Long-drops from long ago

It’s something so mundane that it forms a part of our everyday lives and it’s as inescapable as death and taxes. Even though we spoke of it last week on the blog, it’s something people don’t often speak about and it’s something we all have a very private and personal relationship with. In fact, this topic harbors so much taboo that it’s widely considered impolite to discuss one’s poo. I’m sorry!

Our evasion of our natural bodily processes was probably not always the norm. The Romans gifted us the first predecessor of a plumbed “toilet” – which consisted of a flowing water channel over which a series of hollow seats were sometimes built. But the Romans didn’t break down any of the aforementioned taboo walls… (in a sense, because they never built any walls in their latrines anyway). Instead, their public toilets were a communal affair, where a one handled their daily task sitting alongside his neighbor. They shared not only their sounds, smells and over all experience, but they even shared the cleaning sponge stick – the ancestor of our disposable toilet paper (side note – this is where the phrase ‘don’t get the wrong end of the stick’ derives).

However, when considering the attitudes of our conservative Victorian ancestors, it’s not hard to imagine the air of confidentiality that surrounded their ‘bathroom’ visits. The emergence of this modern western concept of privacy and secrecy during these practices is probably largely due to the evolution of the latrine structure itself, which eventually developed from a hole dug in a field to an enclosed, single occupancy arrangement. In this secluded situation, outsiders don’t specifically know what is taking place during these intimate moments and society sort of lost the concept of what was considered normal bodily functions. As result, secrecy, euphemisms and comical deflection ensued. [Insert toilet humour here].

We’re going to dive into these messy issues today as we discuss this less than glamorous topic of the Victorian privies/long-drops we have found. Before the days of flushing toilets and hand sanitiser, the citizens of 19th century Christchurch usually took care of their “business” in outhouses in their backyards. These tended to be situated at the rear of their property, within convenient stumbling distance of the house for ease of night-time visits (Butcher & Smith 2010).

An archaeologist sitting in a cesspit. Image: H. Williams.

We’ve found quite a few of these features on Christchurch archaeological sites, and it appears that it wasn’t just private human waste that was being deposited down the loo. The plethora of rubbish we find in them is very similar to the refuse found in domestic rubbish pits, an indication that privies were also used as a place to discard normal household items like table ware dishes and broken glass bottles. What is not always immediately apparent is why privies were used as a garbage disposal shoot in every case. Our data seems to show that the Christchurch Victorians often filled in their long-drops with household refuse when they ceased to be used. It also seems very logical that in the possible haste that one can sometimes be under to relieve oneself, or while fumbling about with way too many layers of intricate Victorian clothing, something might accidentally drop from a pocket down the hatch. If this had happened to me, I personally wouldn’t have gone reaching into a long-drop to fish out any lost possessions. But as well as that, it’s possible that this dark (and conveniently open), hole in the ground offered an opportune receptacle to throw out the odd plate fragment that someone may have accidentally broken… perhaps wanting to hide the evidence from a mother or wife?

… But the evidence doesn’t always stay hidden. Us nosy archaeologists come snooping 150-odd years later and we don’t tend to mind getting our hands a little dirty (once this ‘matter’ has decomposed). We will find the things that have been dropped in deliberately, accidentally or sneakily, although we may not always be able to tell the difference.

A typical privy showing how these features look when first found, half sectioned and then fully removed. This one had timber at the base. Image: J. Garland.

The image above is a typical example of an excavated long-drop. In this case, no structural features such as building foundations or post holes were found surrounding the privy, but it was almost certainly originally covered. The feature itself was roughly square in shape, and relatively deep when compared with the (much shallower) features that were found elsewhere on the section. This suggested that it was dug for a purpose (at this point we need not mention this purpose) other than rubbish disposal, a great example of a dis-used latrine that was filled in with refuse at a later date.

A collection of some of the unfortunate ceramic forms that had been dropped off down this loo. Image: J. Garland.

An archaeological deposit of toilet rubbish… or deposit of rubbish toilets? The image on the left shows an in situ deposit that was almost exclusively broken up sanitary ware (wash basins and toilet pans etc). The picture on the right is one of these fragments up close, which was made by Doulton and Co. ca. 1882-1891. This feature was found on the site inhabited by the Taylor and Oakley firm, who exhibited “toilet seats and other articles, painted and artistically decorated” at the Christchurch exhibition in 1884 (Star 12/1/1884: 4). It is likely that this assemblage represents broken or wasted stock from the commercial enterprise which had been deliberately smashed for easier disposal. Image: H.Williams and J. Garland.

Even if any of these forms represented broken items that had been hidden down the toilet, our finds aren’t getting anyone in trouble 150 years later. Where these clumsy individuals may have gotten caught out is when these privies were cleaned and emptied. Previous research on domestic archaeological sites the in U.S.A indicates that the typical life cycle of a privy included episodes of deposition and cleaning. The regularity of cleaning would depend on the rapidity of filling and this would naturally be related to the size of the privy, the number of users, and the kinds of deposition (Lee Decker 1994: 356). This research also suggests that some privies may have been filled in as short a time as six months, while other studies have suggested that the filling process extended over a period of several decades (Lee Decker 1994: 356). Such clean outs of privies may have been performed by a member of the household rather than a licensed ‘night soil man’ (Lee Decker 1994:356). Hamish Williams has discussed the night soil man on the blog before, – he told us that “the cargo of this fantastic public servant was collected from one’s property in the wee hours, carted away then dumped on the fringes of town. From 1886 in Christchurch, a specially converted tram was employed between the hours of midnight and 5am to take tanks of ‘night soil’ waste out to the Council’s newly established ‘rubbish reserve’ in Linwood (Alexander 1985:11). This service cost a household seven pennies a week (Clark 1878:14).”

Recently, I had the privilege (?) of analysing an artefact assemblage that came from a very special (probable) privy in Central Christchurch. Shown below, this latrine was located on the property of Cyrus Davie and his family. Davie was an early European settler to Christchurch and was employed as the town surveyor in Christchurch’s infancy. The first family home on his section was constructed by 1855, and the long-drop or cesspit feature in question was conveniently located near the site of this dwelling. This likely privy feature was identified as such because privies/long-drops are generally narrow and deep, while cesspits are generally wider then they are deep (this one had properties of the latter but due to the extent of the earthworks planed on this site, it was not able to be excavated completely).

The stratigraphic profiles of the privy feature. Image: S. Dooley.

What’s extra exciting about this site is that we found two additional, irregularly shaped deposits of dark soil, containing artefacts that were ‘scat-tered’ everywhere. These deposits were located elsewhere on the section and were identified as probable deposits of night soil (human waste). The archaeological contexts and artefact similarities identified between these deposits and the privy feature suggested that they were temporally related and it’s likely that the two night soil deposits represented clean out waste from the long drop. We also found a Thomas Hide and Edward De Carle token in one of these deposits. This may represent one of those items that were accidentally dropped down the throne, never to be seen again. After all, who actually wants to throw their money down the toilet?

One of the probable night soil deposits. The cross-section of the feature is shown on the left, and the feature after excavation is shown on the right. Image: P. Mitchell.

Wasted money… This Thomas Hide and Edward De Carle token was found in one of the night soil deposit features. It would have been used in lieu of normal currency (across the ditch), for this Melbourne Based grocery, wine and spirit merchants between 1857 and 1861 (Museums Victoria 2017). Image: J. Garland.

As mentioned, privy features are a type of deposit that can accumulate over a long period of time, but the artefacts from this example appeared to have been recovered from the same stratigraphic layer. The two night soil deposits were found in a relatively secure context – underneath another building on the property that were known to have been constructed by 1862. If these features do relate to a privy and the associated clean out deposits, the privy would have been conveniently located to the east of the main Davie house, while the privy clean out deposits would be located much further away from main house. This would have been preferable for smell and hygiene reasons.

So, while it seems most likely that this wealth of human excrement once belonged to the Davie family, they were not the only 19th century inhabitants of this section. For one short year, in 1881, the Davies leased their home to none other than Sir Julius Von Haast (the German explorer, geologist and the founder of Canterbury Museum). So maybe, just maybe, the archaeologists who excavated these features were privy to the private fecal matter of one of New Zealand’s most famous European settlers.

Chelsea Dickson

 

 

References

Alexander, M., 1985. Rails in the roads – the steam and horse tram era in Christchurch. Christchurch NZ: Christchurch Transport Board / Tramway Historical Society.

Butcher, M. & Smith, I., 2010. Talking trash: classifying rubbish-bearing deposits from colonial New Zealand sites. Journal of Pacific Archaeology 1(1): 43-61.

Clark, W. 1878. Drainage Scheme for Christchurch and the Suburbs [Online] Available at: http://canterbury.royalcommission.govt.nz/documents-by-key/20110929.36

Garland, J., Webb, K. J., Haley, J. and Bone, K., 2015. The Music Centre, 150, 154 and 156 Armagh Street: Report on Archaeological Investigations, Vol. 1. Unpublished report for The Music Centre.

LeeDecker, C. H. 1994. Discard Behaviour on Domestic Historic Sites: Evaluation of Contexts for the Interpretation of Household Consumption Patterns. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, Vol. 1(4): 345-375.

Museums Victoria Collections 2017. [online] Available at: https://collections.museumvictoria.com.au/items/55261 [Accessed 09 October 2017].

Williams, H., Garland, J. and Geary Nichol, R., 2016. Christchurch Justice & Emergency Services Precinct archaeological report. Unpublished report for the Ministry of Justice.

Wilson, J., 1989. Christchurch: swamp to city. A Short History of the Christchurch Drainage Board. Christchurch NZ: Christchurch Drainage Board.

Toilet humour

This week on the blog, a selection of chamber pots for your perusal, ranked according to my entirely objective, and not at all arbitrary, assessment of how fancy they are. This is accompanied by my very best attempt at using as many euphemisms for talking to God on the porcelain telephone as I can bring myself to type. Starting right now.

(Fair warning, I got most of the euphemisms from the internet. I’m not entirely convinced that they’re all actually things that people say. I also struggled to say most of them out loud, let along type them up in a blog post, so these are some of the more innocuous ones…)

Fancy rating: fairly fancy. Who doesn’t want a lovely flared rim chamber pot decorated with cows in which to see a man about a horse (how confusing).  This one, which we’ve featured here on the blog before, is decorated with the pattern “Cattle Scenery” and dates to the 1850s-1860s. Image: M. Lillo Bernabeu.

Fancy rating: understated fancy. This porcelain throne is literally porcelain, unlike the others in this post, which are all refined earthenware. It may not have the charming farm animals or gaudy colours of its compatriots, but this is the kind of commode used by somebody who actually says commode and refuses to refer to doing one’s business at any time, by any kind of phrase. Image: J. Garland.

Fancy rating: boring but perfectly serviceable vessel for going where even the emperor must go on foot. I don’t really have anything to say about this one. It’s…respectable? Image: J. Garland.

Fancy rating: middling fancy, with aspirations of grandeur.  A person could check the plumbing using this and remain secure in the knowledge that while they may not own a castle, they can at least squat over the towers of one when they want to. This particular potty was found on the site of a china shop, so, unlike most of the chamber pots we find, it might not have actually been used. Image: J. Garland.

Fancy rating: classical overtones, with points for the purple. This pattern is known as the ‘Alma’ pattern, or rather, is one of several 19th century patterns known by that name. It may refer to a small river in the Crimea that was home to a significant battle between the armies of Britain, France, Turkey and Russia during the Crimean war. I very much doubt that the Crimea, its rivers and the war, were on anybody’s mind while using this to change the water on the goldfish (seriously, who says this!?), but you never do know. Image: J. Garland.

Fancy rating: stately. A slightly different shape to some of the others, this chamber pot is both tall and sturdy, with an imposing cold marble look to it and a spacious interior. The sort of porcelain – or marble – throne from which one reigns over one’s bodily functions, as one should. Image: J. Garland.

Fancy rating: as fancy as those “paintings” we used to make as kids with some paint and half a potato carved to act as a stamp. I kind of like this one, though. It’s somehow cheerful. If you had to visit kermit (apparently it’s Cockney rhyming slang, see if you can work it out), it’s not a bad option. Image: J. Garland.

Fancy rating: very. Decorated with the pattern ‘May Morn’, this glossy, beautifully shaped chamber pot is possibly the most elegant vessel for answering the call of nature that I think we’ve found to date. Maybe we should all decorate our toilets with scenes of springtime in the country. It (like most of the chamber pots in this post) would likely have been part of a bedroom set that included a wash basin and pitcher. Image: J. Garland.

Fancy rating: not at all. Plain, serviceable and child-sized, this is the most basic of vessels in which to sprinkle the tinkle. Image: J. Garland.

Fancy rating: relatively elegant, entirely inoffensive repository with which to refresh the body. Late Spode, made by W. T. Copeland in the latter half of the 19th century. Image: Underground Overground Archaeology.

I could bring myself to use it, but points to “humping the cats loin” for the strangest euphemism I came across.

Jessie Garland

Good beard, bad beard, red beard, blue beard: facial hair in Victorian Christchurch

Part the First

Movember is upon us once again, and to celebrate Undershaved Overgrown Archaeology brings to you a brief history of facial hair in Aotearoa. Movember is all about men’s health, and we’ve previously covered health in the blog before, both mental health and otherwise, so this week it’s all beards and moustaches. Gird your goatees for a hirsute history of facial hair in the nation, followed by a review of classic beards of old Canterbury.

Important Māori who wore tā moko necessarily removed their facial hair in order to show it off, and trimmed their tui tufts by plucking with mussel shell. They may also have shaved with razor sharp tūhua/obsidian, as it was otherwise used for cutting hair (McLintock, 1966; Robley, 1896). However, some of the earliest Pākehā imagery we have of Māori – drawings done by Sydney Parkinson, the Scottish botanical illustrator on Cook’s first voyage – show a range of facial hair and top knots. It is not clear if within 3-4 years the top knots would all be replaced with the same vague haircut of shaved back and sides, and a floofy combover on top – you Millennials know who you are.

This painting was evidently done before Pākehā got the hang of drawing moko. The guy in the upper middle is so fed up with this man-bun business. Image: Parkinson, Sydney, 1745?-1771. Parkinson, Sydney, 1745-1771 :The heads of six men natives of New Zealand, ornamented according to the mode of that country. S. Parkinson del. T Chambers sculp. London, 1784. Plate XXIII.. Parkinson, Sydney, 1745-1771 :A journal of a voyage to the South Seas, in his Majesty's ship, 'The Endeavour'. Faithfully transcribed from the papers of the late Sydney Parkinson. London; Printed for Charles Dilly, in the Poultry, and James Phillips, in the George-Yard, 1784.. Ref: PUBL-0037-23. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. http://natlib.govt.nz/records/23044298

This painting was evidently done before Pākehā got the hang of drawing moko. The guy in the upper middle is so fed up with this man-bun business. Image: Parkinson, Sydney, 1745?-1771. Parkinson, Sydney, 1745-1771 :The heads of six men natives of New Zealand, ornamented according to the mode of that country. S. Parkinson del. T Chambers sculp. London, 1784. Plate XXIII.. Parkinson, Sydney, 1745-1771 :A journal of a voyage to the South Seas, in his Majesty’s ship, ‘The Endeavour’. Faithfully transcribed from the papers of the late Sydney Parkinson. London; Printed for Charles Dilly, in the Poultry, and James Phillips, in the George-Yard, 1784.. Ref: PUBL-0037-23. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. http://natlib.govt.nz/records/23044298

During Pākehā settlement of Aotearoa, the beard was a fairly recent phenomenon, growing in popularity during the Victorian period along with changing ideals of masculinity, at a rate roughly equivalent to Queen Vicki’s bloomers. Like the modern hipster beard, the Victorian beard craze coincided with conflict in the Crimea. During the Crimean War (1854-1856), the British army relaxed their long-standing ban on beards – due to the freezing winters and difficulty in obtaining shaving soap – and servicemen were russian to grow them. Beards soon became a mark of those who had served, and the fashion subsequently spread across the British Empire. Beards could be seen on the patriotically named Mount Victoria in Auckland and Wellington, the proud imperial city of Victoria in British Columbia, the humble Victoria harbour in Hong Kong, and probably even on Lake Victoria. It is no surprise then, that on the rugged outskirts of Wikitoria’s empire, the beard held particular sway.

God Save the Queen

God Save the Queen

The beard was also considered healthy, and recommended by doctors. The face tangle was believed to filter out impurities in the air, and prevent sore throats.

A Lyttelton Times article relating a ‘stache survey provides insight into just why men of the 1860s chose the old dental duster as an accessory (Lyttelton Times, 27/4/1861: 5). Helpfully for you dear reader, I’ve put it into a table! (please send your thanks and appreciation monies to T. Wadsworth C/- Underground Overground).

Reasons for wearing a moustache, 1861.

Given reason No.
To avoid shaving 69
To avoid catching cold 32
To hide their teeth 5
To take away from a prominent nose 5
To avoid being taken as an Englishman abroad 7
Because they are in the army 6
Because they are Rifle Volunteers 221
Because Prince Albert does it 2
Because it is artistic 29
Because you are a singer 3
Because you travel a deal 17
Because you have lived long on the continent 1
Because the wife likes it 8
Because it acts as a respirator 29
Because you have weak lungs 5
Because it is healthy 77
Because the young ladies admire it 471
Because it is considered “the thing” 10
Because he chooses 1

The most common reason to wear a moustache was to impress the ladies, but there are also reasons of vanity (“to hide their teeth, to take away from a prominent nose”), and again, the perceived health benefits (“because it is healthy, because it acts as a respirator, because you have weak lungs, to avoid catching cold”). The association of moustache and military is also clear, with “because they are Rifle Volunteers” the second most common reason given for the old Magnum P.I. It is not clear if the two who responded “because Prince Albert does it” had further ornamentation for similar reasons.

Prince Albert of ‘Stache-Moburg and Goatee.

Prince Albert of ‘Stache-Moburg and Goatee. Image: Wikimedia Commons.

When the Victorians kept a stiff upper lip, they need to make sure it looked good. Moustaches were tinted and combed, and fashions changed. In 1883, a local purveyor of cosmetics said that “a year ago the fashion was to have the end stick out in a fluffy fashion, but now they want me to make it drop at the corners of the mouth” (Star, 29/8/1883: 4). There were of course products to keep it looking fresh. The below bottle of Rowland’s Macassar oil – found on several sites in Christchurch – is  described as “unsurpassed as a brillantine for the beard and moustaches, to which it imparts a soft and silky appearance” (Press, 16/10/1897: 11). We’ve also found bottles of “bay rum”, which formed part of a recipe to darken grey hair and beards (Otago Daily Times, 9/3/1915: 8).

Rowland’s Macassar Oil. Like most 19th century products, this is essentially snake oil, but without the fun of being made from actual snakes. Image: J. Garland.

Rowland’s Macassar Oil. Like most 19th century products, this is essentially snake oil, but without the fun of being made from actual snakes. Image: J. Garland.

Bay Rum. Don’t drink it, just rub it on your face and head. Image: J. Garland.

Bay Rum. Don’t drink it, just rub it on your face and head. Image: J. Garland.

But how to keep one’s soup strainer from acting in its name? On a site in Christchurch, we found a fragment of a cup with a “moustache protector”. This “yankee notion” kept one’s lip toupee clean of coffee by way of a protrusion within the cup, as modelled here by our own beard-having Hennessey (Star, 15/2/1878: 2).

In the midnight hour, he cried mo, mo, mo.

In the midnight hour, he cried mo, mo, mo.

Part the Second

In which we focus on the facial hair of the founding fathers of our fair city. We revisit some of the figures from Christchurch and the blog’s past and Tristan provides a highly subjective fever dream review of their moustaches and beards.

James Jamieson

The man:

James Jamieson carried on the proud Victorian tradition of Firstname Firstname-son and together with his brother William ran one of the leading construction companies in Christchurch, including the Roman Catholic Cathedral and the Government buildings in Cathedral Square. We’ve talked on the blog before about Jamieson’s love of spreadable cheese long before Koromiko was a thing.

The moustache:

Jamieson grew the classic ‘walrus‘ moustache, and chose to draw maximum attention to it by banishing all other hair from his countenance. His care and attention in maintaining the structural integrity of his weighty moustache – enough to cause any lesser man to topple forwards – informed his construction style, and it is said[1]  that his own chrome-y dome inspired those of the basilica.

9/10

Draw your own conclusions. Confirmed Illuminati. Image: Photograph of Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament by Greg O’Beirne.

Draw your own conclusions. Confirmed Illuminati. Image: Photograph of Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament by Greg O’Beirne.

Charles Obins Torlesse

The man:

Nephew to New Zealand company agent Arthur Wakefield, Torlesse became a surveyor working under Captain Thomas, chief surveyor for the Canterbury Association. Torlesse made the very first sketch map of Canterbury in 1849, illustrating the vast plains and resources that would draw Pākehā settlers to the area (Montgomery and McCarthy, 2004). He is said to have made the first ascent of a Southern Alps peak – now Mount Torlesse – by a Pākehā. He was a pretty cool bloke, more (t) or less (e).

Sketch map of the country intended for the settlement of Canterbury. Charles Obin Torlesse, 1849. Image: Wikimedia Commons. (Attentive readers will note the originally intended location of Christchurch at the head of Lyttelton Harbour. Inattentive readers GET NOTHING).

Sketch map of the country intended for the settlement of Canterbury. Charles Obin Torlesse, 1849. Image: Wikimedia Commons. (Attentive readers will note the originally intended location of Christchurch at the head of Lyttelton Harbour. Inattentive readers GET NOTHING).

The moustache:

Torlesse sported what is known as ‘friendly’ mutton chops, as popularised by Lemmy from Motorhead, and the general Burnside, for whom sideburns are named (seriously). These are not the distinctly un-friendly sideburns worn by Hugh Jackman/Wolverine, Elvis, and every jerk from the 70s. Ever the surveyor, Torlesse surveyed himself 75% facial hair, leaving the lower lip and jaw free for you to swipe right on Chinder.

8/10

charles_torlesse

Charles Obin Torlesse. He’s seen some things. Image: Wikipedia Commons.

John George Ruddenklau

The man:

John George Ruddenklau, his name is my name too. Ruddenklau was one of Christchurch’s early success stories, being a self-made man who worked his way up from an hotelier in 1864 to a retired hotelier in 1869, and from Mayor of Christchurch in 1881 to a retired former Mayor of Christchurch in the late 1880s. Ruddenklau’s City Hotel was successful enough that it had its own brand of dinnerware, which we have found on other hotel sites in Christchurch.

Fragments of a saucer, teacup and mask jug (with beard!), decorated with the City Hotel pattern and the initials J. G. R. Image: J. Garland.

Fragments of a saucer, teacup and mask jug (with beard!), decorated with the City Hotel pattern and the initials J. G. R. Image: J. Garland.

The beard:

Old J.G. had the kind of dense ruggedy beard typical of big deal businessmen in the 19th century, modern hipsters, and, er, delicious mussels. This particular photo of sad Ruddenklau shows just how he kept it so lush: it was well watered by his mayoral tears. Poor, sad-looking Ruddenklau.

John George Ruddenklau, blinging it up. Image: Wikimedia Commons.

John George Ruddenklau, blinging it up. Image: Wikimedia Commons.

Dr Alfred Charles Barker

The man:

Dr A.C. Barker was one of Christchurch’s earliest amateur photographers, and is responsible for many of the earliest photographs of our city. Here at Underlit Overexposed, we’ve used Barker’s photography to illustrate how useful even the most mundane details of these images are in terms of historical information. So feel free to continue to capture your messy room in the background of your selfies, or even better, just go take photos of street kerbs! For anyone that’s interested in either selfies or photographs as a historical resource in little old New Zealand, you can go here to listen to oral historian Rosemary Baird discuss that very thing.

The beard:

Speaking of selfies, Barker took a few himself.

Here, Barker poses nonchalantly with his camera equipment, while showing off some serious mutton chops. If Bigfoot photographic evidence was this clear, he would have his own talk show by now. But nobody would watch it because podcasts fill that place in society these days. Get with the future Bigfoot!

dr_a-_c-_barker

“To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, to shave the face, is just friggin silly”. Apologies to Tim Minchin. Image: Wikimedia Commons.

This photo shows Bigfoot later in life, with a big old beard. Or Barker, probably. By this stage, Barker’s beard is perfectly complimented by a faux-Shakespeare haircut, which you don’t see enough these days. “There’s many a man has more hair than wit” the bard said, but considering Barker’s beard, I’m not sure what that says.

Sir John Cracroft Wilson

The man:

Wilson was a pioneering figure in Christchurch, being a former British army officer in India, who brought a number of his Indian servants with him when he settled in Christchurch. Cashmere is named for Kashmir in India/Pakistan, where Wilson served, and the adjacent suburb of Cracroft is named for…something. I forget. We’ve talked about Wilson’s home, now gone, before, but Wilson’s stone servant’s quarters still stands, and small portion of a mighty drain built by WIlson’s Indian servants remains nearby. This is a rare example of a drain lined with dressed stone, because, well, the dude liked stone. And who can blame him.

Cracroft's stone-line drain. Image: K. Webb.

Cracroft’s stone-line drain. Image: K. Webb.

The beard:

Wilson lived into his blankety blanks, and had the rare opportunity to grow a solid white beard. But as can be seen in the photo, Wilson’s facia hair went beyond the simple Santa beard and itself slipped into the snowy fey realm from which that fatherly character came, becoming an almost imperceptible, ethereal beard-shaped hole between realities. Wilson’s ghostly beard and eerie floating face were perfectly suited to snow-bound late 19th century Christchurch. Wilson would prowl the snows, camouflaged by his beard, shielding his nose with his hand to sneak up on unknowing foxes and seals. Or I might be thinking of polar bears. It is now impossible to tell.

10/10

cracroft

Sir John Cracroft Wilson, slowly fading from this photograph. Quick, somebody play “Johnny B. Goode”. Image, Acland, 1975.

 

Show your support for Movember, by visiting its website. Show your support for moustaches in general by doing the finger guns to the next person you see with one. Pew-pew-pew!

References

Acland, L.G.D., 1975. The Early Canterbury Runs. Fourth ed. Christchurch, N.Z.: Whitcoulls Ltd.

McLintock, A.H., 1966. Stone Tools. In: An Encyclopedia of New Zealand. [online] Te Ara, The Encyclopedia of New Zealand. Available at: <http://www.teara.govt.nz/en/1966/maori-material-culture/page-8>.

Montgomery, R., and McCarthy, K., 2004. The map that made Canterbury – or, how a little-known sketch map by Charles Obins Torlesse was transformed into Canterbury Association advertising in London. Records of the Canterbury Museum, 18, pp.51–65.

Robley, H.G., 1896. Moko; or Maori Tattooing. London: Chapman and Hall Ltd.

 

[1] By me, just now, completely unfounded.

So, hair’s the thing…

As one 19th century advertisement begins, “in every civilised country throughout the world the human hair is always found to be a subject of peculiar attention.” For centuries, millenia even, we have tugged and twisted our hair into unnatural and often physically improbable shapes, sought luxury and lustre through the addition of all manner of substances and continually attempted to find a tried and true way of stopping the damn stuff from falling out.

The resulting works of art, be they hirsute, sleek or more reminiscent of a desert than a forest, have then been viewed through the discerning and often judgemental eyes of society. Your hair can mark your status, your wealth, your nationality, your personality traits, your identity, whether you want it to or not. It’s no wonder, really, that the care and maintenance of hair elicits such effort from us, is it?

With this in mind, the following images showcase some of the evidence we’ve found – archaeologically and historically – for hair care in the 19th century. Some of it is weird and wonderful, some of it was probably a bit uncomfortable, and some of it we still use today.

Just to set the scene. Note the flattering description of red-heads and the character assassination of brunettes. Image:

Just to set the scene. Note the flattering description of red-heads and the character assassination of brunettes. Image: Mataura Ensign 21/12/1899: 3.

Rowland's Macassar oil, culprit of oily hair and even oilier upholstery everywhere. Macassar oil was a hair restorative and beautifier, first introduced during the late 19th century by a barber named Alexander Rowland. It's the reason for the term 'antimacassar', which refers to the piece of fabric thrown over the top or back of arm chairs to deal with the oily residue hair-conscious people were leaving on furniture all over the place. The advertisement mentions scurf, which is another word for dandruff (I did not know this prior to this post), as well as the restoration of "whiskers, mustachios and eyebrows". How versatile! Image: J. Garland.

Rowland’s Macassar oil, perpetrator of oily hair and even oilier upholstery everywhere. Macassar oil was a hair restorative and beautifier, first introduced during the late 18th century by a barber named Alexander Rowland. It’s the reason for the term ‘antimacassar’, which refers to the piece of fabric thrown over the top or back of arm chairs to deal with the oily residue hair-conscious people were leaving on furniture all over the place. The advertisement mentions scurf, which is another word for dandruff (I did not know this prior to this post), as well as the restoration of “whiskers, mustachios and eyebrows”. How versatile! Image: New Zealand Gazette and Wellington Spectator 18/02/1843: 1, J. Garland.

May I direct your attention to the highlighted section, in which the application of electricity to the scalp is recommended as a cure for baldness.

May I direct your attention to the highlighted section, in which the application of electricity to the scalp is recommended as a cure for baldness. In all seriousness, though, some of these (maybe not the Venetian visor thing) are still used for the hair today, particularly the use of egg as a shampoo. Image: Tuapeka Times 6/04/1889: 2.

Bear's grease

Genuine Russian Bears Grease, made from (presumably) genuine Russian bears. Bears grease derived its popular reputation for hair care from the fact that since bears were hairy, rubbing their fat on your own head would also promote the growth of hair. Don’t be too quick to laugh, I’m sure similarly ridiculous misunderstandings of cause and effect are still around today. It was initially made from actual bears, although some later versions used anything from goose grease to lard as the base of the product. To promote the authenticity of their product, some hairdressers used to keep live bears, bear skins, or something that they could pass off as bear skins in the shop windows to convince customers that their bear’s grease was totally the genuine thing. Image: J. Garland.

The Toilet

Home remedies. While some of these might sound like risky combinations of chemicals (camphor!), many of them do actually have hair care properties. Sub-carbonate of potass is potassium carbonate, used to make soaps. Camphor, used to make mothballs and other pest deterrents, as well as embalming fluid, is also an active ingredient in anti-itch gels and various medicinal products applied externally. Still, maybe don’t try these at home. Image: Daily Southern Cross 5/12/1856: 3.

Dr Frampton's Pomatum, by Price & Co., Her Majesty's Perfumers. For those with unruly hair, unhealthy hair or hair that just won't stay on the head at all. Pomatum was a common hair product during the 19th century and well into the 20th century (also known as pomade). It was usually made of a scented grease or lard and used to smooth down the hair (or moustache, presumably). Articles towards the end of the century, when the use of pomatum had become slightly less widespread, speak disparagingly of resulting "locks saturated with strongly-scented grease" (Nelson Evening Mail 19/10/1882: 4). Image: J. Garland.

Dr Frampton’s Pomatum, by Price & Co., Her Majesty’s perfumers. For those with unruly hair, unhealthy hair or hair that just won’t stay on the head at all. Pomatum was a common hair product during the 19th century and well into the 20th century (also known as pomade). It was usually made of a scented grease or lard and used to smooth down the hair (or moustache, presumably). Articles towards the end of the century, when the use of pomatum had become slightly less widespread, speak disparagingly of resulting “locks saturated with strongly-scented grease” (Grey River Argus 31/10/1882: 4). Image: J. Garland.

Erm.

Erm. Maybe also don’t try this at home. Image: Southland Times 12/02/1885: 4.

Bay rum

A Bay Rum bottle, complete with label denoting it a “refreshing and invigorating tonic for the hair.” Bay Rum became increasingly popular towards the end of the 19th century, although it was in use from much earlier. Although primarily marketed as a hair product, it was also used for a variety of other personal grooming issues, from skin beautification to the relief of tired feet. Image: J. Garland.

potato dye

Some uses for claret and potatoes that you may not have heard of before…Image: Press 31/07/1896: 2.

DSC_0285ed1

A hair comb, made from vulcanite or vulcanised rubber. Regular brushing and combing of the hair was one of the most frequent recommendations in 19th century newspapers and magazines for the encouragement of healthy hair. Not so unusual to us, this one. Image: G. Jackson.

One thing that was notably different to general hair care now was the recommended frequency of washing.

One thing that was notably different to general hair care now was the recommended frequency of washing. Most articles suggested that it be washed, at the most, once a week and recommended intervals of several weeks to a month as optimal. Shampoo was also not as integral to hair washing as it is now, with a lot of articles recommending various oil and water concoctions or simply the use of warm water. The considerations given to the health concerns of wet hair also speak to the differences between our lives now and the lives – and environment – of those in the 19th century, who did not have the luxury of heat pumps and hair dryers. Image: Auckland Star 17/03/1899: 7.

Alexander Barry's Tricopherous is probably the most common hair related artefact that we find on 19th century archaeological sites. Composes largely of alcohol and oil, it promised all manner of miracles when it came to the beauty and restoration of the hair, including the cure of baldness. It was, however, also used in place of pomatum as a far less greasy tool with which to style the hair. Image: G. Jackson.

Alexander Barry’s Tricopherous is probably the most common hair related artefact that we find on 19th century archaeological sites. Composed largely of alcohol and oil, it promised all manner of miracles when it came to the beauty and restoration of the hair, including the cure of baldness. It was, however, also used in place of pomatum as a far less greasy tool with which to style the hair. Image: G. Jackson.

less coffee more hair

To finish off, while I’m sure that “obeying the laws of health” can’t help but aid the vitality of your hair, as someone with very long hair who consumes their fair share of wine, tea and coffee, I have to say that the second paragraph is very definitely not true. Image: Star 6/02/1897: 3.

Jessie Garland 

Everything’s coming up roses (and lilies and jasmine and violets)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man or woman in possession of natural body odour is most definitely in want of something to cover it up. At least, in today’s society, it certainly seems to be considered unacceptable to smell like unadulterated human in polite company (except in sporting situations or extreme, unavoidable situations – running from Godzilla comes to mind). In day to day life, we are expected to smell nice, or at least neutral, necessitating the application of a lot of perfume and deodorant in a never-ending crusade against the social iniquity of body odour.

It should come as no surprise to realise that this is not a new phenomenon, even if the use and popularity of perfume and deodorant has grown significantly in the past century. In the 19th century, certainly, the fragrance industry was a flourishing one. One (English) set of statistics from 1881, for example, claimed that Europe and British India consumed approximately 150,000 gallons of handkerchief perfume yearly (for something usually measured in drops, that is a LOT). Furthermore, English revenue from Eau de Cologne cashed in at around £8000 annually and the total English revenue from other imported perfumes at £40,000 per year, a fairly significant amount by the standards of the time (New Zealand Herald 27/08/1881: 7).

Perfume illustration and rhyme. Image:

Perfume illustration and rhyme. Image: Auckland Star 21/12/1929: 10.

The wonderfully named ‘scent farms’ on which the floral foundations of these perfumes were grown offer similarly substantial statistics on the provision of hundreds of thousands of pounds of flowers and blossoms to perfume distilleries throughout the world. One single distillery in France used approximately 100,000 pounds of acacia flowers, 140,000 pounds of rare flower leaves, 32,000 pounds of jasmine blossoms and 20,000 of tuberose blossoms in one year (Wairarapa Daily Times 26/03/1884: 2). I know, rationally, that these quantities must have been delivered and used over the course of the whole year, but I really can’t help imagining what that many flowers would look like delivered on the doorstep all at once (utterly delightful and horribly, traumatically allergy inducing, I think).

All of this perfume was eagerly and, in some cases, insanely, devoured by the bromidrophobic Victorian public (apparently, bromidrophobia is the fear of body odour – the things you learn in archaeology!). Contemporary accounts range from the faintly disparaging description of “the ballroom where the frou-frou of smart femininity exhales a violet fragrance” to tales of insane fads like the injection of artificial fragrance beneath the skin. To take it even further, one report on the “perfumes which ruin lives” recounts the stories of several people who inhaled or consumed perfume to the point of addiction, ill-health and death (Otago Witness 4/02/1897: 49).

Article on the popular fad of injecting perfumes subcutaneously. Image:

Article on the popular fad of injecting perfumes subcutaneously. Image: Auckland Star 11/03/1899: 2.

People didn’t just use artificial fragrance on themselves, however. Perfume was used to improve the smell of all manner of things, from clothing and handkerchiefs to notepaper and, memorably, butter. There were even perfume pills, made to be carried around in handbags and pockets as a neat and tidy repository of pleasant aromas. We’ve talked about the smells of life in the Victorian era here before on the blog, both inside and outside the house: in the perfumed accoutrements of daily life, there’s another smell to be considered (perhaps a response to some of the more unsavoury aromas people suffered through in the past).

Description of perfumed butter from 1894.

Description of perfumed butter from 1894. Image: Bruce Herald 19/10/1894: 3.

It’s interesting, then, considering the obvious popularity of fragrances amongst the Victorian population, to learn that we find comparatively few perfume bottles on archaeological sites here in Christchurch. They’re not rare, but they’re not common either. Those that we do find tend to be predominantly the products of European or English manufacturers, such as J. M. Farina, Eugene Rimmel and Piesse & Lubin. The one exception seems to be Murray & Lanman’s Florida Water, made in America.

Piesse & Lubin perfume bottle found in Christchurch.

Piesse & Lubin perfume bottle found in Christchurch. Piesse & Lubin were established in London in 1855 and continued to manufacture perfumes and related products into the 20th century. Image: G. Jackson.

Eugene Rimmel and Jean Maria Farina were both titans of the perfume (and cosmetics, in Rimmel’s case) industry during the 19th century. Rimmel was the son of a French perfumer, who moved to London in 1820 to manage a perfumery on Bond Street, before opening his own establishment in 1834 with his son (aged 14 at the time). The company became hugely successful, expanding from perfumes to sell a range of cosmetics, hair products and personal hygiene items: they’re still one of the biggest cosmetic manufacturers in Britain today (Rimmel 2015). As far as perfumes went, Rimmel sold a range of fragrances and related products, from perfume vaporisers and fountains to lavender water and “toilet vinegar”, advertised as a “tonic and refreshing adjunct to the Toilet or Bath, a reviving perfume and a powerful disinfectant” (Nelson Evening Mail 28/02/1884: 1). He secured a royal warrant for his efforts, being named as the official perfumer to both Queen Victoria and the Princess of Wales (Wellington Independent 10/04/1866: 3).

Rimmel bottle base found in Christchurch. Image: G. Jackson.

Rimmel bottle base found in Christchurch. Image: G. Jackson.

J. M. Farina, on the other hand, was famous as the name behind the ubiquitous Eau de Cologne, the fragrance that took its name from Cologne, Germany, the town in which the Farina family had been based since the early 18th century (Farina 2015). As it happens, one of the Farina bottles found in Christchurch, despite being associated with the family name, was in fact produced and named after the establishment of another Cologne based perfumery run by the Mulhens family. The famous 4711 eau de cologne was first made by Wilhelm Mulhens at the end of the 18th century and named for the building in which it was produced. However, before the 4711 brand was adopted in the 1880s, Mulhens marketed his fragrance under the Farina name, leading to some confusion and a lengthy battle with the Farina family (Newton 2013).

Bottle of Mulhens 4711 cologne (left) and the Farina Eau de Cologne (right) found in Christchurch. Image: J. Garland.

Bottle of Mulhens 4711 cologne (left) and the Farina Eau de Cologne (right) found in Christchurch. Image: J. Garland.

Interestingly, both the 4711 and the Farina Eau de Cologne seem to have had slightly more masculine overtones, with advertisements making note that – in contrast to Rimmel’s products – “the Prince of Wales has appointed, under Royal Warrant, Johann Maria Farina… to be manufacturer of Eau de Cologne for the Prince of Wales and his Royal Highness’s household” (Wellington Independent 19/11/1873: 3). The notion of perfume and fragrances as ‘gendered’ is a particularly interesting one, and something that I’ll talk about in more detail in next week’s post.

Contemporary descriptions of Eau de Cologne suggest that it had a strong citrus and bergamot fragrance, with one account listing the ingredients as “twelve drops each of essential oils neroli, citron, bergamot, orange and rosemary, along with one drachm of Malabar cardamoms and a gallon of rectified spirit” (Press 23/12/1887: 5). It seems likely that the 4711 had a similar fragrance, although the only description I could find just emphasised the particularly alcoholic base with which the cologne was made (Auckland Star 14/06/1890: 1).

Unfortunately, as far as the other perfumes go, unless the name of the fragrance is embossed on the bottle, we don’t know which ‘flavours’ of perfume were contained within them. Contemporary sources indicate that floral scents were popular, as they are today, with many manufacturers advertising fragrances like jasmine, rose, heliotrope, lily, etc. Others seem to have been specific to the 19th century, with one French company advertising a fragrance with the scent of ‘freshly mown hay.’ There’s even an advertisement for a ‘Geisha’ perfume.

A recipe for the 'celebrated lily of the valley perfume', one of the popular scents of the 19th century. Image:

A recipe for the “celebrated lily of the valley perfume”, one of the popular scents of the 19th century. Image: Lake Wakatip Mail 26/05/1893: 3.

Certain scents were frowned upon: musk was not well liked, with one 1891 article going so far as to suggest that “the King of Holland got a divorce from his wife because she used musk as a perfume. There are many people who think this sufficient cause…” (Oamaru Mail 1/08/1891: 3). And, amusing as that anecdote is, it’s symptomatic of a broader trend in contemporary (and modern) writing on the subject of perfume and the people who wear it. Several of the commentators that I came across talked of individual perfumes as an indication of a person’s character, particularly when it came to women. Even more than a sign of good or bad taste, a person’s perfume seems to have been seen (or sniffed, I suppose) as a manifestation of that person’s personality and place in life.

There’s something really interesting to be untangled here, in terms of how we – now and in the past – use personal fragrance as a way to define, maintain and reinforce individual and collective identity. Just think about how much your perfume says about you (or others): is it feminine, masculine, modern, old fashioned, cheap, expensive, designer, celebrity, professional, flirty, playful, down to earth, clean or any one of the other identity markers we use to describe the way we smell? It’s a really fascinating aspect of social behaviour but, for the sake of space and our attention spans, one that we’ll save for next week’s post.

Jessie Garland

References

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

Farina, 2015. Farina: the birthplace of Eau de Cologne. [online] Available at www.farina1709.de.

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

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

Newton, D., 2013. Trademarked: A History of Well-Known Brands, from Airtex to Wrights Coal Tar. The History Press, Gloucestershire.

Oamaru Mail. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz.

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

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

Rimmel, 2015. About Rimmel. [online] Available at www.us.rimmellondon.com.

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

Wellington Independent. [online] Available at www.paperspast.natlib.govt.nz.