. Press, 5/04/1884:3.

A public notice detailing the sale of the St Asaph Street factory to Henry Mace, following the death of Henry Milsom. Star, 6/01/1885: 2.

Henry Mace had an interesting life and was quite the successful man. He was born in Yorkshire, England in 1837, and, like many others, was drawn out to Australasia after the discovery of gold (The Cyclopedia of New Zealand [Canterbury Provincial District] 1903:367). In 1861, after a few years on the Australian goldfields, Henry crossed the ditch and began looking for gold in Otago. He, along with his brothers John and Charles, began prospecting at the junction of 12 Mile Creek and the Arrow River, with the ensuing settlement named ‘Macetown’ after the trio. Following his success on the goldfields, he became an important figure in the aerated water industry. Prior to his purchasing of the Milsom factory, he also ran factories in Hokitika and Wellington.

The man, the myth, the mohawk? The Cyclopedia of New Zealand [Canterbury Provincial District] 1903:367.

Tancred Street, Hokitika in the 1870s, looking towards the Southern Alps with the Hokitika River on the left. Part of the Mace & Dixon building is visible on the left. Image: westcoast.recollect.co.nz/nodes/view/26468  .

After purchasing the Milsom business from Mrs Amelia Jane Milsom, Mace renamed the business ‘H. Mace’ and traded from the factory. He seems to have continued on with the site renovations started by Henry Milsom, as an 1885 description of the factory states he had a large main building, a stable, and a coach house. These buildings are likely the ones shown on the 1899 survey plan.  Here is a full description of the factory:

“His large and commodious building is built of brick and stone, as also is a large six-stalled stable and coach-house, with an extensive loft, and is situated in St. Asaph-street, running through to George-street. The upper storey of the factory is used as a storeroom for the numerous articles used in the manufacture of cordials bitters, sauce, &c. The ground floor contains the factory, cordial room and office. Water is laid on throughout the premises, and the frequent use of it keeps the place pleasantly cool. The machine at work is a soda-water machine (by Barrett and Foster) with double cylinders, each containing eight gallons, capable of turning out 1600 dozen daily. It is driven by an Otto silent gas-engine of 3-horse power. This also drives the oat-crushing and chaff-cutting machines in the stable loft-Among the other apparatus are the several bottling machines, which are used for filling the Hogben, Lamont, and Coad patents, as well as the ordinary plain bottle—all of which are in use by this firm—a siphon, filler, and a gasometer, one of the largest in the colony. In the cordial room are the several casks in use for the manufacture of cordials, sauce, bitters, &c., whilst all the shelves are kept constantly filled up with them. They are all corked by the French. Gervais corking machine, which compresses and drives in the cork at the same time.”

 – Illustrated Guide to Christchurch and Neighbourhood, 1885: 208.

The St Asaph Street factory site as shown on an 1899 survey plan. The factory is now in the centre of the western section. LINZ, 1899.

Henry Mace’s brand became known for their dogs head logo, variations of which featured on the bottles produced, and the business powered on through the 1880s and 1890s. In c. 1901, H. Mace became H. Mace & Co., with William Longton becoming a partner. But, soon after this, in mid-1902, Henry Mace died of rheumatic fever. Nevertheless, the business continued under his name, trading until 1923 (Christchurch Antique Bottle and Collectables Club Inc, 2022: 126-127).

H. Mace bottle with dog head logo in centre. Image: C. Watson.

Advertisement for H. Mace & Co.. Davie, 1902: 35.

By the turn of the 20th century, the factory site was still owned by Mrs Amelia Jane Milsom. In 1900 she sold the eastern section to Grummitt, White, and Co., who were clothing manufacturers that specialised in waterproof clothing, and in 1906 she sold the western section to James and Catherine Rattray. Through the 20th century the site became heavily built up with commercial buildings, but nothing too major seems to have happened. By 2004 much of the former factory site was used as carparks, which are an archaeologists best friend. You’ll see why next time.

Grummitt and White Christchurch clothing factory St. Asaph Street, Christchurch. The aerated water factory site is on the right. Image: CCL-KPCD13-0006, Christchurch City Libraries, 2021.

Alana Kelly

References

Christchurch Antique Bottle and Collectables Club Inc, 2022. Unearthed: Bottles of the Christchurch & District Soft Drink Industry 1860-1980. Christchurch Antique Bottle and Collectables Club Inc, Christchurch.

Christchurch City Libraries, 2021. [online] Available at:  https://christchurchcitylibraries.com

Cyclopaedia Company Ltd., 1903. Cyclopaedia of New Zealand [Canterbury Provincial District]. The Cyclopaedia Company Limited, Chistchurch.

Davie, M., 1902. Tourist’s Guide to Canterbury. P. A. Herman, Christchurch. [online] Available at: https://christchurchcitylibraries.com/DigitalCollection/Publications/1900s/TouristGuide1902/Pages/83338-001.asp

Fooks, C. E., 1862. Christchurch, Canterbury, New Zealand [map].

LINZ, 1899. A 8690, Canterbury. Landonline.

Lyttelton Times, 1851-1920. [online] Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers.

Mosely, M., 1885. Illustrated Guide to Christchurch and Neighbourhood. J. T. Smith & Co., Christchurch. [online] Available at: https://nzetc.victoria.ac.nz/tm/scholarly/tei-MosIllu.html

Press, 1861-1945. [online] Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/.

Southern provinces almanac, directory, and year-book, 1864. Lyttelton Times, Christchurch. [online] Available at: https://canterburystories.nz/collections/publications/southern-provinces-almanac/ccl-cs-11851

Star, 1868-1935. [online] Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers.

Strouts, F., 1877. Map of Christchurch, Canterbury compiled from data supplied to City Council and District Drainage Board [map].

West Coast Recollect, 2023. [online] Available at: https://westcoast.recollect.co.nz/