The fascist punishment: a foul taste used for foul purposes

Posted on 4 March 2016 by Jessie Garland

It’s made from plant seeds named for their resemblance to a tick and has been known through history as the ‘golden nectar of nausea’ and the ‘fascist punishment’, among other things. When combined with chlorine, it forms a “a substance of horny character” (immature as I am, I may have laughed at that) and its taste has been commonly described as repulsive. We find the distinctive cobalt blue bottles it used to come in on 19^th and early 20^th century sites throughout Christchurch, where it was used to traumatise young children in the name of good health for decades.

Got it yet?

I am, of course, talking about castor oil, the scourge of the bowels (apparently), lubricator of flying machines and converter of communists (I’ll explain later, it’s kind of awful). Castor oil, which comes from the seeds of the Ricinus communis plant, has been cultivated in Europe since at least the 16^th century, and was used during the 19^th and early 20^th centuries for a plethora of things, some of them more dubious than others.

Castor oil bottles, commonly found on 19th century archaeological sites in Christchurch and throughout New Zealand. Image: J. Garland.

Castor oil bottles, commonly found on 19th century archaeological sites in Christchurch and throughout New Zealand. As well as a laxative and purgative, castor oil was used to prevent flies from landing around children’s eyes, as a way of preventing gun powder from getting wet, as a perfume base and a beauty product (with the slogan ‘Feed your face with castor oil!) and as a lubricant for early flying machines. it was surprisingly versatile. Image: J. Garland.

Primarily, it was used for personal health care, mostly advertised as a laxative and/or purgative for cases of constipation and diarrhoea, over eating or general digestive problems. One specific account describes it as “a medicament for putting the internal economy in order after bouts of overeating,” which is just the most delightful turn of phrase. It was often given to young babies, especially earlier in the 19^th century, although this was later discouraged as an unnecessary and occasionally dangerous thing to do (there are several accounts of babies or young children dying as a result of the wrongful administration of castor oil, usually due to reactions with other substances). It wasn’t particularly dangerous for adults, unless there were other health complications, although there were some cases of people dying after mistaking acid or caustic disinfectants like Lysol for castor oil (yikes).

In which both babies and castor oil are old fashioned. Image: Auckland Star 31/05/1924: 18.

A very very high number of the articles and advertisements for castor oil were concerned with the taste. Some described it as repulsive, some as sickening. One writer even used the phrase “the smooth, mucilaginous, euphorbiaceous, nauseous castor oil” which manages to both be technically accurate (translated as ‘sticky nausea inducing oil from the Euphorbiaciae taxa of plants’) and convey an almost onomatopoeic sense of revulsion. Needless to say, there are numerous recommendations on how to disguise the taste, both for yourself and any unsuspecting victims (usually children) you might have.

Among the recommended ways of hiding the taste of castor oil are: mixing it with scrambled eggs; ‘floating’ it on milk; putting it in lemonade; orange juice or other citrus flavours; hiding it in candy (this seems particularly cruel); and mixing it with cocoa to form ‘castor oil chocolate’ (which sounds awful, to be honest). The chocolate is particularly interesting, thanks to one account of a court case in Christchurch in which a local chemist was prosecuted for selling a product labelled castor oil chocolate that actually contained mostly phenolpthalen, a weak acid also used as a laxative. So, yeah, laxative chocolates. Who knew. Also still a thing, apparently.

Top: Even Tom hated the taste of castor oil. Image: Tom and Jerry Cartoon “Baby Puss” 1943. Bottom: 1928 joke about disguising the taste of castor oil. Image: Evening Post 23/03/1924: 21.

Apparently, a lot of these methods didn’t actually do a whole lot to disguise the taste of the oil. Neither did the ‘tasteless’ castor oils advertised actually manage to do what they claimed. Castor oil continued to taste bad enough that the taking of it was considered a punishment, especially by children. In fact, it was administered as a punishment, and this is where it gets interesting. And political. And a bit sinister. Because castor oil wasn’t just given as a punishment to school children (which is bad enough, when you think about the laxative properties…) but, particularly during the 20^th century, was also forcibly given or used as a threat against adults – specifically and most commonly by fascists.

In which the Scottish lag behind the Americans in methods by which to punish school children. Image: Auckland Star 7/06/1884: 4.

The first mention I found of this was a notice in the newspaper stating that several men had been imprisoned for “administering castor oil to communists,” which seemed a bit weird but kind of funny. Then I read some more and, yeah, not so funny. Castor oil was used by the Fascisti in 1920s and 1930s Italy to punish dissenters, subversives and enemies of fascism, basically by holding them down and forcing them to suffer from uncontrollable diarrhoea that could last for days. It served the purpose of exerting control over individuals, humiliating them and immobilising them, or at least restricting their movement (Strange History 2014). “Castor oil cudgels” became so synonymous with Mussolini and the Italian fascists that George Bernard Shaw had to write a defense of fascism in 1937 to explicitly state that the success of the ideology wasn’t just due to the use of castor oil.

In which a fascist Pinocchio forces castor oil down the throat of a communist. Image via Overland Journal.

The use of castor oil in this way was adopted by other extremist political groups during the first half of the 20^th century. The Nazis used it as a threat against newspaper editors who might consider attacking them in print; royalists in France used it in combination with tar to attack anti-royalist deputies; fascists in England used in an assault on a journalist; secret police in Cuba allegedly forced newspaper staff to drink it at gunpoint in 1934 to “forestall revolutionary outbreak” and it was used by the rebels in Spain in the late 1930s. It was, as it turns out, an exceedingly common tool of political punishment.

In which the Nazis use castor oil to threaten the freedom of the press. Image: Auckland Star 5/11/1930: 7.

You can actually sort of see the beginnings of the use of castor oil in this way during the earlier 19^th century: although not explicitly used as it was in the 20^th century, it’s mentioned occasionally as a kind of social purgative, playing on the perceived purgative and laxative qualities of the product and applying them to society or sub-sets of society in general. One account talks about administering castor oil to the entire Department of Public Works, another of using it to “sweep away the all highly paid noodles and useless sinecurists” in the Railway Department. Another example attempted to solve the drunk ‘problem’ in America by offering drunkards a choice of castor oil or gaol (which kind of seems like a non-choice to me, but I guess not). The same principle was applied in Italy again during the 1920s, where it was less of a choice and more of a ‘if we catch you drunk, we will forcibly feed you castor oil to sober you up, totally for the good of society.’

In which drunkards are given a choice. Image: Press 1/12/1936: 11.

Now, there’s no evidence to suggest that the castor oil bottles we find in Christchurch were used for anything outside their health or mechanical-related functions, but it does make you think about a whole field of things our archaeological experience doesn’t usually touch on. I spent a while wondering if the use of castor oil as a political punishment was equivalent to the New Zealand trend of throwing random things at politicians, but I don’t think it is. It’s far more insidious than that, far too related to those characteristics of ‘purging’ – and not just because of the association with fascism and the abuses of Mussolini and Hitler. It’s the subversion of a household product – of the function of a household product – into a tool for social oppression and control. Proof that anything can become an instrument of torture (not to put too fine a word on it) if you add enough violence and a dash of radical ideology. It’s been over half a century since this particular form of that was popular, but don’t tell me that the thought’s not still a bit terrifying.

(I tried to think of a way to end this on a lighter note and get us back to the chocolate flavoured drugs and ‘substance of horny character’, but I couldn’t figure it out. Sorry. Blame fascism.)

Jessie Garland.

References:

Strange History, 2014. Mussolini’s Secret Weapon: Castor Oil. In Beachcombing’s Bizarre History Blog. [online] Available at: www.strangehistory.net.

Tiso, G., 2014. Making real a fascist puppet. In Overland. [online] Available at: www.overland.org.au.

Ironing out the creases

Posted on 5 February 2016 by Chelsea Dickson

Sometimes we come across such a spectacular artefact, that we are inspired to look a little deeper into the historical industry from which it was used. The discovery of a charcoal clothes iron got me thinking about the domestic lives of 19^th century women, and the ironing industry in colonial New Zealand.

During my research for this blog post, I found countless newspaper advertisements for laundry soaps, starches, ironing stoves and laundress services, as well as reports brimming with derivatives of “while the lady of the house was in the other room ironing…” The amount of time and sweat that went into this industry is a far cry from the afterthought that we largely give ironing today. If you’re anything like me, you avoid wearing easily wrinkled linen, and unless it’s a special occasion, your t-shirt or blouse is lucky to a get a last minute iron over with the hair straightener you were just using on your hair (this is the most convenient addition to laundry technology in the 21^st century, in my opinion).

A quick office survey confirmed that we here at Underground Overground Archaeology do not habitually iron our sheets or our ‘high vis’. Instead, we save this indulgence for important events, such as a legitimate special occasion, helping to dry damp clothes, ironing pant cuffs so they don’t fall down (for the vertically challenged among us), and many of us can recount the distant memory of pressing pleats into our school uniform kilts on Sunday nights. How did this industry lose such importance you ask? I’m not entirely sure, but I do know that when we take a look at the previous generation, my mother saved ironing for her hair in the 70s, and my father let his shirts blow dry in the wind. This being the case, perhaps the ‘un-domestication’ of Generation X isn’t to blame (in this instance) for the loss of an old tradition.

What struck me about the difference between our modern attitudes toward ironing and that of our predecessors was how commonplace it was for a 19^th century woman to be spending her day performing this back-breaking labour. Ironing was such an important skill, that little girls would be given miniature flat irons as gifts and taught ironing “and other necessary skills” in convent school (New Zealand Tablet 23/12/1881: 11). The number of ironing stoves and mangles that I found advertised for sale in local newspapers during the 19^th century illustrates their mainstream popularity. The task had to be completed weekly, and for 19^th century housewives or servants, it was customary for the entirety of Monday to be taken up by washing and drying laundry, while the whole of Tuesday was reserved for ironing it (Poverty Bay Herald 3/4/1879: 2). The chore was so familiar that I found many articles toting advice about timesaving ironing techniques (e.g. Otago Witness 22/1/ 1876: 19). My favourite tip, and the most realistic, was to simply stop ironing things… The sensible woman who wrote this article suggests hanging the laundry out to dry in the wind and ignoring the bed linen, nightclothes, tablecloths and napkins. Alternatively, another recommended that ironing energy should be saved for children’s aprons and shirt cuffs (Bruce Herald 9/6/1876: 3).

By now, you might be forming the impression that ironing in the 19^th century was quite labor-intensive. In fact, the task was so arduous that we see housewives complaining constantly of their heavy and time-consuming burden in local newspapers, and there is even a story of one woman obtaining a doctor’s certificate to prevent her from doing too much ironing (Wairarapa Standard 23/12/1875: 2). Victorian ironing was not only backbreaking; it also came with its share of health risks – there was the danger involved with using gas-fuelled irons, or the first electric irons (patented in 1882), which were not temperature controlled by thermostats until the 1920s (Gretton 2016). Having said this, the first electric irons were not commonly used. They were not only dangerous, but most Victorian households did not have electricity, and if they did, it was common to only use electricity in the evenings for lighting.

Figure 1. Flat iron stove. Image: Wikipedia.

During the 19^th century, the most common type of iron used was called a flat iron, otherwise known as a sad iron (commonly thought to be called sad, due to the negative attitudes that its use invoked, though ‘sad’ is actually an old English ‘solid’; Gretton 2016). Sad irons required an intricate system of heating and rotation. Several heavy flat irons were heated on a special iron stove, and sometimes heat tested by holding a hot iron near one’s cheek (you would not catch me doing this). It was used until it cooled down, then returned to the stove and replaced with one of its hotter counterparts (the phrase “to have many irons in the fire” derives from this practice). These irons were heavy and hot, and the system required special skill and experience. Several improvements were made during the second half of the 19^th century in order to streamline the process. These included a sad iron that was pointed at both ends, so one could iron in either direction. There was also the addition was a detachable wooden handle, which helped prevent the burning of the user (Figure 1). These patents were granted to a housewife named Mary Florence Potts of Ottumwa, Iowa, in 1870 (Ladd 2014).

Figure 2. Advertisement for a sad iron with a removable handle. Image: Hawera & Normanby Star 19/9/1916: 6.

Figure 2. Advertisement for a sad iron with a removable handle. Image: Hawera & Normanby Star 17/9/1916: 6

The specific iron that started this enquiry was not the type that was heated on an iron stove. It was called a box iron or charcoal iron, which had a built in, hinged, chamber to store hot coals or other fuels so the iron would stay hotter for longer (Figure 2). A tool with such characteristics would not have to be replaced on the ironing stove, making the job a whole lot more efficient. However, this technology was not without its drawbacks, as the coal made the task of ironing a smoky one, which sometimes left residual ash or odour on freshly cleaned fabrics (heartbreaking). This type of iron required a chimney or spout-like opening, to insert a bellows into or to produce a sufficient draft to stoke the coals when swung back and forth (Gretton 2016). This particular model was manufactured by Jabez and John Whitehouse, Victoria, Tipton, as illustrated by the maker’s mark on its gilded copper heat shield (Figure 3). This English company owned the Phoenix Foundry on Castle Street, Tipton, and produced cast iron goods from the late 19^th century until the 1920s (Powerhouse Museum 2016). It is unclear whether this specific iron was used commercially or domestically, but its operator would have had to eat their Wheat-bix, as it weighs a whopping 4 kilograms! If Garfield were a 19^th century domestic housewife, I bet that he would have hated Tuesdays!

Figure 3. J & J. Whitehouse charcoal iron from Rangiora, showing chimney neck.

Figure 4. J & J. Whitehouse maker’s mark.

As mentioned, we can’t be certain whether this iron was used in a domestic house or a commercial laundry. If this was used as a commercial iron, let us have a look at what this industry was like locally during the 1900s. Comparatively, while we think nothing of dropping our badly stained or trickier to wash garments at a dry cleaner, or if we are especially lazy or busy, we drop all of our soiled goods or ‘bachelor bundles’ at a ‘fluff & fold’ (regrettably, I couldn’t find fun 19^th century comparative terms for these). The demand for large scale laundries is alluded to in 1842, in a (presumably fictitious) newspaper report describing American girls attaching hot irons to their feet and skating over garments (New Zealand Colonist and Port Nicholson Advertiser 2/8/1842: 3).

Figure 5. Ice skate irons. Image: New Zealand Colonist and Port Nicholson Advertiser 2/8/1842: 3.

Additionally, 19^th century newspapers present countless advertisements for private laundresses, illustrating a viable business opportunity for women in Victorian society. In fact, the gift of a mangle to a widow at the wake of her deceased husband was a common occurrence (Ladd 2016). On a larger scale, full-size commercial laundries appear to have been common in New Zealand during the second half of the 19^th century (Evening Post 24/11/1876: 2, Otago Daily Times 10/04/1876: 5, Star 24/08/1880: 2; 19/05/1881: 4).

Below is an advertisement and price list from 1880 for a new steam laundry in Christchurch (Figure 5). The article boasts about a new ironing machine that will polish collars and cuffs like new and promises that no article will be damaged by the process! As in the domestic sphere, it is likely that it was women who would have been operating these laundry machines. This same article advertises the skills of a French laundress. The small number of women who were in paid employment in New Zealand during the 19^th century (a fifth of women over fifteen in 1874 and less than a quarter by 1891) were working in factories, domestic service, tailoring and shop work (Else 2012). No doubt some of these women were employed as laundresses.

Figure 6. Christchurch Steam Laundry advertisement. 1880 (Star 24/8/1880: 2).

Whether or not a fatigued housewife or servant, or an overworked and underpaid laundress used this iron, we can assume that it was used to successfully press its share of garments. While the finished product of freshly starched and wrinkle-free linen is not the social necessity it once was, it was a fun artefact to research and I hope the original iron’s 19^th century owner thought that the finished result of their labour was worth their toil.

Chelsea Dickson

References

Bruce Herald [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz. [Accessed January 2016].

Else. A., 2012. Gender inequalities – Paid employment, Te Ara – the Encyclopedia of New Zealand, [online] Available at: http://www.TeAra.govt.nz/en/gender-inequalities/page-4. [Accessed January 2016].

Gretton., L. 2016. ‘A History of ironing.’ Old & Interesting. [online] Available at: http://www.oldandinteresting.com/antique-irons-smoothers-mangles.aspx. [Accessed January 2016.

Hawera & Normanby Star [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz. [Accessed January 2016].

Ladd, M. 2014. ‘Historical Treasure: Mrs. Potts’ sad iron.’ Tribune-Star. [online] Available at: http://www.tribstar.com/news/lifestyles/historical-treasure-mrs-potts-sad-iron/article_e5ef38e0-b1ff-563b-b2a1-4ab04796775e.html [Accessed January 2016].

New Zealand Colonist and Port Nicholson Advertiser [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz. [Accessed January 2016].

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

Otago Witness [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz. [Accessed January 2016].

Poverty Bay Herald [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz. [Accessed January 2016].

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

Powerhouse Museum, 2016. Collections [online] Available at: http://www.powerhousemuseum.com/collection/database/?irn=242565. Accessed January 2016].

Wairarapa Standard [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz. [Accessed January 2016].

2015. Another year down!

Posted on 18 December 2015 by Jessie Garland

It’s that time of year again. Behold! Some of our favourite discoveries and images from 2015. It’s been an eventful twelve months.

Archaeology happened. Sites were surveyed, excavated, photographed, investigated, disseminated and ruminated upon. Clues were followed and mysteries unravelled. Adventures were had. Memories were made.

Kirsa learned not to let other people set the total station up for her, lest they make it too high and force her to stand on tip-toes. Image: K. Bennett.

Excavating a pit feature on site in full protective gear. Image: K. Bone.

We really brought the glamour back to archaeology this year. This site yielded our largest assemblage for the year and ended up being one of the most interesting sites we’ve investigated in Christchurch, encompassing entrepreneurship, early artefacts, political machinations and many other aspects of the city’s history. Image: K. Bone.

Archaeologists captured in the wild. This is one of our more recent excavations, which revealed a layer of burned artefact material across the site. Figuring out the story behind it is going to be fun. Image: C. Dickson.

In which Fran found a foundry floor and frantically forged ahead to figure out the foundations of her find. Image: H. Williams.

We did a lot of work in Lyttelton over the year, including a site that yielded a large collection of artefacts. It’s one of the more unusual ones we’ve worked on in a while, excavated as it was underneath a house that had been raised onto pylons above the archaeologists. Image: P. Mitchell.

Throwing shade. Image: K. Webb.

The Manchester Street fire tank! This was built in 1885 for the Fire Brigade and held 114,000 litres of water to be used by the brigade during their fire fighting endeavours. Image: H. Williams.

One of the more complicated houses we recorded in 2015. A house was built on the site in the 1860s, followed by a 13 room house built in 1871 by Wyatt the grocer, who lived there until the 1890s. Eventually, in 1893 the whole house was dismantled and rebuilt on 1890s foundations using some of the original 1871 material, leaving a mixture of 1871 and 1893 materials and styles in the house to baffle future archaeologists. Photo: P. Mitchell. Drawing: K. Webb.

The oldest building we recorded this year, a cottage constructed in 1851. Image: F. Bradley.

Sometimes, buildings archaeology can have strange effects on people. Case in point, all it takes to bring out a historian’s inner gangster is a little heritage related graffiti. Image: F. Bradley.

In which two muddy archaeologists prove themselves to be peace loving and a giant nerd. Image: K. Bone.

Many animals were encountered over the year, from cats and dogs to these curious goats. Image: H. Williams.

I already regret including this photo. Image: J. Garland.

I already regret including this photo. Image: K. Bone.

Site work was just the tip of the iceberg. Discoveries were discovered. Exhibitions were exhibited. Analysts analysed things. Photographers photographed even more things. Researchers researched all the things. Need I go on?

A rather unusual walking stick, featuring a sheep foot masquerading as a handle, complete with small metal shoe at the hoof. Image: J. Garland.

A rather unusual walking stick, featuring a sheep foot masquerading as a handle, complete with small metal shoe at the hoof. This was found underneath the floorboards of a turn of the century house in the city. Image: J. Garland.

Part of a huge rubbish pit filled with bottles discovered in Rangiora. Quite an unusual assemblage, this one. Image: M. Hennessey.

An Italian Buildings patterned plate emerging from the earth. Image: J. Garland.

An inscribed brick, found to have possible connections to the great-great-grandfather of one of our archaeologists. Image: H. Williams.

Analysis got a little unconventional at times. We persevered. Image: J. Garland.

Beard analysis! Microscope also used to identify archaeological textiles. We do actually do some work on occasion. Image: Underground Overground.

Castanets! Or musical wooden owls, if you prefer. Image: J. Garland.

A Christchurch trade token, used as a form of substitute currency in the city in the 19th century, when actual currency was a bit scarce. Image: J. Garland.

A Christchurch trade token, used as a form of substitute currency in the city in the 19th century, when actual currency was a bit scarce. These aren’t common finds at all. Image: J. Garland.

One of the more interesting stories we came across in Papers Past this year. Image:

Many, many treasures were discovered through the delight that is Papers Past. This is both one of the more interesting stories we came across this year and one of the most recurring. The Mystery of the Severed Hand was, apparently, one for the storybooks. Image: Press 14/06/1905: 8.

This, on the other hand, is easily the most sexist thing we found this year. Fair warning, may induce speechlessness and incredulous laughter. Image: Observer 29/04/1882: 100.

Even more artefacts. A very tiny sample of the stuff we’ve worked with this year. Image: J. Garland.

We held several exhibitions throughout the year, including the online 'Pieces of the Past' and 'Boom or Bust', shown here. Image: J. Garland.

We also held several exhibitions throughout the year, including the online ‘Pieces of the Past’ and ‘Boom or Bust’, shown here. Image: J. Garland.

It’s been quite the busy year, really. We need a nap, or we might fall over from exhaustion.

Whoops. Too late. Image: K. Bennett.

From everyone at Underground Overground, Merry Christmas and a happy new year to you all! We’ll see you in 2016 (the blog will be back in February).

A matter of perspective

Posted on 11 December 2015 by Jessie Garland

Early photographs are the best. They encompass everything from the utterly absurd to the momentous to the mundane. They provide us with a window into the past that is rare and wonderful (especially from an archaeological perspective), putting faces to names and shapes to cities. We are indebted to those who took them, the pioneers and innovators who experimented with chemicals and light and hid under big black sheets in an attempt to freeze time into a single frame. Yet, most of the time, they’re no more than a name scribbled on the back of a photograph, if that. We so very rarely get to meet these photographers, to look behind the images in front of us to the people through whose lens we are now viewing the past.

Father Christmas from Gimblett collection CCL.

A seasonally appropriate and completely wonderful photograph of Father Christmas visiting Heathcote School in the early 1900s. It is quite possibly the best thing I have seen in a long time. Image: Christchurch City Libraries, File Reference Gimblett-0011.

A wee while ago now, we excavated a site on Oxford Terrace with several phases of occupation and activity, including the 1870s-1880s use of the section by a commercial bonded warehouse. We excavated rather a lot of artefacts from the site, some of them associated with the bonded warehouse and some of them associated with the occupation of a cottage on the section from its construction in 1851 until the mid-1870s. Over the decades, this cottage was occupied by a range of people, including a butcher and tailor (but not a candlestick maker). Just one of these occupants, however, was responsible for most of the material culture we found in association with this phase of activity on the site. Through a combination of product types and manufacturing dates (and historical records), we were able to trace the assemblage back to Mr Samuel Charles Louis Lawrence, photographer extraordinaire and resident of Oxford Terrace from the mid-1860s until the early 1870s.

An old photograph of Oxford Terrace west, showing the 1851 cottage (the building with a verandah) and a photograph of the site as we excavated it. Image:

An old photograph of Oxford Terrace west, showing the 1851 cottage (the third building from the corner with the verandah) next to Walton and Warner’s bonded store and a photograph of the site as we excavated it in 2013. Image: (above) Andersen 1949: 320; (below) M. Carter.

Mr Charles Lawrence, as he was known professionally, arrived in New Zealand in the 1860s and promptly set himself up as a photographer on Oxford Terrace West, next to Walton and Warner’s bonded store. We know that he offered a variety of photographic styles such as carte de visite, cabinet, miniature and “every description of picture taken in the most artistic style” (Southern Provinces Almanac, cited by Canterbury Photography). He appears to have become quite successful: he was advertised as “photographer by especial appointment to his excellency Sir James Fergusson” in 1873 and moved into larger premises, known as the Central Photographic Rooms, on High Street in 1874.

He was something of an innovator as well, as evident from a legal dispute described in the newspapers in 1888. Lawrence took F. H. von Schoeneberg to court for the sum of £25 over patent claims to a new camera front that they had developed together. As one account of the court case stated, “they had drunk laager beer over it, and talked religion over it, and the existence of God or a hereafter had been denied over it” (Press 18/05/1888: 6). As a side note, he appears to have been involved in another unrelated court case in 1871 regarding a group of photographers breaching the Distillation Act through the home use of stills to distill water for their photographic enterprises. They were let off with “the understanding that they were to memorialise the Commissioner of Customs for licenses” (Star 18/08/1871: 3).

Account of legal patent dispute between Charles Lawrence and H. F. von Shoenberg. Image: Press 18/05/1888: 6.

The artefacts we found at the site of Lawrence’s cottage included many of the types of artefacts that we find on domestic sites all over the city – such as tea and table wares, food containers (condiments!), alcohol bottles, personal hygiene items, pharmaceutical bottles, smoking pipes and shoes, as well as slightly more unusual artefacts, like decanters and toothbrushes. Some of the material reflects the 1860s-early 1870s date of use and discard, with manufacturing dates ranging from the late 1850s through into the late 1860s. Some of it provides evidence for the presence of children at the site: we found several pairs of children’s size gaitor boots (ankle boots with elastic sides), which could easily have belonged to Charles Lawrence’s children (although, being difficult to date, they may have belonged to earlier residents of the site).

Selection of artefacts likely to have been associated with Charles Lawrence’s occupation of the site. Image: J. Garland.

Unfortunately, what the assemblage didn’t really provide was material culture related to Charles’ photography business, with one exception. The only evidence we found of his photographic pursuits took the form of bottle from London based firm R. W. Thomas, who made all manner of chemicals and other sundries used in the practice of photography. We could speculate about the rest of the artefacts found – perhaps some of them could have been used to serve refreshments to or entertain clients who came to the Oxford Terrace house to have their photographs taken. We don’t know. Maybe some of the artefacts could have been used as props in his images, everyday objects used to make the studio staged photographs seem more real.

R. W. Thomas bottle from the site on Oxford Terrace. Image: J. Garland.

R. W. Thomas bottle from the site on Oxford Terrace. R. W. Thomas operated as a photogrraphic merchant from 1851 until 1894, becoming R. W. Thomas & Co. and then R. W. Thomas & Co. Ltd in the 1880s. Thomas sold all manner of photographic equipment, from dry plates, dark tents and cameras to the chemicals and products necessary for the development of the photographs. Image: J. Garland.

Fortunately for us, several of Charles Lawrence’s photographs have survived. Some of them are accessible through the Alexander Turnbull Library collections, others through the Canterbury Photography blog. They show a range of figures from a long since lost Christchurch, some of them known to history, some of them now just faces without names. They capture men, women and children looking off into the distance, staring inquisitively, uncertainly, decisively at the viewer, posing artfully against plinths, armchairs and walls. They do not, however, include any of the artefacts that we found on the site, in a turn of events that is disappointing but not surprising.

Photographs taken by Charles Lawrence in the 19th century. Notice the same arm chair and table popping up in different images, along with the same curtain, arranged in different ways. The different styles of clothing are also fascinating, although perhaps not indicative of everyday life (one would wear one's best to have a portrait taken, after all). Images: Canterbury Photography.

Photographs taken by Charles Lawrence in the 19th century. The different styles of clothing are also fascinating, although perhaps not indicative of everyday life (one would wear one’s best to have a portrait taken, after all). Images: Canterbury Photography.

The photographs themselves are interesting artefacts of life in 19^th century Christchurch, though, when you look at them closely. The people in them are fascinating, from their clothes – spanning fashions from the 1860s into the 1870s – to their hairstyles, their expressions, their poses. There’s even one example of the classic ‘Victorian ghost mother’, in which a mother sits, covered in a rug for the sake of (ineffective) camouflage, holding on to a child in order to, presumably, stop it running away.

In which a child sits on the lap of a ‘camouflaged’ figure. Image: Canterbury Photography.

If you look closely enough, you can even see behind the scenes of the image, to the parts that make up the sum. Maybe because I’ve been looking at them with the photographer in mind more than the subject, thinking about his premises on Oxford Terrace and the process behind these images that he’s taken, it’s easy to see the pieces that make up the image. You can see the same props popping up in different images, the same plinth, the same balustrade, the same armchair. You can imagine the studio – perhaps not the carefully framed room visible in the images, but a collection of separate elements, artfully arranged to create the illusion of a whole when viewed from just the right angle. You can even imagine Mr Lawrence with his camera set up, directing his subjects to stand or sit just so, before capturing their likenesses with glass and chemicals and light.

More photographs taken by Charles Lawrence. Notice the same arm chair and table popping up in different images (including some of those above). The balustrade in the right hand image shows up several times in other photographs on the Alexander Turnbull website as well. Images: Canterbury Photography.

Charles Lawrence continued to work as a photographer in Christchurch until the 1880s, when he went bankrupt and moved to Ashburton. He died there in 1891. He is survived by the footprint he left behind him in the archaeological record and the faces of the past that look back at us through his lens. One man and his camera, connecting present to past and past to present with the click of a shutter.

Jessie Garland

Our thanks to Natasha Wells, for pointing us in the direction of the Canterbury Photography blog, and our thanks to the author of that blog, who kindly allowed us to use some of Charles Lawrence’s photographs in this post.

Let’s paint the town, shall we?

Posted on 6 November 2015 by Jessie Garland

So much of the archaeology that we deal with on a daily basis, particularly from an artefacts perspective, is associated with the everyday domestic lives of Christchurch’s 19^th century residents that it becomes quite easy to forget about the other industrial and commercial aspects of life in the city in the 1800s. Every now and then, however, we are reminded that – as is the case today – there was another side to Christchurch that was just as important, if not quite as archaeologically obvious.

On that note, while working through a box of artefacts recently, I came across several stoneware jar stoppers with DAVID STORER AND SONS / GLASGOW impressed on the top, circling the image of a bell. As it turns out, David Storer and Sons were oil and paint manufacturers operating during the latter decades of the 19^th century. They made all kinds of paint, oil and varnishes, from olive and linseed oils to white lead paints, yellow ochre paints and several types of varnish. Presumably, some of these were intended as artist’s paints, while others were made for more utilitarian or structural purposes (still artistic in a way, though, right?).

David Storer and Sons stoneware lid. Image: J. Garland.

Their products show up in shipping manifestos and advertisements from the 1870s well into the 1890s, despite a plethora of notices in 1887 that the company ‘failed’ (i.e. went bankrupt). I have no idea what happened after this point or how their products continued to be sold in the 1890s – the aftermath clearly wasn’t as sensational or newsworthy as the failure. The lids that we found are likely to have belonged to one (or several) of the builders, carpenters and painters located on the site during the latter decades of the 19^th century. The paint, oil or varnish contained within those jars could have been used to paint houses, furniture, cabinets, paintings, fences, machinery and who knows what else.

And, it got me thinking. Researching the life and times of David Storer and Sons led me to wonder about 19^th century paint in general: how it was made, what it was used for, whether we have other archaeological evidence for its use in Christchurch. It’s not something we normally think about, archaeologically, but – as it is today – it would have been everywhere back then.

A paint joke from 1890. One of the many strange results discovered during the research process. Image: Evening Star 3/11/1890: 2.

As it turns out, there were several types of paint available to New Zealand residents in the 19^th century, from lead and zinc based mixes to paint made from iron oxide, asbestos (yes, you read that right), hematite, rubber, potatoes and skim milk. Some of these were available wet, while others arrived in the country in powdered form (just add water!). There was luminous paint (used on buoys), sanitary paint (not what you think, or, at least, not what I thought…), disinfecting paint, heat sensitive paint and even fire-resistant paint. Several articles and advertisements detail experiments undertaken to see how well certain paints helped to prevent fires, most of them surprisingly successful.

Advertisements also suggest that a range of colours were also available, from yellow ochre to red and white lead paints, white zinc paints and ‘Prussian blue’ (apparently made from the ashes of horses hooves). Lead based paints were very common and, as you would expect, sometimes affected the health of those around them. One account tells the story of a whole family who suffered from lead poisoning thanks to a painter who lost his lead paint covered brush at the bottom of the rainwater tank and contaminated their drinking water.

The things you can do with milk. Who knew? Image: Bruce Herald 18/09/1900, p. 2.

Interestingly, New Zealand appears to have had its own paint manufacturing industry fairly early on, with the New Zealand Hematite Paint Company established operating in the 1880s with factories in Nelson and Collingwood. A Mr Louisson was making hematite paint in Timaru in the 1860s or 1870s (later bought out by the NZ Hematite Paint Company), and another paint manufacturing company based in Thames made oxide of iron paint in the 1880s. Smith and Smith, now a name synonymous with window glass repair, were also active as paint manufacturers and distributors from the early 20^th century onwards (often with slightly less than PC advertisements).

Despite the strong local industry, still more types of paint were imported from overseas, with shipments coming from America (Vulcan paint!), Australia and the United Kingdom. Scotland does appear to have had its fair share of paint exporters, with several advertisements for Scottish paints appearing in contemporary newspapers.

The uses of paint in urban life haven’t changed much over the years, although there are perhaps fewer articles now suggesting that we should paint all our ships with luminous paint to prevent collisions. Hematite paint was used on everything from railways to most metal structures (it was less corrosive than lead paint on metal). Sanitary paint, despite it’s name, was used for internal walls and “all outside work in wood, irons or stone, from a steamship to a golf ball.” Other uses noted included priming, machinery, bridges and barns, agricultural implements and branding sheep.

Some of the proposed uses for luminous paint in the 19th century. Image: Evening Star 17/03/1883, p. 3.

Unfortunately, when it comes to archaeological evidence of paint use in the past – other than the occasional container lid – material is scarce, especially on 19^th century buildings. Many buildings are, of course, repainted over the years (it would be very unusual to find the original coat of paint without any later layers over the top). Interior and exterior decoration of houses adapted to match the changing fashions of the last century and a half, so it stands to reason that very little evidence of 19^th century house paint remains, particularly on external walls and weatherboards.

Additionally, in our experience, a lot of 19^th century houses used wallpaper rather than paint as interior decoration. We occasionally find paint on skirting boards and trim (under several layers of later wallpaper and paint), but it doesn’t appear to have been used much on the internal walls themselves. Sometimes, we’ve come across instances where the floors or stairs of a building have been painted – often on either side of a rug – but it’s difficult to tell whether this is Victorian or not. Other times, we’ve seen paint used as a decorative element in the interior design – used to colour a ceiling rose, for example, or stencilled on to the ceiling.

A painted staircase. Note the unpainted strip in the center, where the rug would have gone. Image: K. Webb.

A painted ceiling rose. Image: M. Hennessey.

The relatively infrequent use of paint in the interior of houses may have been partly a cost or fashion issue, but was probably largely a result of the materials used to form the walls. Lath and plaster, for example, is far more suited to wallpaper than to paint, as is scrim – both of which were often used on internal walls. Tongue and groove match lining could sometimes be painted, but is far more likely to have been varnished instead. In truth, it seems like paint would have been used most often on exterior walls – which, of course, we’re unlikely to see. It’s weird really – for something so visible, paint is strangely invisible in the archaeological record.

There’s so many aspects of life that we take for granted – both in the past and now – things that are all around us all the time, which form the fabric of our material worlds and set the scene for the stageshow of our lives (to get all melodramatic and Shakespearian on you). The relative archaeological obscurity of something like paint is especially ironic, given the purpose for which it is intended. It’s just not something I thought about, until an unknown Scottish company and a small stoneware lid reminded me to look for it. Yet another reminder that the smallest of objects can have the greatest of stories to tell.