A man named Wuzerah

Much of the historical information we have available about 19th century Canterbury was written by and about individuals with access to property, resources, money, time, and influence. In this blog post I want to look at an individual who didn’t have access to any of these things and look at two things. Firstly, what was his story? And secondly, how and why was that story told?

The small and unassuming newspaper reference that inspired this blog. Originally, I was going to write on the Cashmere Drains Historic Area, but when you live in a city that was very very proud of its English roots when it came to naming geographic things (I’m looking at you nearly every single street in Central Christchurch), a name like Wuzerah’s Drain stands out. And so, down the rabbit hole I went. Image: Lyttelton Times 11/5/1877: 3.

The man at the centre of this blog was called, or at least referred to in historical sources, as Wuzerah. The name Wuzerah means minister or butler (Drury 2016: 28), indicating his name could have been either a personal name or a work title. Wuzerah, title or name, is spelt in a variety of ways in the primary historical sources, including Wazero, Wizzero and Wiggers (Press 23/3/1941; Press 24/10/1927: 15). Sometimes Wuzerah is referred to with the identifier ‘a Mahomedan’, ‘Moosalman’, or even just as ‘Indian Natives’ or ‘Hindoos’, and the connection between the article and the man is only made clear by reference to his employer (Drury, 2016: 28; Lyttelton Times 9/7/1859: 5; Press 8/10/1869: 3; Star 9/12/1886: 3; Press 11/12/1886: 1). Europeans had a poor grasp on ethnic or religious distinctions of these groups at the time, and these terms are often used to lump together disparate peoples. Wuzerah and his family were Indian, and were possibly Afghan-Pashtun folk, based on the etymology of Wuzerah’s names and the names of his eldest sons, Pero and Mero (Drury, 2016: 28). Wuzerah’s sons took his first name as their last name, which is a traditional Muslim custom.

Wuzerah came to New Zealand, with his wife Mindia and his two eldest sons, under the employ of Cracroft Wilson in 1854. Wuzerah was a member of the Indian workforce that Cracroft Wilson employed in the creation of what is now known as the Cashmere Drains Historic Area,and on his large Cracroft Estate. Most of what we know about Wuzerah is framed in and around his employer, who was a significant and powerful individual within early colonial society in Canterbury (we have another blog on Cracroft Wilson here). Unlike Cracroft Wilson, we don’t have an entry in Te Ara to tell us who Wuzerah was and what his life in early Christchurch was like. Instead, we have to use legal records: court records, coroner’s inquest reports, records of accidents, deaths, and sometimes donations, available to us through historic newspaper records, to try and piece together his story. This often doesn’t build a very detailed or personal view of individual lives, but sometimes enough details are recorded to give an impression of someone’s life.

Wuzerah first appears in historical records by name in 1858, when he charged Goordeen, another Indian man employed by Cracroft Wilson, with larceny (Lyttelton Times 13/03/1858: 4). Drury (2016: 29) notes that Wuzerah was the first Muslim man involved in a court case in New Zealand, indicated by the article reporting that Wuzerah and Goordeen were sworn into the court on an English translation of the Qur’an (spelt ‘Koran’ in the article). Wuzerah brought a case against Goordeen (also spelled Goorden in the same article), another servant of Wilson’s who attempted to steal his purse and Mindia’s necklace while they slept. Wuzerah tied up Goorden and took him to the Magistrate’s Court in Lyttelton on a charge of larceny. A Mr P. Ashton acted as interpreter for both Wuzerah and Goorden, since neither of them spoke English (Lyttelton Times 13/03/1858: 4). The article states that Cracroft Wilson and his overseer Mr Irvine were called on the side of the prisoner Goorden, and that his account differed greatly from Wuzerah’s account under examination. Goorden claimed to have gone to Wuzerah’s house for a light and woke Mindia to ask permission. The charge against Goorden was dismissed, and it was assumed by the court that the charge was laid against Goorden for an old grudge between him and Wuzerah. It must have been some grudge that made Wuzerah capture Goorden, walk him over the Port Hills to Lyttelton, and pursue a charge against him in a court system where he did not speak the official language, with his employer advocating for the accused.

Wuzerah next appeared in the historical record for a 10-shilling donation to the ‘Indian Relief Fund’, which was established to provide aid to British colonists that were affected by the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857 (Lyttelton Times 8/5/1858; Drury, 2016: 35). He was identified as “a Mahommedan” in the article, which could be read as either a point of interest or an identifier in place of a last name. A search of other newspaper articles in the same years referencing ‘Mahomedan’, ‘Mahometan’ and ‘Mussulman’ show othering and racist narratives where Muslims were framed as a foreign other, and Wuzerah’s identifier here likely continues in this vein. We have another blog on the Sepoy Mutiny, which you can read more of here. Wuzerah’s donation to the Indian Relief Fund is an indication that he disagreed with the revolt, or possibly as an expression of support for his employer, who was in India at the time working with British forces to put down the revolt (Ogilvie, 2009: 235). Wuzerah’s choice to donate to the fund, and to include his name on the donation list can be read as an act of agency. Cracroft Wilson was not known for generous wages, and Wuzerah’s choice to publicly donate money to the fund indicates that he used resources available to him to publicly express his views.

Donation list to the Indian Relief Fund. The Indian Relief Fund was created to support British colonists who suffered under the Sepoy revolt, and Wuzerah’s donation here likely indicates disapproval with the mutiny. Image: Lyttelton Times 8/5/1858: 5.

Wuzerah returned to the courts in 1859 on a charge of larceny issued by his employer (Lyttelton Times 9/7/1859: 5; Lyttelton Times 3/9/1859: 4; Lyttelton Times 7/9/1859: 4). Cracroft Wilson charged Wuzerah with stealing tools and a copper boiler from his estate. Phillip Ashton once again interpreted for Wuzerah, and two other witnesses spoke on his behalf: Gunga Ram and Bhowanee Singh. Cracroft Wilson accused Wuzerah of stealing multiple tools and the copper boiler, and located these items in Wuzerah’s house after it was searched. Wuzerah was recorded as saying the following “The things are all yours, take them and forgive me” (Lyttelton Times 3/9/1859: 4). Phillip Ashton, when asked about this wording explained that this was a figurative form of apology used in India rather than an explicit admission of guilt. Here the Lyttelton Times notes that “several other witnesses were called whose evidence was of a conflicting character” but “The hour at which the report reached us precludes us giving any further details” (Lyttelton Times 3/9/1859: 4).

Both Gunga Ram and Bhowanee Singh testified that the tools were in Wuzerah’s possession before they left India, and that the boiler had been given to Wuzerah by Mrs Wilson more than four years beforehand. Mrs Wilson and others of the estate denied this claim (Lyttelton Times 7/9/1859: 4) The court ruled in Wilson’s favour and found Wuzerah guilty. A small note at the bottom of this report notes that a second charge of larceny was brought against Wuzerah, but “the case was of so trifling a character that we reserve our available space for a more interesting matter”. This indicates that Wilson evidently bought multiple charges against Wuzerah. If it seems a little odd that man as powerful and influential as Cracroft Wilson would bring multiple charges against a man under his employ for supposedly stealing a copper boiler and tools which he used as part of his employment, it is. Regardless of whether Wuzerah was telling the truth, and two witnesses speaking on his behalf definitely support this, Cracroft Wilson had the means and ability to handle this matter internally on his estate. Instead, he dragged Wuzerah through a months long court process, which Cracroft Wilson knew would result in publication of Wuzerah’s name with the offence, and then won the case against Wuzerah. Cracroft Wilson made an example of Wuzerah and punished whatever perceived transgression with institutional power structures.

The Old Stone House was built to house Cracroft Wilson’s Indian workers, and it’s possible Wuzerah lived here at one stage. This photo shows Old Stone House in a neglected state with farm implements outside, Cashmere, Christchurch. Williams, Edgar Richard, 1891-1983: Negatives, lantern slides, stereographs, colour transparencies, monochrome prints, photographic ephemera. Ref: 1/4-097560-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/30634110

The next record of the Wuzerah family is a coroner’s inquest into the death of Pero Wuzerah (Lyttelton Times 5/11/1862: 4). Pero slipped crossing a footbridge over the Heathcote and drowned in the river. The article notes that another boy fell into the river at the same spot within the same week but was rescued by his father. Interestingly, Pero Wuzerah is referred to as “the son of one of the Mahomedan natives of India employed by Cracroft Wilson” whereas the other child is referred to as “a son of Mr Jas. T. Fisher”. This difference in identification between Wuzerah and Mr Fisher is a clear contrast: Wuzerah is referred to as a nameless employee of Cracroft Wilson, whereas Fisher is identified by name and honorific.

The next mention of Wuzerah involves yet another court experience for charges issued by Cracroft Wilson. Cracroft Wilson brought charges against Wuzerah for the cost of £38 9s 3d in 1873 (Press 8/5/1873: 3). The reason for this quite hefty charge is indicated in a Star article months later, which recounts a meeting held by Cracroft Wilson for his constituents as the member for the Heathcote District in the House of Representatives (Star 21/10/1873: 2). A tax of £1 per household had been issued for education purposes, which Wuzerah had apparently neglected to pay. Cracroft Wilson, as the advocate for this particular tax, brought charges against Wuzerah for non-payment of this tax. Cracroft Wilson tells his constituents that Wuzerah, identified in this article only as ‘the Mahomedan’, said in Hindostanee [sic] that “he would not pay for nothing and that he would therefore send his boys to school”. The implication for Wuzerah’s statement is that if he had to pay the tax, then he would be sending his sons to school to benefit from that education funding. Cracroft Wilson, known for paying remarkably low wages, publicly charged Wuzerah with a hefty £38 fine for failing to pay an education tax of £1 that he politically championed. This charge by Cracroft Wilson is not only hefty and punitive but used here to make a political statement to reinforce Cracroft Wilson’s political convictions.

Cracroft Wilson was a Member of the House of Representatives and heavily involved in politics. One of his more controversial acts was the 1865 Masters and Servants Bill, designed to provide legislative guidelines  for disputes between masters and servants. Unsurprisingly, given Cracroft Wilson’s wealth and status as well as it being well known that he employed Indian servants, he was heavily critiqued for introducing legislation that would personally benefit him. In this satirical comic the master is likely Cracroft Wilson. Image: Punch in Canterbury (Periodical), 1865. Punch in Canterbury: What may come of the Masters and Servants Bill. Original question. “That a disobedient servant be imprisoned.” Mr Punch’s Amendment. “That a master, if he misconduct himself, shall be liable to hard labour.” Punch in Canterbury, 19 August,1865. Ref: A-315-967. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/22336950

Wuzerah was evidently familiar with the court system following his initial experiences, and brought charges against a William Harges in 1869, and a Lane in 1885 (Press 8/10/1869: 3; Star 7/10/1885: 3). Wuzerah was charged by a J. Sheriff in 1875 and a return charge was issued by Lane in 1885 (Lyttelton Times 18/11/1875: 3; Lyttelton Times 22/10/1885: 3). The only charges named are those to and from Lane, issued by Wuzerah for cartage, and returned by Lane for repairs to a dray (Star 7/10/1885: 3; Lyttelton Times 22/10/1885: 3). For every charge Wuzerah was involved in, brought by him or accused, the court finds in his opponent almost every time, except for the charge brought by J. Sheriff, where Cracroft Wilson speaks in support of Wuzerah. Appearances in court were not unusual in the 19th century, but Wuzerah didn’t speak English very well. Taking people to court in an unfamiliar language is a pretty bold move, especially when the legal system didn’t often rule in his favour.

Wuzerah also went to court for his youngest son Noora. Noora (written as “Noer alias Noorwa”) was charged for putting stones on railway tracks, which could have resulted in a serious accident (Star 24/6/1874: 2). Wuzerah testified before the court that he had already punished the boy, and that he would pay a £20 bond as security to ensure the boy’s good conduct in the future (Star 24/6/1874: 2). There is a ‘recognizance of the peace’ file under the name Wuzeera [Wuzerah] in 1874, possibly for this same bond payment (; Drury, 2016: 32).

As previously mentioned, Wuzerah was part of the workforce employed by Cracroft Wilson to dig the historic drains network that was required to drain large sections of Cashmere (Ogilvie, 2009: 235). An advertisement in the Lyttelton Times called for tenders to deepen the Cashmere River from “Wuzeerah’s Drain to Promontory Bridge (Lyttelton Times 11/05/1877: 3). It Is likely that Wuzerah was part of the Indian workforce employed by Cracroft Wilson to dig this drain network, hence his name associated with a portion of the drain. Mero Wuzerah was injured in a dray accident in 1879 and was treated in Christchurch Hospital (Lyttelton Times 9/9/1879: 4). Mero must have made a full recovery, for he and his father were involved in an incident in 1886 where they were accused of “illegally rescuing cattle” from a ranger to the Halswell Road Board. The charge was dismissed since the ranger didn’t produce identification and neither Wuzerah nor Mero kept the cattle (Star 9/12/1886: 3). A return charge was issued to the ranger for assaulting Wuzerah, but this charge was also dismissed (Star 9/12/1886: 3). It’s not clear whether violence was a common part of Wuzerah’s life based on the information available, but the court ruling against him in charges certainly seemed to be.

Wuzerah spent his later years on a cottage on the corner of Cashmere and Valley Roads, which was provided by Cracroft Wilson’s estate following his death in 1881 (Drury, 2016: 32; Ogilvie, 1978: 132)

Port Hills of Christchurch map with ‘Indians Cottage’ and ‘Old Stone House’ marked with circles. The ‘Indians Cottage’ marked on the map is probably not Wuzerah’s, as his reported house location is shown with a yellow circle. Image: Ogilvie, 1978: 132.

Wuzerah appears to have run a cartage business with a team of bullocks following release from Cracroft Wilson’s employment (Drury, 2016: 32-33; Ogilvie, 2009: 238). Wuzerah apparently favoured two bullocks named ‘Baldy’ and ‘Smuggler’, and James Sutherland recalled that when asked why he always used the same pair he replied “They go quick run it” (Ogilvie, 2009: 238). The Star reported that Wuzerah was one of a team of bullock drivers employed to cart stone into Christchurch for the construction of the Christchurch Cathedral (Star 1/5/1902: 3).

Christchurch Cathedral under construction, late 1879-early 1880. The stone visible in the foreground was locally sourced and transported by bullock teams run by folk like Wuzerah. Ref: 1/2-022786-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/23063747

Wuzerah passed away from heart disease on 30 April 1902, and his death notice was published across New Zealand as far as Auckland, Otago, and Wanganui (Press 2/5/1902: 6; Star 1/5/1902: 3; Auckland Star 2/5/1902: 5; Otago Witness 7/5/1902: 30; Wanganui Herald 2/5/1902: 2). A small memorial to Wuzerah and another Indian servant Kulloo, who died the same year, was installed in Sydenham Cemetery by the Cracroft Wilson Family (Star 22/8/1902: 3; Drury, 2016: 34). The memorial was broken by vandals and restored by the Cracroft Community Centre between 1985 and the early 2000s (Press 2/12/1985: 17; Press 18/7/2009: D9; Drury, 2016: 34).


Wuzerah’s death notice in the Star (Wuzerah’s name is spelt Bezire in this article). Source: Star 1/5/1902: 3.

This blog may have given the impression that Wuzerah was a relatively unknown individual from the 19th century, but that’s not quite true. A quick Google search of his name will return 832 results, and his experiences are cited in nearly every publication on the history of Muslim settlement in New Zealand. Wuzerah’s identity was treated as a point of interest by his contemporaries, evident in the creation of a memorial for both Wuzerah and Kulloo in the Sydenham Cemetery, and the publication of his death notice in newspapers across New Zealand. This focus is continued by the restoration and repairs to Wuzerah and Kulloo’s gravestone in the 1980s by the Cracroft Community Centre (Press 27/11/1985: 59; 4/3/1986: 8). Wuzerah was the subject of academic interest in the 20th and 21st century as the first documented Muslim living in New Zealand (which isn’t quite true either, see Drury, 2016: 17-18 and Singh, 2016: 65-69). There was a renewed media interest in early Muslim experiences in Canterbury following the Christchurch terror attacks in 2019, and Wuzerah’s story was retold to indicate historical experiences of Muslims in Canterbury (you can read a couple of examples here and here).

From the 19th century to the present day, Wuzerah’s legacy is drawn solely from his identity as the first Muslim settler to live in New Zealand. Readers of the newspaper clippings and snippets of his life might get a sense that he had a hard life in Canterbury as the first Muslim settler, as one of very few Indian employees to stay on following the completion of his indenture period. Wuzerah was treated unfairly by his employer, he was mistreated by the legal system, newspapers spelt his name wrong constantly, even in his death notice. But these mentions of Wuzerah during and after his lifetime were utilised by newspapers, community groups, media outlets and other platforms (this blog included) because he is known as the first Muslim to settle in New Zealand, rather than any choices he made or actions he took of his own volition. Potentially the only record available that indicates Wuzerah’s personal views or choices is the donation record to the Indian Relief Fund in 1858, which either indicated support for his employer in India, or disapproval of the Sepoy Revolt. Other people have made choices about Wuzerah’s story and have created a significant legacy around his identity. Cracroft Wilson chose to make an example of Wuzerah during his lifetime to reinforce his status as a landowner and as a politician, and Wuzerah’s story continued to be used as an example of early Muslim experiences long after his death. Cracroft Wilson had the opportunity and choices to create his own legacy in the colonisation of Canterbury, which is embedded in almost every aspect of the history of Christchurch. If Wuzerah had choice and opportunity available to him, perhaps he would have chosen to present his legacy differently.

Photograph of Wuzerah and Kulloo’s restored grave. Image: Alistair McGowan, 2023. 

Neda Bawden

References

Drury, A. M. 2016. Once Were Mahometans: Muslims in the South Island of New Zealand, mid-19th to late 20th century, with special reference to Canterbury. Masters Thesis, University of Waikato.

Ogilvie, G. 1978. The Port Hills of Christchurch. Wellington, Sydney, London: A. H. & A. W. Reed.

Ogilvie, G. 2009. The Port Hills of Christchurch. Christchurch. N.Z.: Philips & King.

Singh, H. 2016. From Guru Nanak to New Zealand: Mobility in the Sikh Tradition

Field Notes

Have you ever sat down and thought about how and where archaeologists record all that information they observe on site and what happens to those records after they’re done? Actually… you probably haven’t, but I’m going to talk about it anyway.

Most of the information recorded on site is collected as field notes. Field notes and field books contain the raw data collected in the field, and are the legacies of archaeological excavation. Archaeologists refer to these notes when writing reports and making observations on different features and sites. To some extent, they are a daily diary that records the results of excavations, surveys and other forms of archaeological monitoring and contain the initial interpretations and other general observations made in the field. Field notes can include data collected on preprinted forms, details scrawled in notebooks, frantic sketches on scrap paper, hurriedly typed notes in work phones or beautiful carefully drawn scale diagrams on graph .

An example of a scale diagram drawn on site. This one is a plan view of a brick barrel drain.

A quick Google of archaeological field notes will bring up numerous images of pages scanned from various field books all around the world. These are often immaculate examples of perfectly drawn diagrams or beautifully calligraphed notes that look like they are straight off someone’s Pinterest inspiration board and proudly displayed as a part of an archaeological exhibit. The reality of field notes is that they are much more varied and not necessarily pretty. Not every writer in the field records information in a way that you would expect them to as the Smithsonian Institution Archives identified during their Field Book Project. Lockshin and Benett (2018) observed; “Aside from hoarding and creative reuse of material, another strategy of the thrifty writer that may create media legibility issues is the technique of cross writing, self-annotating, and/or use of the field book in reverse orientation from back to front, which can cause headaches for the most attentive user trying to work out the beginning from the end”. I can even think of examples where I have written around the edge or upside down in the corner of a page to further articulate a point while running out of .

A creative use of space by this archaeologist, with their notes encasing their sketch map.

While in this form, the archaeologists utilises both portrait and landscape views to maximise space.

Scribbles in a notebook from a slow day on site. Pages like these provide an insight into the mind of the archaeologist and what the fieldwork was like on that day.

Every archaeologist will, at some point, work with someone else’s field notes. In fact, while I was procrastinating writing my MA thesis in 2021, I went on a bit of a deep dive into numerous papers on the subject. These either lamented or celebrated how legacies of ‘historic’ fieldnotes are used in archaeology and what sorts of information they can add to future research studies. It was slightly (mostly) off-topic… but I’m sure it gave me a broad background perspective and certainly mentally prepared me for working as an archaeologist. One of the papers even interviewed various archaeologists’ regarding their experiences working with other people’s field notes and what they wished their co-workers had included instead (Faniel et al., 2013). However, the most interesting of these studies focused on how re-examinations of original field notes have the potential to highlight assumptions that underpin how archaeological data is interpreted to this day at even some of the most prominent sites across the world (e.g. Ellis, S.J.R. (2008), Ellis et al., (2008), Boozer (2015), MacFarland and Vokes (2016) and Wylie (2017)).

I personally argue that the field notes themselves should always be considered an important part of the archaeological legacy collections. ‘Published’ archaeological writing often conceals the inconsistencies of archaeology by erasing the ambiguities characteristic of tangible archaeological evidence (Gero, 2007). The field notes help highlight the ambiguities so that we can account for them in future interpretations. They provide all of the non-artefactual information recorded about archaeological sites which have been reduced, or destroyed outside of a published report.

“no idea what else this might be – definitely not a soak pit”

Most of the ‘historic’ field notes housed in the Underground Overground Archaeology (UOA) office are contained within the yellow, Rite in the Rain ALL WEATHER METRIC FIELD No 360F hardback notebooks. These notebooks are celebrated for their near indestructibility, especially in wet weather, and have been used for field research in many areas since the early 20th century.  The UOA collection is housed on a shared bookshelf with the date and the initials of the notetaker recorded on the spine.

The archived yellow field books.

Notes in these journals range from journal-like diary entries to bullet-pointed notes and annotated sketches.

An example of field notes written with bullet-pointed notes.

An example of field notes written in ‘journal’ style with drawings and a torn page.

Another example of field notes written in full in a ‘journal’ style.

For larger projects, field notes have been recorded on forms. These are meant to provide reliability in how the information about archaeology is recorded in the field. Forms achieve this by prompting archaeologists to record key attributes about the feature in the interest of ensuring nothing is accidently forgotten. They also offer a clear structure and consistent terms that should (in theory) make writing archaeological report simpler.

Forms such as context, bag and photo registers also assist in the handover of information between archaeologist on site as they allow for information to be quickly summarised at the end of each day. Yet even forms experience somewhat interpretative use, and everyone still finds ways to make them their own.

An example of a context register that helps different archaeologists to know what was last recorded on site.

A blank context record form example.

The environment can also play a role in the legibility of notes, whether that be from trying to write with near frozen fingers on a freezing winter morning or water and dirt covering pages on a particularly muddy site.

An abused field book – the realities of working on site.

A bonus examples with various drawings. This shows a general (not to scale) plan of a project area.

Here at Underground Overground Archaeology, field notes are digitised before the physical copies (either in the form of Yellow Field Books, or binders full of paper forms) are archived for future inspection within our office as part of an ever-growing internal library. Collections of archaeological field notes exist in thousands of repositories worldwide with the intention that they will be able to provide data for and add valuable information to current and future archaeological and heritage studies. They provide data for a critical examination of commonly held assumptions about the past drawn from past research. They are unique, vibrant, (sometimes nearly illegible), windows into the minds of individual archaeologists providing information about their thoughts and processes on site alongside essential insights about the archaeology. Archaeological data is messy, and a strong understanding of the original assumptions and goals of the research that produced an assemblage is often required to critically apply it to new research. Relevant documents that clarify how the archaeological material and artefacts were initially collected are needed to address this meaningfully. I hope this blog encourages you to love field notes as much as I do.

Amy Tuffnell

All fieldnote examples contained within this blog are sources from within the Underground Overground Archaeology internal archive. I would like to thank everyone from the office for the suggestions and contributions.

References

Boozer, A. L. (2014). The tyranny of typologies: evidential reasoning in Romano-Egyptian domestic archaeology. In Material evidence (pp. 112-130). Routledge.

Ellis, S. J. (2008). The use and misuse of ‘legacy data’ in identifying a typology of retail outlets at Pompeii’. Internet Archaeology, 24: 450-457.

Ellis, S. J., Gregory, T. E., Poehler, E. E., & Cole, K. (2008). Integrating legacy data into a new method for studying architecture: a case study from Isthmia, Greece. Internet Archaeology: 24.

Faniel, I., Kansa, E., Whitcher Kansa, S., Barrera-Gomez, J., & Yakel, E. (2013). The challenges of digging data: a study of context in archaeological data reuse. In Proceedings of the 13th ACM/IEEE-CS joint conference on Digital libraries, (pp.295-304).

Lockshin, Nora S. and Bennett, R. William, III. (2018). Smudges, Snakeskins, and Pins, Oh My!Book and Paper Group Annual. 37:125–142.https://repository.si.edu/handle/10088/97808

MacFarland, K., & Vokes, A. W. (2016). Dusting Off the Data: Curating and Rehabilitating Archaeological Legacy and Orphaned Collections. Advances in Archaeological Practice, 4(2), 161-175. https://doi.org/10.7183/2326-3768.4.2.161

Rite in the Rain – History, 2023 September 14, https://www.riteintherain.com/rite-in-the-rain-history

Wylie, A. (2016). How Archaeological Evidence Bites Back: Strategies for Putting Old Data to Work in New Ways. Science, Technology, & Human Values, 42(2), 203-225. https://doi.org/10.1177/0162243916671200

 

 

 

 

The Christchurch Public Library

When you take a walk or drive around a city, certain buildings often stand out as recognisable landmarks. Sometimes it’s because of their distinctive architecture, their height or size, or their location, and sometimes it is because of nostalgic memories you associated with it. As a result of the 2010-2011 Canterbury earthquakes, Christchurch lost a number of its recognisable building landmarks around the city. While many of these buildings were readily identifiable to Cantabrians who frequented the city prior to the quakes, not all of us know the story of how they came to be. Today on the blog we are outlining the process by which one of the Christchurch’s most recognisable former public buildings – the Christchurch Public Library – came to be constructed during the 19th century and early 20th centuries.

Photograph looking west towards the former Christchurch City Library building located on the corner of Hereford Street and Cambridge Terrace. Image: Christchurch City Libraries, 2023.

When the city of Christchurch was surveyed into town sections and reserves by the Canterbury Association’s surveyor, Edward Jollie, in 1850, the land that would later become the site of the Public Library was surveyed as Town Sections 405 and 406.

Detail from Jollie’s 1850 map of Christchurch showing future Public Library property surveyed as Town Sections 405 and 406. Image: Jollie, 1850.

Charles Thomas Maunsell, one of the original subscribers of the Canterbury Association, owned Town Sections 405 and 406 between 1851 and 1863 but did not develop the sections during his ownership. Fooks’ 1862 map of Christchurch shows no buildings present on Town Sections 405 or 406.

Detail from Fooks’ 1862 map of Christchurch showing no buildings present within Town Sections 405 and 406. Image: Fooks, 1862.

The Christchurch Mechanics’ Institute purchased Town Sections 405 and 406 in July 1863. Mechanics’ Institutes were educational organisations established for the purpose of disseminating knowledge on a wide variety of topics through lectures and libraries. The Christchurch Mechanics’ Institute had been established in 1859. They initially utilised premises within the Town Hall, but they always intended to obtain premises of their own (Lyttelton Times, 21/5/1859: 4, 1/6/1859: 4, 15/6/1859: 4, 9/11/1859: 3). When the Provincial Council granted the Mechanics’ Institute £250 in 1862, they were able to purchase Town Sections 405 and 406 for the sum of £262 10s (Lyttelton Times, 7/12/1861: 4, 9/7/1862: 4).

Having secured a building site, the Mechanics’ Institute utilised the common practice of holding an architectural competition to find a suitable design for a building. From December 1862 to January 1863, they advertised for competitive designs for a building to be erected on their recently acquired site, with £20 to be the prize for the winning entry and £10 for second place (Press, 13/12/1862: 10). The competition was won by Christchurch architect, Samuel Charles Farr, whose offices were located in Lichfield Street (Lyttelton Times, 5/8/1863: 3). Farr had spent the previous twelve years in Akaroa, before coming to Christchurch in 1862. The Mechanics’ Institute is believed to be the first building Farr designed when he moved to Christchurch.

Farr advertised for tenders to construct the Mechanics’ Institute building according to his designs in February 1863 (Press, 14/2/1863: 7). The tender for the construction of the building was won by local builders, Augustus Balcke and Daniel Brouard, for the sum of £1169 (Lyttelton Times, 5/8/1863: 3). Balcke and Brouard worked on a number of prominent construction jobs in Christchurch during the 1860s, including Matson and Torlesses stone buildings in Cathedral Square, Kiver’s stone buildings in Cashel Street, and Church of St John the Baptist in Latimer Square (Lyttelton Times, 12/11/1864: 11, 13/4/1865: 5, 14/7/1865: 7).

At the fourth annual meeting of the Mechanics’ Institute in early August 1863, it was reported that the new building was rapidly advanced toward completion, with the hope that by 1st of September it would be ready for occupation (Lyttelton Times, 5/8/1863: 3). By the following month the building was completed, and the Mechanics’ Institute held their first meeting in their new building to consider a general statement of the affairs of the Institute (Lyttelton Times, 9/9/1863: 3). The requisite books and papers were then placed on the shelves in the new premises, and finally, in October 1863, the Mechanics’ Institute’s new reading room was opened to its various members (Lyttelton Times, 31/10/1863: 5). A photograph taken from late 1863 shows the Mechanics’ Institute building present on Town Section 406 fronting on Hereford Street. The building was somewhat plain in design, resembling a dwelling house more than a public institution, but the link dormer and rounded hood windows add a touch of elegance to the otherwise plain building.

Photograph looking north to the corner of Cambridge Terrace and Hereford Street in c.1863, showing the Hereford Street frontage of the original Mechanics’ Institute building on Town Section 406. Image:Hocken Collections, c.1863.

The ‘Christchurch Mechanics’ Institute’ changed their name to the ‘Christchurch Literary Institute’ in January 1868 (Press, 9/1/1868: 2). Dartnell’s 1868 map of Christchurch shows the ‘L’ shaped footprint of the newly renamed Literary Institute’s building present on Town Section 406. A photograph taken some time after January 1868, shows a sign displaying the new ‘Literary Institute’ name on the side of the 1863 building.

Detail from Dartnell’s 1868 map of Christchurch showing the footprint of the Literary Institute building present on Town Sections 405 and 406. Image: Dartnell, 1868.

Photograph looking north to the corner of Cambridge Terrace and Hereford Street after 1868, showing a sign baring the building’s new name ‘Literary Institute’. Image: Wilson, 1982.

The Canterbury Provincial Council were seriously discussing the need to establish a free public library in Christchurch in 1873 (Lyttelton Times, 3/5/1873: 3). The public were quick to support the idea, and by May of that year private promotors had already raised more than £600 in subscriptions for the purchase of books for the proposed project. The Literary Institute were also in favour of the proposal, and they entered into negotiations with the Council to hand over ownership of the Literary Institute building and premises for the purpose (Press, 29/5/1873: 2). The Council placed the sum of £5,000 in their budget and drafted the Canterbury Public Library Act, 1873 for the purpose of purchasing the Literary Institute’s premises (Press, 14/11/1873: 2). By the end of 1873, the Council had successfully negotiated the purchase of Town Sections 405 and 406 and the associated literary buildings (Lyttelton Times, 24/12/1873: 3). The Canterbury Provincial Council placed the management of the newly acquired Public Library premises under the authority of the newly established Canterbury College Board of Governors at the beginning of 1874. The Canterbury College Board of Governors would continue to manage the public library premises and facilities for the next seventy years.

The reading room in the new Public Library was opened to the public in January 1874 (Press, 13/1/1874: 2). The library’s lending services took a further month to prepare before they were ready for the public, as the Board of Governors needed to take stock of and catalogue their new inventory (Press, 30/1/1874: 2). Finally, on 7th February 1874, the Board of Governors published their rules for lending books and the full functionality of the Public Library was made available to the public.

The Canterbury Public Library’s rules first printed in the Press in February 1874.

It was not long after the Board of Governors took over management of the Public Library in January 1874, that they began discussing the need to provide additional facilities on the premises (Press, 30/1/1874: 2). The Board requested four well-known local architects (William Armson, Samuel Farr, Benjamin Mountfort and Frederick Strouts) to submit designs for a new building in April 1874, with the sum of £15 to be paid to each of the architects for the designs they furnished (Lyttelton Times, 1/5/1874: 3). The Board accepted William Armson’s design on the condition that a few modifications were made in July 1874 (Press, 10/7/1874: 2). Armson’s appointment was not without its controversy. Firstly, because he had handed in his initial design after the specified deadline, and secondly, because it was over a year before the Board and architect could finalise the design and associated building costs (Lyttelton Times, 19/7/1875: 3, 15/9/1875: 2; Press, 10/7/1874: 2). But, in September 1875, the Board finally approved Armson’s design for a simple brick and stone building that was to be connected to the extant 1863 library building by a wooden corridor. A detailed description of the building was provided in the Star later that month:

 

The new building is to be erected thirty-four feet North of the present one, the two being connected by a covered corridor built of wood and 7ft 6in wide. In the centre of the corridor and fronting on Cambridge Terrace, there will be an ornamental porch to serve as the entrance to both the new and old buildings. The visitor, on entering the porch, by turning to the left, will gain admission to the old building through the present doorway, or by turning to the right will gain admission to the new building. The latter, it may be said, is to be 60ft x 40ft in the clear, with a space of 20 ft from floor to ceiling. The front elevation looks on to Cambridge Terrace, and has a triple light window in the centre, with a single one on each side. The windows have stone sills, arches, and mullions, the latter having carved capitals and bases of the same material. These with a stone cornice, on which the words “Public Library” are to be carved, will form a pleasant contrast with the brickwork of the walls (Star, 16/9/1875: 2).

Architectural plan showing the proposed extension to the Public Library premises in 1875. Image: Armson, 1875.

Architectural plan showing the proposed extension to the Public Library premises (right) in relation to the existing 1863 building (left). Image:Armson, 1875.

Tenders were called for the construction of the new Public Library building designed by Armson in September 1875, and the tender of Joseph Wood for just under £4000 was accepted by the following month (Press, 17/9/1875: 4). Wood lost no time in making a start on the construction of the building, and by June 1876 it was noted to be ‘fast approaching a state of completion’ (Lyttelton Times, 14/6/1876: 2). In December 1876 that the Board finally took possession of the premises and began moving the designated books and periodicals from the old library premises into the new building Press, 15/12/1876: 2).

The new Public Library premises was opened to the public on 28th December 1876 (Press, 28/12/1876: 2). Strouts’ 1877 map of Christchurch shows the footprint of the original 1863 portion of the library and the 1876 extension present on the property. A photograph said to have been taken in 1897 (but likely taken prior to 1893) shows the 1863 timber portion of the library and the 1876 brick extension present on the property at this time, connected by the timber corridor and porch fronting Cambridge Terrace. Armson’s design was in the Venetian Gothic style, with red brick walls set with bands of contrasting glazed brick and decorative roundels. The French pavilion roof was capped by a ventilator turret and wrought-iron cresting. Although the red brick was somewhat austere in its appearance the decorative roundels, the pointed sash windows with stripped voussoirs, and the detailed turret, gave the building an inviting and unique appearance which would be easily recognised by visitors for generations to come.

Detail from Strouts’ 1877 map of Christchurch showing the footprint of the two phases of the Public Library building (indicated with dashed lines) present on Town Sections 405 and 406. The third building on the property is the Librarian’s House. Image:Strouts, 1877.

Photograph looking northwest to the corner of Cambridge Terrace and Hereford Street in c.1897, showing the original 1863 Literary Institute building fronting Hereford Street and the 1876 brick addition on the right. Image:Christchurch City Libraries, 1897.

The building premises constructed in 1863 and 1876 continued to provide ample space for housing the Public Library until the early 1890s, by which time the accommodation was beginning to be inadequate for the growing collection of books (Lyttelton Times, 11/7/1893: 2; Star, 9/12/1893: 6). In 1892 alone the library reported adding over 1087 books to their collection (Lyttelton Times, 30/1/1893: 4). The need for additional space was apparent, and the Board of Governors approved a design by the architectural firm of Collins and Harman for an additional building to be added to the premises in March 1893 (Lyttelton Times, 28/3/1893: 2). Collins and Harman, being the architects for the new addition, appears to have been an organic choice for the Board, as the firm had originally been started by the Boards’ former architect of choice, William Armson, who had employed John James Collins in 1871. Following Armson’s death in 1883, Collins took over the firm and brought Richard Harman into partnership in 1885. Collins and Harman continued to be the Board of Governors choice of architectural firm for several decades into the 20th century (University of Canterbury, 2023). Collins and Harman designed a rectangular brick building with concrete foundation that connected into the southwest corner of Armson’s 1876 building. The building was in the Neo-Gothic style, which reiterated some of the materials and motifs of Armson’s 1876 building.

Architectural plan showing the addition of a reference library in the southwest corner of the library complex in 1893. Image:Collins and Harman, 1893.

Tenders were called for the construction of Collins and Harman’s additional wing in April 1893, and a tender for £684 was accepted the following month (Lyttelton Times, 14/4/1893: 8, 30/5/1893: 2). The new building was to function as the library’s ‘Reference Library’. Formerly, Armson’s 1876 building had functioned as both the library’s ‘Reference Library’ and its ‘Circulating Library’, with the building being divided in the middle to create two separate areas. The addition of a separate building to house the library’s reference collection, meant that Armson’s 1876 building could be altered to allow for the circulating collection to utilise the full space of the older building with the room divider removed and the building redecorated (Lyttelton Times, 11/7/1893: 2). The additional building was completed in December 1893, at which time a description of the building was provided in the Star:

 

The reference library […] is newly erected. It is 49ft x 31ft, the walls 25ft high, with an open roof with varnished beams and timbers and lit by six large skylights. It has 1500ft of shelving, with accommodation for about 10,000 volumes. These shelves are in cases about 8ft high, so made that at some future time a gallery may be built round the room. They are arranged in the alcove system, and the necessity for the old objectionable, noisy ladder-steps exists no more. The room is warmed by an extension of the hot air pipe system by which the other room is heated. Gas is laid on and fourteen burners give ample light during the evening. In the centre of the room large tables are arranged, on which magazines, art journals, musical periodicals, &c, are laid. It will be seen that in both rooms there is ample space for the number of books which are being constantly added to the libraries (Star, 9/12/1893: 6).

 

As the new building was located at the rear of the two early buildings, very few contemporary photographs could be found showing the 1893 addition. However, a photograph taken from the Hereford Street bridge in c.1895 shows the corner of the new brick building peeking out from behind the 1863 timber building and connecting into the 1876 building. The three connected buildings which made up the Public Library premises (constructed in 1863, 1876, and 1893 respectively) continued to be utilised for the remainder of the 19th century.

Photograph looking northwest to the corner of Cambridge Terrace and Hereford Street in c.1895, showing a small portion of the brick addition constructed at the rear of the Public Library premises in 1893 (red arrow). Image: Hocken Collections, c.1895.

By the turn of the 20th century, the Board of Governors were already discussing the need to make considerable additions and alterations to the Public Library premises (Press, 14/6/1900: 4, 25/9/1900: 2). Collins and Harman were again called upon to design additional building premises for the library. They designed a new reading room along with additional librarian’s office and rooms which were to replace the older 1863 portion of the extant buildings as well as the wooden corridor and porch that had been constructed to connect the older building to the 1876 Armson building. It is interesting to note that the Collins and Harman’s plan included the option to extend the building along the full Hereford Street frontage at a later date.

Architectural plan showing the proposed new Reading Room in the southeast corner of the library complex in 1901. Image:Collins and Harman, 1901.

Tenders were called for the construction of the new building designed by Collins and Harman in April 1901, and the tender of Andrew Swanston for £4307 was accepted the following month (Lyttelton Times, 26/3/1902: 3; Press, 23/4/1901: 2). As the new building was to replace the old 1863 building and adjoining porch, the wooden buildings and their stone foundations were sold at auction in June 1901 and they realised the sum of £80 3s 5d (Lyttelton Times, 14/6/1901: 8; Press, 28/5/1901: 2). Although the old building had been simple in its design and had by no means been considered an imposing structure, it had stood on the property for thirty-eight years (a long time in a young colonial town) and was already considered by many of the public as an “old land-mark” (Lyttelton Times, 18/6/1901: 3). However, the public do not appear to have been particularly upset about the loss of the old building (especially after significant rot was found during its demolition) and instead appear to have been eagerly anticipating the new structure (Star, 25/6/1901: 3). The wooden buildings were required to be removed from the premises by the 1st July 1901, by which time the library was renting a room across the road to act as a reading room until the new building was completed (Lyttelton Times, 26/3/1902: 3).

Once the old buildings were removed, Swanston quickly got underway with the construction of the new building and by March 1902 the Board of Governors were indicating the building was approaching completion (Lyttelton Times, 26/3/1902: 3). The building was officially opened on 1st May 1902 (Star, 2/5/1902: 1). A photograph taken in 1904, shows the new brick building standing on the corner of Hereford Street and Cambridge Terrace. Part of the 1876 Armson building is visible on the right-had-side of the photo, and part of the 1893 building on the left-hand-side. The new building was designed in the Neo-Gothic style and reiterated some of the materials and motifs of Armson’s earlier 1876 building. Unlike the old wooden building, the new building was visually striking and ornate. The contrast of the red brick and white Oamaru stone gave the building a bright and distinctive pattern, and the conical pinnacles and pyramidal turrets added an imposing height. The new Public Library was a building Cantabrians could be proud of, and it appears that the premises were well patronised with the Christchurch Library estimated to have had about 800 more subscribers than any other similar institution in the country (Lyttelton Times, 14/4/1902: 3).

Photograph looking northwest to the corner of Cambridge Terrace and Hereford Street in 1904, showing the newly constructed reading room building at the Public Library premises. Image:Kinnear, 1904.

When Collins and Harman had designed the new reading room building in 1901, they had included on their architectural plans the option to extend the new building into the southwest corner of the property along the Hereford Street frontage. By 1922 the Board of Governors were ready to construct a new building in this location, and called upon Collins and Harman to design it (Press, 27/6/1922: 11, 26/9/1922: 4, 20/10/1922: 10, 28/11/1922: 5). The plans they produced in January 1923 allowed for the construction of a new juvenile library department and an extension of the reference library wing.

Architectural plan showing the proposed new children’s library and reference library extension in the southwest corner of the library complex in 1923. Image: Collins and Harman, 1923.

Tenders were called for the construction of the new children wing of the library in February 1923, and the tender of Mr H. Hinkey was accepted by the following October (Press, 24/2/1923: 18, 18/10/1923: 4). Hinkey made good progress with the construction of the building, and by March 1924 it was reported that the roof was being added to the new building and the floors constructed (Press, 20/3/1924: 4). The building was far enough advanced by October for the children’s books and the reference collection to begin their migration into the new premises (Press, 1/10/1924: 5, 29/10/1924: 12). The building was complete by November 1924, at which time a description of the premises was provided in the Press:

 

The new juvenile library, which is divided from the old portion of the building by means of a leadlight screen, is 42ft by 32ft. Directly above it is a lecture hall of the same size. At the rear of these rooms a reference library extends 31ft on either floor […] Like the old, the new portion has been erected of brick, with Oamaru stone facings, a bluestone base, and slate roof (Press, 25/11/1924: 8).

 

The new children’s wing and reference Library was officially opened on 3rd December 1924 (Star, 4/12/1924: 7). In contrast to their usual neo-Gothic architectural design, Collins and Harman had instead designed what would become known as an “interwar commercial classical building” with the only hint of Gothic being the use of the vestigial flattened Tudor arch. However, the use of the same brick and limestone palate as the 1901 building ensured a continuity with the older sections of the premises.

Photograph looking north, showing the Hereford Street frontage of the 1924 children’s wing of the Public Library. Image:Cafe Cecil, 2005.

Aerial imagery from 1973 shows the building complex present on the premises at this time, with the four phases of construction dating from 1876 to 1924. These buildings continued to function as Christchurch’s Public Library until the early 1980s, by which time the requirements of the library had exhausted the available space within the old buildings (Press, 2/1/1981: 10). When the decision was made to construct new buildings in Gloucester Street, there were many in Christchurch who were outraged at the thought of the old buildings being demolished and they began campaigning to have the landmark buildings preserved (Press, 18/7/1980: 10, 25/7/1980: 12). When the City Council opened new library facilities in Gloucester Street in 1982, the library facilities were removed from the Cambridge Terrace premises.

Aerial imagery from 1973, showing the Public Library premises on the corner of Cambridge Terrace and Hereford Street. The construction dates of the extant phases of the building complex are indicated in red. Image: LINZ, 1973.

Following the removal of the library facilities from the premises, the construction firm Paynter and Hamilton Ltd purchased Town Sections 405 and 406 in 1982 and made alterations to the former library buildings to allow for the use of the buildings as separate offices. The actions of Paynter and Hamilton were praised by public who were keen to have the buildings preserved and the “site’s interesting links with the literary and architectural tastes – and politics – of colonial Christchurch maintained” (Press, 2/1/1981: 10, 5/3/1981: 30, 1/8/1981: 16). The architectural and historical value of the buildings was also recognised by Heritage New Zealand and the Christchurch District Council who both recorded the buildings as sites of significance. Although no longer used as public library premises, the buildings continued to be a landmark for those in the city, not only for their distinctive architectural design but also for the nostalgic reminiscences which the buildings evoked – with one visitor to the buildings noting they were “haunted by the ghosts of thousands of overdue library books” (Press, 8/12/1982: 38).

The buildings continued to be utilised as offices until they were irrevocably damaged during the 2010/2011 Canterbury earthquakes. After standing on the site for 135 years, the former Christchurch Public Library buildings were required to be removed and Christchurch lost one of its recognisable landmarks. Prior to their demolition the damaged buildings were recorded by Underground Overground Archaeology and hopefully the information gained about the old historic buildings during this process will be the topic of a future blog.

Photograph looking northwest towards the former Public Library buildings in March 2011, showing some of the damage sustained during the 2010/2011 Canterbury earthquakes. Image: Kenney, 2011.

The former Public Library buildings on the corner of Hereford Street and Cambridge Terrace were a recognisable landmark within Christchurch for 148 years. The distinctive red and white patterns and the ornate decoration of the blended design styles made the buildings stand out from their surroundings. But these distinctive buildings did not just appear overnight, they were constructed over time to meet the literary needs of the colonial township. They made an important contribution to the identity and sense of place and history for those Cantabrians who frequented the premises, while the blended architectural designs show the changes in tastes and available funding for public institutions during the 19th and early 20th centuries. Although the demolition of the buildings after the 2010-2011 earthquakes resulted in the loss of one of the city’s landmarks, the currently empty site offers an opportunity to develop new and distinctive buildings which may become future landmarks for the city, and we look forward to seeing what comes next.

Lydia Mearns

References

Wilson, P. R., 1982. The architecture of Samuel Charles Farr, 1827-1918. [Thesis] University of Canterbury: Master of Arts in Art History.

 

An investigation into the Archaeologist australis

It is a balmy 0 degrees Celsius on this fine, sunny morning in Christchurch. As I push open the glass door and step into the warm office space, several things become immediately obvious to me. One: the heat pump has clearly been set somewhere around 25 degrees Celsius. Two: there are hi-vis vests, winter coats, and stadia rods scattered everywhere. These two apparently unrelated things give me confidence that I am in the right place, the home of the Archaeologist australis, or, the Common Southern Archaeologist. I, an independent, unaffiliated, unbiased, and completely reliable journalist Bebecca Madam, have come here today with the purpose of finding out precisely what it is that the Archaeologist australis does. I don my disguise, slipping on my checked button up shirt and mud-streaked white hard hat; it works like a charm, 15 pairs of eyes glazing over and sliding back to their computers, their initial alarm abating. It is time for me (independent, unaffiliated, unbiased, and completely reliable journalist Bebecca Madam) to make my move.

My first victim interviewee; a man with pretty good posture sits at his desk, clad in a brown cardigan and clean pants. On his desk are two mandarins (rather the worse for wear) and a loaf of bread from the local bakery. His name is Nigel, and he is an Australian import. Nigel specialises in “clambering down holes into drains” and doing some serious work with GIS programmes. Analysing spatial information is kind of his jam, and Nigel is an expert at georeferencing old maps and seeing how they can help us analyse data collected during fieldwork. I checked in with Nigel to ask what else got his biscuits spinning. Having worked in both Australia and New Zealand, what has been the most exciting moment to date? “Finding out that a site we had excavated had evidence of continuous repeated occupations from approximately 33 thousand years ago until just a couple hundred years ago. Large parts of Australia were actually abandoned during the ice age because they were too dry and became uninhabitable, so this site was really exciting, and we worked closely with Aboriginal guys on the ground. It was such a meaningful project for all of us, and it was very rewarding.” He hurries to assure me that he doesn’t think his current work is boring. In Christchurch, Nigel finds his excitement exploring brick barrel drains around Lyttelton and recording historic jetties from boats (it’s only happened once, but it was definitely exciting).

“Clambering down holes into drains.”

Moving from Australia back to New Zealand my eye is immediately drawn 1 m to my right, where an industrious blonde lady clad in a cozy pink sweater sits at an immaculately tidy desk, a single empty ‘coke zero sugar’ sitting in the corner. This is Jamie from Taupō, and she’s pretty serious business. As I sidle up, she ends her work-related phone call; her face says, “we’re friends, right?” but her words say, “for the last time [name redacted], Bic pens are not archaeological, don’t test my patience or you’ll get it.” Jamie is focussing her time right now on writing some of her longer-running reports, although she does get let out every now and then to record historic buildings. “Sometimes I bring company” she says. “Rebecca is learning the craft as well. But I already warned her, not to take my job” she laughs. “This year I’ve been allowed to start reviewing other people’s work. I try not to leave mean comments. I want to encourage people to do better and learn how to use semi-colons correctly!” Jamie scrolls through her document, showing me every instance of an incorrectly used semi-colon. She has highlighted and commented on every single one ‘please fix throughout.’ “I’d honestly rather be out in the field recording a house right now,” she shares with me in confidence. “Or excavating an umu, which is a Māori oven, basically an old hāngi pit. They are just so… satisfying.” She gestures with her hands; “they are so round. I love them.” I get it Jamie. Circles are such pleasing shapes.

“I’d rather be recording a house right now.”

My mind might be on circles, but my eye is drawn to the carefully arranged rectangular bottles of fountain pen ink on the desk opposite us. The owner is the artful Annthalina; researcher, graphic designer, and built heritage support person- what Annthalina loves the most is telling the stories of everyday New Zealanders. “Christchurch was supposed to be this perfect Anglican settlement, but more often than not strange things did happen,” she laughs. “I try to include the fun stories in our histories as often as possible.” Sometimes Annthalina is let loose into the world, whether to visit the archives, or to help archaeologists with built heritage projects. “I used to go out a lot but not so much now. I’ve been out this week with Kirsa to investigate some old buildings, and I’m really excited to support her. It’s so interesting working as a historian within the archaeological context, because we often get the tangible connection of the research we do, which you might not get in other research jobs.” As a respected, independent, unaffiliated, unbiased, and completely reliable journalist, this is something that really vibes with me. I collect my vibes and leave her to her to it.

“Strange things did happen.”

As I clamber back across the mountain of desks, displacing computers, and monitor screens, I find yet another blonde woman, desk littered with notebooks, loose paper, dust, and takeaway coffee cups. This is Rebecca; self-proclaimed cat-herder, Rebecca spends a lot of time these days doing project management. “There’s just a lot of emails… a lot of my projects are similar so it can get pretty confusing trying to keep track of everything.” For Rebecca, it’s about organisation. “I just need to know what’s going on, I’m standing on a mountain of comms and I have to balance carefully so I don’t fall off of it.” Rebecca’s time is divided between long-running reports, project management, and the occasional piece of fieldwork. “These days when I get out, I’m usually helping someone else on site, or going to Kaikōura. I do a lot of work there, it’s a beautiful place.” Sometimes she gets out to help Jamie with buildings recording, or excavating nice, round, umu. “It’s really nice recording or digging with other archaeologists, you can bounce ideas of each other and offer advice, and everything gets done faster. It’s my favourite way to do things.” Suddenly, a phone buzzes on her desk, and Rebecca lets out a deep sigh, putting on her best phone voice. “Hello, you’ve reached Underground Overground Archaeology, this is Rebecca speaking…”

“There’s just a lot of emails…”

The heat pump sweating has reached peak levels. A kind soul, who has noticed me drowning, directs me through to the coolest part of the building (no pun intended): the lab, a space for processing and analysing artefacts, filled with boxes, dust, and a singular archaeologist. Sporting green hair and a keen eye for fabrics, this can be none other than [checks notes] Neda, and she’s currently busy analysing textiles from a central city site. “I love textiles,” she shows me her hoard, which is extensive, and well labelled. “I get distracted all the time trying to hunt down references for things, like for when woven elastic panels were invented (1830s/40s). Those are found in the sides of your boots, and for glove and cuff closures.” Neda’s typical day incorporates a lot of desk-based paperwork and sending a lot of emails, but her true skill is becoming a 5-minute specialist in things she knows nothing about. “In the last 15 minutes I’ve been obsessed with the idea of taking up weaving so I can identify this niche weaving pattern in one of these textiles…” And does she enjoy working out here in the lab? “Yes, it’s very quiet, and no one can see me.” Message received Neda, I’m on my way out of here.

“I love textiles.”

Coming back into the excessively delightfully warm office space, I spot someone trying desperately to make it to the break table to avoid speaking to me. Like a cat sensing easy prey, I pounce. The interviewee sits tensely opposite me: Tristan, local team leader, field archaeologist, and lithic artefact enthusiast. As with most of the archaeologists around, Tristan splits his time between desk-based paperwork and the occasional spot of fieldwork, often working on large scale projects where there is a good chance of finding Māori archaeology. “I really like the works we’ve been doing out in Belfast; we’ve had a lot of umu/ovens. I like digging ovens. They’re nice and round.” So I’ve heard. For Tristan, it all comes down to the digging and the thinking that accompanies that. Like most archaeologists, he is a social creature who thrives while working in larger groups and loves projects that get the public involved. “Being an archaeologist is about producing knowledge about the past and sharing it with others… archaeology is such a physical and tactile process that you don’t truly experience it without being there and getting your hands dirty. There’s something special about holding something in your hands that has been in the ground for decades, or hundreds or thousands of years.” I can see the absence of tea is wearing him down, so I release him back into the wild.

“There’s something special about holding something in your hands that has been in the ground for decades, or hundreds or thousands of years.”

As one archaeologist disappears into the kitchen, another emerges, already thriving and fully caffeinated. Alana, a West Coast import, takes me back to her tidy desk space, pointing out her 3D printed Capybara, and the photo of her Greatx7 Grandfather. “He was a surveyor. His name was Octavius Laws Woodthorpe Bousfield, which feels like old money vibes, but I think he spent time in jail.” Although she works on all manner of projects, Alana is “happiest in the middle of nowhere, where the rural and industrial sites live.” She turns to gaze out the window. “I will find you, industrial site, and I will record you. And one day, you will be in my book.” Alana is particularly enamoured with industrial sites, such as mills and mines. “There’s a level of admiration I have for the working-class people of the 19th century… The tenacity of early settlers. You just had to muck in and get it done. I like that.” It’s her dream to survey the West Coast, “just walk up and down the entire coastline, and record a bunch of new sites, fill in all the gaps… Jill Hamel has the archaeology of Otago, and I want the archaeology of the West Coast.” Feeling inspired, I shake her hand and move on.

“I want the archaeology of the West Coast.”

Tucked away in a corner is a desk decorated with an excellent pot plant and a high-capacity external hard drive; with her back to the glass-walled meeting room, privacy is a thing of the past, but this doesn’t faze dedicated historian Lydia- her whole business is the past. Even 10 years on, many projects coming across Lydia’s desk are quake response developments, but she also sees a lot of infrastructure and sub-surface site investigations across New Zealand. For Lydia, it’s about finding connections. “I like when the same names come up and you can still see those names around Christchurch today. It might have been 100 years ago, but it’s still a part of our city now, their descendants still live here, and they are still putting their names on things.” Lydia is a big endorser of Google Earth (not sponsored) and finds it a handy place to store large amounts of information. “I’m really interested in family connections and spatial reflections of that… who was getting free rent because they married into a family, who lived in the same neighbourhood as their sisters… I’m really interested in those sorts of geospatial connections.” Time to geospace my way out of here and make some more connections of my own.

“Who was getting free rent?”

Immediately my eye is caught by a figure pushing a chair laden with cardboard boxes, from the office back to the lab space. I follow my journalist senses (kind of like the Spider-Man tingle) and track her back to the lab. Wendy is the Lab Queen, and this is her land. She keeps the lab in premium shape; keeping it clean and tidy, uncluttered, unburdened by waylaid artefacts, and unsullied by loose dirty tools. Wendy spends most of her time “washing really old dirty broken dishes for someone who didn’t do it a hundred years ago!” This is next-level problematic flatmate content, which I sympathise with deeply. What kinds of things does Wendy see most often? Everything and anything, (particularly bones and ceramic) but only very briefly. She ends up doing a bit of everything these days – photographing artefacts, updating artefact catalogue spreadsheets, but when she gets the chance, Wendy likes to change it up and do some more technical work, such as handling metal artefacts (fancy spoons, watch components, jewellery) that are kept in silica gel that has to be checked every 6 months, to ensure the artefacts are protected from corrosion. But her favourite thing to do is reassemble broken ceramics. “It’s very satisfying to put the pieces together and see what the item used to be, and watch it come back together.”

“Washing really old dirty broken dishes for someone who didn’t do it a hundred years ago!”

Back in the office, a head of purple hair catches my eye. This is Carly, who hails from Washington State, and she’s in the middle of a pretty intense email chain. “I do a lot of client communications,” she explains, “and I like to have everything in writing, so there is no confusion later on.” As a team leader, she is the queen of internal meetings and answering all manner of questions, “ranging from how to do something on our project management software, to how to describe the cut of a feature. I’ll answer anything. I’m ready.” Carly is big on writing archaeological assessments; for her, it’s all about the mystery: reading the histories the historians have written, looking at the previous archaeological works, and trying to figure out the archaeological values. “I feel like a detective. A desk detective. What will still be there? What condition will it be in? What is its value? It’s one of the things I enjoy doing the most.” When she’s let out into the field, she prefers working on sites where she might encounter Māori archaeology. “There’s more of a mystery – you can find something and have absolutely no idea what it is, or what it was used for, but someone brought it here for a reason!” Suddenly an incoming email catches her eye. “Oh, sorry, I’d better answer this. The paper trail waits for no person.”

“I feel like a detective.”

Immediately over the way sits dark haired Amy, wearing a cozy green sweater against the freezing cold outside, with a bakery treat in one hand and a coffee in the other. Amy spends a lot of her time jumping in and helping other people when they need an extra pair of hands. Usually this means she’s out on site, braving the elements, but sometimes she gets to help Clara out with artefact stuff, which can be pretty cool. Amy loves a good piece of archaeological theory. “I am obsessed and in love with it – I love a good theoretical reading and discussion.” For Amy, it’s about how to use the work from our predecessors effectively today. “I love legacy data, but in relation to field notes, rather than artefacts! Working out how to use that legacy data is super interesting to me. I’d like to look at ways to use legacy information in a meaningful way despite its limitations. It doesn’t matter what we do, there will always be missing information… your data will always be lacking for people in the future. That’s why I’m super excited about fieldnotes, and the opportunity to discuss and encourage conversation around how we can facilitate making the best archive we can. The record we create will eventually be the only record that exists.”

“I am obsessed and in love with it.”

The sound of pieces of glass tumbling together onto a tray catches my attention. This is Clara, the historic artefact specialist. Hot water bottle in her lap, slippers on her feet, and a loose trowel on the table next to her, this is Clara’s Artefact Corner. The big focus for Clara is storytelling, looking at the historic artefacts and letting them tell a story of the site. “I’m about to start analysing 30 boxes of metal,” she notes drily. “Some stories aren’t the most fun.” A big part of Clara’s job is public outreach, which she is particularly passionate about. “It gives a lot of meaning to our work, it gets people excited and interested, and it’s very rewarding.” Clara opens an article she has ready on her computer. “I’m really excited about pluralism right now, which is the idea that people can have multiple identities depending on the social setting they are in, and that material culture should reflect this change in setting, and context. I’m trying to work this theory into my work as much as possible at the moment.” Standing suddenly, she moves to ring the bell that sits in the middle of the office. “It’s Quiet Time, everyone!” Message received, Clara. Time to move on.

“I’m really excited about pluralism right now.”

Using my roller chair to propel myself across the office (earning a severe glare from Clara – sorry, I forgot it was Quiet Time) I roll directly into the path of my last two interviewees. First, a well-bearded man, wearing an excellent blue woollen sailor’s sweater, remarkably resembling Captain Haddock from Tintin. This is Hamish, and he’s in the middle of digitising a strat drawing. Hamish spends most of his time these days keeping on top of his paperwork, and when he gets out of the office, he’s happy to go anywhere. Hamish isn’t just about meticulous record keeping, he’s also about preserving archaeology in situ. “Most of the time we end up having to remove archaeology, so it’s really special when I can record it and leave it in the ground for future archaeologists.” What Hamish really specialises in is recording stratigraphic profiles. “It’s all about the layers. Layers help inform us about the site formation processes.” The longest strat he’s ever drawn was nearly a kilometre long, along the Esplanade in Kaikōura. His favourite strat drawing was around 20 m long across Gloucester Street. “It had some really nice layers, and it went through a fire tank as well, and that’s the only record of that tank now.” Time to let Hamish get back to his elaborate and complicated strat drawing on illustrator.

“It’s all about the layers.”

As I journey down through the Box Corridor and come out into the scanner-breakroom-kitchen-entrance area, I run into Julia, scanning her way through an entire project worth of notes and drawings.  Julia is the stage crew of the Underground Overground Archaeology team, the oil that keeps the engine running and the wheels turning. “I’ll do anything asked or required” she tells me, between scans. “I aim to have everything where and how it should be; no task is too small or large.” Julia is something of a jack of all trades, ready to drive any vehicle, take on any task, though she confesses she does not have a licence to fly a plane (yet!). In a practical sense, Julia keeps supplies topped up, forms scanned into storage before they are lost forever, and reports printed and delivered where they need to be, but Julia’s big love is supporting and nurturing personal growth. With three grown children, and classes on developing life skills and support, she has a lot of experience looking after groups of people or individuals. “I’m all about helping people. We’re all human, and we all have the same fundamental need, which is to know we are loved and are enough.” Feeling bolstered with new energy, I thank Julia for her time, and leave her to battle the scanner.

“We’re all human, and we all have the same fundamental need, which is to know we are loved and are enough.”

I glance quickly out the window; the sun is nearly setting, and if I stay out too long, I will turn into a pumpkin, which is something that happens to all journalists. Quickly then, one last archaeologist. I turn to the woman next to me, a head of curls and a desk full of pot plants. This is Kirsa, and she is the UOA branch manager. “It’s my job to take care of my team. I love talking to everyone about what they are working on and helping them solve problems.” For Kirsa, it’s all about tackling challenges, and problem solving. “I like that I never know what I’m going to deal with on any given day. I might start the day reviewing an assessment, but by mid-afternoon I’m neck deep in a company policy. It keeps me on my toes.” When she gets a chance, she’s big into buildings, and wood. “I love to figure out building phases, how or why a building was built the way it was, how it developed over time.” Kirsa recently completed her Masters dissertation on wood. “I researched the 19th century Canterbury timber economy and tried to understand the provenance of Canterbury’s timber. Secretly I wanted to learn how to ID timber, that was my ulterior motive.” That seems like a perfectly reasonable ulterior motive, Kirsa.

“I love talking to everyone about what they are working on and helping them solve problems.”

Suddenly, the sun begins to dip below the horizon, and the clock strikes 5 pm. It’s time for me to go. Standing at the front door, I gently place my white hard hat on the break table next to the door, and survey the crowded room of industrious individuals, each bringing their own special interests, skills, and experience, to this important job. I haven’t managed to reach every person during my short time here, but I’ve met enough to know Annthalina was right. “We’re a strange bunch. We make it awkward, but we’re worth getting to know.” I smile benevolently, and slip out the door, unnoticed. My work here is done. Bebecca, out.

Bebecca Madam

George Gould’s Cookham House

I always think that historical archaeology is a discipline that readily invokes feelings of nostalgia and sentimentality. The familiarity of the material culture makes it particularly easy to romanticise artefacts, to imagine oneself in the past. Shoes, in particular, are an artefact that lend themselves to these types of thoughts and feelings. It may be because of the adage ‘to put yourself in someone else’s shoes’, but when holding a pair of shoes from the 1860s it is easy to wonder about who might have worn them. Were these shoes worn by a settler when they climbed the Bridle Path and stood at the top of the Port Hills looking out over their new home for the first time? Were they chosen for their sturdiness, given the boggy and haphazard roads of early Christchurch? Did the wearer sigh in winter as they pulled them on and went out into the cold and wet? Did they polish them every night to keep them looking their best? The personal nature of shoes- the individual taste in style, the practicality of design, the wear that they suffered over their lifetime- provide a tangible link to a time and place that we can only imagine what living in was actually like.

Shoes are a common find on our archaeological sites in Christchurch. They show up in most of our domestic assemblages indicating that once they had been outgrown, or worn past the point of repair, the wearer would throw them away. It is these shoes in particular that evoke the feelings described above. We often know who was living at the site, meaning that we can put a name to the wearer of the shoes, and flesh out some of the details of their life. We can metaphorically ‘walk a mile in their shoes’ when we analyse them.

A pair of shoes from a 19th century Armagh Street archaeological site, what do these shoes tell us about the person that wore them? Image: C. Watson.

The shoe assemblage that I’m writing about today is slightly different. These shoes were never sold, never had the opportunity to be worn by an early Christchurch settler. They never made it out of the shop, and instead were thrown out as discarded stock. But that does not mean that they don’t have their own story to tell. It just means that it’s a slightly different story, one about commerce and business. And at the centre of that story is George Gould, one of 19th century Christchurch’s wealthiest men.

George Gould, the owner of our shoe assemblage, but not the wearer. Image: Press, 25/10/1930: 19. 

George Gould was born in April 1823, at Hambleden Lock, Oxfordshire. He came to New Zealand in 1850, arriving first in the North Island but shortly after coming to Canterbury. His house and store that he built in Armagh Street was the first wooden building finished in Christchurch. From May of 1851, he advertised that he had opened a general store. This general store was to be the foundation of Gould’s wealth, yet it was not easy running a store in 1850s Christchurch. All goods arriving into Lyttelton had to be transported to Christchurch, and with the tunnel not yet built and a carriage costing 30s to 40s, Gould reportedly carried many of his loads of stock on his back over the hill. Gould went into partnership with Grosvenor Miles in 1855, moving to a new store in Colombo Street, where the shop sold a range of goods including shoes and clothing. In 1859, he split from his partnership with Miles. Miles was to continue the general store on the western side of Colombo Street, while Gould would move to a new store on the eastern side of Colombo Street and take the shoe and clothing portion of the business with him. Gould named his shop Cookham House, and it was so successful that by the end of 1862 he had already outgrown the building and moved to new store further along Colombo Street. Gould’s business was threatened when a fire broke out in 1866, damaging his shop and his stock. Gould reportedly responded to the fire by writing out an order for new stock as he watched his building burn to ensure that it would make the mail ship to England the next morning.

In addition to Gould’s shoe shop, he had a chemists shop and he was a large rural landowner. He was the first to export wheat from New Zealand to London and at one time was the largest exporter of wool from Canterbury (Cyclopedia Company, 1903). It was Gould’s agricultural interests that supplied most of his wealth, but his various business interests complimented each other. He had a prominent roles in the Christchurch Gas Company and the New Zealand Shipping Company, as well as other banking, insurance, and building societies. All of these business interests made Gould a wealthy man. He built his large mansion on the corner of Bealey Ave and Springfield Road in 1866, naming it Hambledon House after his birth place (sadly this building did not survive the earthquakes). He was a generous benefactor to the Canterbury Museum, Christs College, the Wesleyan Church, the YMCA, the Canterbury A & P Association, and numerous other Christchurch societies and working mens groups. Gould, in many ways, epitomised the ideal Victorian colonist. He started with very little capital, but with hard work and good judgement was successful, and then shared the fruits of that success with those who were less fortunate. The eulogies written in the newspapers following his death in 1889 focus on this generosity and it is hard to find a bad word written against him.

Gould’s 1851 house and shop, the first wooden building in Christchurch. Image: Christchurch City Libraries. 

10 May 1851 advertisement by George Gould advertising the opening of his general store. Image: Lyttelton Times, 10/05/1851: 1. 

So, what do Gould’s shoes say about him? We came across Gould during our excavations at the new Court Theatre site. Gould’s 1859-1862 shoe shop, Cookham House, was located on the corner of Gloucester Street and Colombo Street. North of where the store would have stood, we found a pit that contained a large assemblage of shoes. A total of 2089 fragments of shoe leather were found in this pit, with these representing at least 60 individual shoes (probably more). The shoes were in a condensed layer in the pit, indicating that they had most likely been thrown out in a single dumping event. The 1862 map of Christchurch shows that Gould’s original store had been extended after Gould moved to his new shop and the next occupant took over the building, with this extension capping the pit. From this, we know that the shoes have to have been deposited by September 1862 at the latest. This means that the shoe assemblage is able to give us a good insight into the types and styles of shoes that Gould was selling in the early 1860s.

The location of our pit feature, indicated by the red arrow. Image: Fooks, 1862. 

The original Cookham House located on the corner of Colombo Street and Gloucester Street. This photograph is from 1881 when then store was A. Gee’s Confectionery shop. Image: Wheeler and Son Studio, 1881.

The pit mid-excavation. The shoes were in a concentrated and dense layer near the base of the pit. Image: A. Kelly.

During our excavation of the pit we observed that several of the shoes had been thrown away intact, with the fill of this layer of the pit mainly consisting of shoes stacked ontop of each other. Image: A. Kelly.

A complete boot from the pit. Image: A. Kelly.

The shoes post-excavation and ready to be sorted and analysed. Image: C. Watson.

Looking at the styles of the shoes that were deposited in the pit, while there was some variation, most of the shoes seemed to be repeats of the same styles. Men’s derby work boots with a square toe were common. Most of these had reinforcing on the ball of sole in the form of hobnails, as well as heel plates on the heel. Women’s or youth’s boots, in contrast, seemed to by mostly oxford style boots with a more round toe. Some of these had heel plates as reinforcing, but no hobnails on the sole. The derby and oxford boots dominated the assemblage, but six bluchers, four slippers, and four Wellington boots were also identified. It is interesting to note the gender divisions in the assemblage, indicating that men and women were choosing to wear different styles of shoes. The reinforcing seen in the men’s shoes suggests that there was a practical reason behind the choice in different styles, with men requiring harder wearing boots a reflection of the gendered division of labour in the 19th century. But the more square toes of the men’s derby boots, and the oxford style of the women’s boots, indicates that there was also a stylistic element of men’s and women’s shoes looking different from one and other.

Some of the different styles of shoes found in the pit. Top: upper and sole from a men’s derby working boot. The sole has been reinforced with hobnails. Middle: a slipper and a wellington boot. These styles of shoes are not commonly seen in Christchurch archaeological assemblages. Bottom: blucher boot and women/youth’s oxford boot. Image: C. Watson.

Most of the boots were hand sewn using a welt. This is quite a different manufacture method to what is normally seen in the Christchurch archaeological assemblage. The majority of boots and shoes found in Christchurch were made using methods of vertical attachment. This was when the upper was attached to the sole using a nail or a wooden peg. The use of a different manufacture method to what is typically seen in Christchurch 19th century shoes, is thought to reflect that these shoes were imported.

Seven of the shoes from the feature had the initials “J B” incised on the insole. J. Burrows and Son was a shoe manufacturer based in Cookham, England, and in operation from at least 1852 (Slater, 1852: 20). The company was still in operation in 1883, but appears to have ceased operations by 1895 (Historical Cookham, 2023). Descriptions of the company indicate that they were manufacturing boots and shoes for the wholesale market and that they were a major employer in Cookham, with many in the village employed in their factory. Advertisements in the newspapers indicate that Gould was importing boots from Burrow and Sons and it is likely that Gould’s Cookham House was so named for Cookham in England, with Cookham boots being well known (Lyttelton Times, 6/10/1860: 2).

The various JB marks that were seen on the shoes from the feature. Maker’s marks aren’t common on shoes found in Christchurch archaeological features, so to get so many in one assemblage was really unusual. Image: C. Watson.

Gould’s advertisements indicate that he was importing shoes in large quantities. In July of 1859 he advertised that he currently had 3,500 pairs of shoes in stock and had another 3,500 arriving (Lyttelton Times, 27/07/1859:6). In October 1860 he advertised that he had 6,000 pairs of shoes recently arrived and available for purchase (Lyttelton Times, 3/10/1860: 5). In July of 1861 he advertised that he had 6,500 pairs of shoes recently arrived and another 7,500 pairs arriving (Lyttelton Times, 6/7/1861: 5). Given that the population of Christchurch was only about 3,000 people in 1862 (Christchurch City Council, 2023), it is unlikely that Gould was importing stock only to sell at his shop. Instead, given the quantities that Gould was importing, it seems most likely that Gould was probably selling to other shoe shops and general stores in Christchurch and wider Canterbury and New Zealand, acting as a middleman, so to speak, between the shoemakers in Cookham, England, and the shoe shops in New Zealand. While Gould likely had shoes available for purchase at the Cookham House store, it does not seem possible that the shop could have a stock turnover of at least 7,000 shoes a year selling just to off the street customers with Christchurch’s population at this time.

One of Gould’s advertisements stating his current stock levels. Image: Lyttelton Times, 6/7/1861: 5.

Searches of newspaper advertisements reveal that there were at least eight other shoe shops operating in Christchurch and Lyttelton during the 1859-1862 period. Six of these appear to be small business cobblers, working either alone or with a small staff, making shoes and boots from scratch and offering repairs (S. Webb, W. Holmes, John Bennington, T. Yates, W. Walker, Joseph Suckling). These small business cobblers do not appear to have advertised extensively, and it is likely that there were more operating than is listed here.  The two other businesses appear to have been larger and similar to Gould’s Cookham House. Henry Moss’s Monster Clothing Hall sold a large range of clothing and imported boots and shoes, while S. Goodman’s Boot and Shoe Warehouse also advertised that they sold imported shoes and boots. Goodman and Moss seem to have been Gould’s main competition at this time, although Moss’s business seems to have been more focused on the clothing side, with shoes and boots complimenting the clothing sales. Henry Moss opened on London Street, Lyttelton in 1858, with a Christchurch branch opening on High Street in 1862, while S. Goodman opened his Colombo Street business in 1860. This makes Gould’s business the earliest, with Gould advertising imported boots at his first store back in 1851, suggesting that the others may have observed Gould’s success and opened up in competition with him.

The main advantage of importing shoes, rather than manufacturing, appears to have been the price point at which they could sell shoes to the customer. This difference in business model, between manufacturing on site and importing pre-made shoes, is seen in the Christchurch shoe shop businesses beyond 1862. The difference is highlighted in two advertisements from an 1884 edition of the Star. John Goodman’s shoe shop, Cheap Boot and Shoe Depot, was a successor of S. Goodman’s Boot and Shoe Warehouse operating under the same business model of importing shoes from England. Goodman’s advertisement, pictured below, highlights cost as being the main reason why customers should buy from him- he advertised the prices of his shoes and claimed he had the cheapest shoes in Christchurch (and he literally called his business ‘Cheap Boot and Shoe Depot’).

Goodman’s advertisement, hilighting price being the main selling point for buying from him. Image: Star, 11/3/1884: 1. 

Alfred Crook’s advertisement, located just above Goodman’s in the newspaper, is a direct contrast:

I- Alfred Crook- do hereby confess that I do not possess the required knowledge to enable myself to promise to perform the extraordinary act of selling my Goods at Less than Cost Price, or even at Cost Price. I do NOT boast of making those Wonderful Sweeping Reductions in the Price of my Goods, to mislead and to mizzle my fellow working men; but I have sufficient impudence in myself to assert that I make my Goods of such high class quality that they by far EXCEL THOSE THAT ARE SOLD ELSEWHERE. Remember! I Manufacture ALL my Own Goods, and do Not make Trash; therefore, I challenge all others at the game, and to relieve myself of the trouble to resort to the customary Blowing System, I respectfully invite you to visit Cheapside Shop.

Alfred Crook’s very pointed advertisement, making it clear that he thought cheap imported boots were ‘trash’. Image: Star, 11/3/1884: 1. 

The very pointed wording of Alfred Crook’s advertisement shows the difficulties that local cobblers faced when trying to compete with businesses importing shoes from overseas. Ultimately, given the number of cobblers making shoes from scratch today, it is obvious which business model succeeded.

When considering the Gould’s shoe assemblage, an important question is why were the shoes thrown out in the first place? While shoes and boots should have travelled reasonably well, not being as fragile as ceramic and glass, there was still the potential for them to be damaged during the journey. In 1862 Mr S. C. Philips advertised that he was selling at auction 136 pairs of boots that had been damaged by sea water (New Zealander, 13/09/1862: 1). It was possible that the shoes disposed of represent stock that was damaged by salt water during the journey from England and weren’t in a saleable condition. There is also the possibility that the discarded shoes may represent surplus stock that remained unsold and was thrown out when new stock arrived. Gould’s main reason for moving to a new premise in 1862 was that his business had outgrown the store on the corner of Colombo and Gloucester, and that he needed more space. In a similar vein, there is the possibility that the shoes represent an order that was never claimed. If Gould was acting as the agent between Cookham in England and Christchurch retailers, then it is likely that the local businesses would have placed orders with Gould. If one of the businesses that placed the order went bankrupt, or could not pay for the order for some reason, then Gould may have chosen to throw it out rather than try to sell it, possibly for the storage space reasons already mentioned.

So, we return to the question of what do Gould’s shoes say about him? I think the main thing that they say is that while he may have owned a shoe shop, Gould was a businessman, not a cobbler. The relative completeness of the assemblage, the lack of any shoe-making off cuts, the presence of the “J B” Burrow and Sons mark, the presence of multiples of the same style of shoe, all speak to that the assemblage represents imported and unsold Cookham House stock. And that Gould could throw out so many shoes, speaks to the success of his business, that he could take the loss of whatever reason was behind the discard and not need to try and recover the cost.

We find hints of stories like Gould’s all the time in the archaeology of 19th century Christchurch. Most of the artefacts that we excavate are examples of the commercial relationships that existed between Christchurch and the rest of the world. But with Gould’s shoe assemblage, we can put ourselves in his shoes, so to speak, and imagine what it would be like running a business in Christchurch in 1851 when a year could pass between placing an order and the stock arriving. Would you pay for a carriage or carry deliveries on your back from Lyttelton? What would you do if your stock arrived mouldy and damaged, or burnt in a fire? And, if you were incredibly successful and grew to be very rich, would you be as generous with your money as George Gould was?

Clara Watson

References

Lyttelton Times, 1851-1914. [online] Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/ (accessed April 2021).

Press, 1861-1945. [online] Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/ (accessed April 2021).

Slater. 1852. Slater’s Directory of Berkshire, 1852. Slater, Berkshire.

Star, 1868-1920. [online] Available at: <https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/> Accessed April 2021.