Street addresses: creating a 'legible' city

Have you ever stopped to think about your address? I mean, really think about it? And not just the street name – which you might idly have paused to wonder about the origin of – but the number? Or why you even have one? For those of us with one, they’re the sort of thing you take for granted, and it’s easy to forget that having a street address gives you access to other critical things, a bank account being the prime example in Aotearoa (as a thought experiment, try to imagine what life would be like without a bank account). Joining the library also requires a street address, although it is possible to sign up to the electoral roll without one. Further, you often need to supply an address when applying for identity documents, largely because that document needs to be sent somewhere. It would seem that some legislation requires you to be able to provide the police with a street address. Mostly, though, a street address is about access, in more ways than one.

This delightful image of a square villa - with toddler standing perilously close to the road - was probably taken in Christchurch (surely those are the Port Hills in the background!) in the early 20th century. If you look closely, you can see a street number on the gatepost to the right (it’s clearer in the original, which you can get to via the image reference). Image: Alexander Turnbull Library.

A street address is, somewhat obviously, a link between person and place, and it is this link that makes them fundamental to urban archaeology in many places - and hence why you find an archaeologist writing a blog post about them. As most of you will be well aware, archaeology is not just about what we find in the ground, it’s about who put it there. In an urban context, a street address is a key way of making that connection between archaeology and people. Thus, understanding the history of street addresses in a particular place is pretty helpful when it comes to researching its archaeology. Which makes it pretty surprising that, in more than 20 years of practicing archaeology in Ōtautahi Christchurch, it was only in writing this blog that I learnt the full history of the city’s street addresses. In my defence, I had a vague understanding, which has not been disproved by this research. But still…

There is some evidence to suggest that the first use of house numbers in Europe was in 15th century Paris, but it was the 18th century and the Enlightenment that saw the proliferation of comprehensive street numbering systems across the continent (Cicchini 2012: 614-615, Rose-Redwood, et at. 2022: 94, 97, Tantner 2009: 10).* Drawing on the work of Michel Foucault, Rose-Redwood, Tantner and Kim note that this timing coincided with a widespread obsession on the part of authorities of the era with accounting for people – or, more correctly, with accounting for people and space to enable the ‘better’ governing of both (Rose-Redwood, et at. 2022: 96). In his own work, Anton Tantner describes street numbering as being part of a broader Enlightenment concern with classification and order, outlining how street numbers served to permeate the walls of houses, which had heretofore kept out the authorities (2009: 9-10). Indeed, the early European house numbering systems generally grew out of military concerns (such as conscription and locating billets), policing, conducting a census or taxing the population (Cicchini 2012, Rose-Redwood, et at. 2022: 97-98, Tantner 2009: 12-15). Perhaps unsurprisingly, there was also at least one instance of street numbers being introduced to enable authorities to track the location of a Jewish population (in Prague, 1727; Rose-Redwood, et at. 2022: 97). Nothing, then, to do with helping people find their way around a city, or locate a particular person or business – not only does this reflect the smaller size of urban centres at the time, but also the smaller geographical extent of many people’s worlds, and the widespread use of house  and shop names (Thale 2007: 135). 

The 19th century saw a change in the driver for house numbering, particularly in the United States, where, perhaps fittingly, capitalism reared its head and private enterprise got involved. In particular, the publishers of street directories began to see real value in individual street addresses, as their directories relied on accurately locating people and businesses (Rose-Redwood 2008: 290, 293). In case you’re not familiar with them, street directories were the forerunner of phone directories (also now a somewhat quaint relic…) and listed all the occupants of a city according to where they lived (in theory at least – the reality is that the information in street directories must be treated with caution). City authorities did continue to play a role in house numbering, but it was often pressure from directory publishers that led to street addresses being established – this pressure typically revolved around the idea that having street numbers would make deliveries of goods more efficient, and thus be good for business and the overall profitability of the city in question (Rose-Redwood 2008: 295). Rose-Redwood (2008: 293) notes that some directory publishers had worked as census-takers before pivoting, as it were, and using that same data as the basis for their new venture – no data protection laws in those days… Given that, it won’t surprise you to learn that some government employees also sold data to directory publishers (Rose-Redwood 2008: 299). What’s not clear from Rose-Redwood’s (2008) analysis of the role of directory publishers in house numbering is why these city authorities needed prompting to establish street addresses. It may reflect the fact that other systems had developed in order to efficiently tax and police local populations without street addresses, but it’s also possible that what happened in Christchurch sheds some light on this.

A page from the 1880-81 Wise’s New Zealand Post Office Directory, showing how names and locations were listed prior to street addresses being issued. Image: H. Wise & Co.. 1880-81: 68.

It was in 1877 that the possibility of numbering the houses was first raised with the Christchurch City Council, by one G. A. Buck (Globe 20/11/1877: 2). At this juncture, it’s important to note that New Zealand’s 1867 Municipal Corporations Act made street numbering the preserve of councils (and meant they could compel people to display a number for their house) – and councils still hold this responsibility today (CCC, n.d.). Astute reader, you won’t be in the least surprised to learn that Mr G. A. Buck was a directory publisher. And while successful in that sphere, there are no house numbers listed in the resulting directory, indicating that his plan for bringing more precise location data to Christchurch homes and businesses – although approved by the council – was ultimately unsuccessful (Globe 20/11/1877: 2). In this, the councillors who had argued that people were unlikely to support the scheme were thus proven correct (Globe 20/11/1877: 2). Of interest about this scheme is that it was to use Colombo and Worcester streets as the baselines – essentially, the two central streets of the city, and thus a nice symbolic selection, connecting all addresses to these points (Globe 20/11/1877: 2). And thus, Christchurch’s hapless residents were left to find their way around the city without the aid of a simple street number (or, it seems very likely, street signs – but that’s a whole other story).

Address-less homes and businesses, Christchurch, 1881. Imagine being the person seeking a job with Mrs Hargreaves, desperately trying to find her house and make a good impression (Mrs Hargreaves advertised for servants a lot, and I imagine she was hard to impress at the best of times…). Image: Press 6/10/1881: 1.

It would be another five years before Christchurch city (the area within the Bealey, Fitzgerald, Moorhouse and Hagley avenues and Park Terrace) would get street numbers. Once again, they came about as the result of a proposal from a private individual – Thomas Tait – to carry out the work (frustratingly, I couldn’t find out much about Thomas, although he was somewhat of a serial proposer of house numbering, also doing so in Sydenham, Timaru and Wanganui, but only Christchurch accepted his offer – make of that what you will…; Press 6/6/1882: 3, South Canterbury Times 26/9/1882: 2, Wanganui Chronicle 15/6/1882: 2). Once again, some councillors objected that the city was not ready for a such a step (although there was no explanation of why, or what readiness might look like, it is presumed that the councillor in question was referring to the number of vacant sections in the city). One noted that the work should be carried out by the council, not a private individual (Globe 2/5/1882: 2). The mayor of the day (J. G. Ruddenklau), however, was a strong supporter and noted that the council would probably never get around to such a task on their own, suggesting a certain lack of interest in the matter. Letters to the editor in the papers were also largely in favour, although there were the inevitable quibbles about the method (Lyttelton Times 3/5/1882: 6, Globe 2/5/1882: 2, Press 6/5/1882: 7). Tait’s scheme was approved, and he was contracted to carry out the work, although householders could also put up their own numbers (Globe 11/7/1882: 3, Press 24/6/1882: 2). In this scheme, the baselines were what are now Fitzgerald and Moorhouse avenues, with the even-numbered houses on the north side of the east-west streets and on the west side of the north-south streets.

Thomas Tait, approved to carry out house numbering in Christchurch. Image: Press 24/6/1882: 2 (supplement).

But the story of Christchurch’s street addresses does not end here (I know, I’m exhausted too). You see, what we know as the city of Christchurch today was in the 19th century one ‘city’ and several surrounding ‘boroughs’, each of which was responsible for their own street numbers. And there were streets that ran through more than one of these areas. And duplicate street names, ‘River’ being dispiritingly popular. You can imagine the chaos: letters on the wrong side of town, doctors at the wrong address, parcels gone astray. Nightmarish. In fact, in 1908 the Chief Postmaster noted that there were 88 streets in the city with 38 names between them (Star 21/7/1908: 3). Something must be done! And, indeed, it was. A plan was developed, edicts were issued, numbers were ordered and, et voila, Christchurch had a completely new set of street numbers. While the doctors of the day were happy, historians and archaeologists have been cursing ever since.** Now, the next paragraph goes into some nitty-gritty details for those who are interested – if you’re not, just skip straight to the conclusion. No one will know. 

Street addresses! So much easier to find Mrs Hargreaves! But J. Spence was clearly a bit behind the times… Image: Star (Christchurch) 22/2/1883: 2.

In this new scheme, the baselines were chosen because they were believed to be the limits of the city’s growth (history will make fools of us all), being the Port Hills and Hagley Park (Riccarton didn’t become part of Christchurch city until 1989). Within the four avenues, the streets were to be renumbered from north to south and east to west. Outside of this area, the streets were to be numbered from the town belts. Odd numbers were to be on the left hand side of the street, when facing north or east. The numbers themselves were to be brass and affixed (such a good word) to the gatepost, unless the householder complained, in which case they could be put somewhere else – doctors had advocated strongly for the gatepost. If you already had a street number, you wouldn’t have to pay for it to be replaced. If not, well, you were going to have to pay. The only streets that didn’t have to be renumbered (in the area covered by Christchurch city, Linwood, St Albans and Sydenham) were Cambridge and Oxford terraces, as these were already numbered from west to east (Lyttelton Times 7/10/1909: 5, Star (Christchurch) 14/1/1910: 3). The work began in September 1909 and had been completed by 31 March 1911 (Press 17/9/1909: 6, 19/9/1911: 8).

What we see in Christchurch, then, on the part of the local lawmakers, is both apathy (or that there were important things that street addresses to be focusing on) and a sense that the city wasn’t built up enough for street numbers to be required. In 1877, the latter views seem to have been borne out by the failure of the first scheme, but just five years later, matters had clearly changed. My thesis data does suggest a residential construction boom in the early 1880s. Many of these houses were built by home owners, and perhaps a new pride in home ownership and/or occupation encouraged people to take up house numbers to link them to a place in the city’s landscape, so that they could proudly say, I live at 396 Oxford Terrace. Or perhaps it was simply the case that the plethora of new buildings meant that, in the eyes of most residents, street addresses were necessary to help you navigate around the city. Or simply that the overall growth in the size of the city (whether in terms of population or number of buildings) meant that a tipping point had been reached, where street addresses were necessary to make the urban landscape legible (Rose-Redwood 2008: 289).

Katharine Watson

* In exploring the history of street addresses/house numbers, I would note that I only had access in English-language sources and these largely focused on Europe, England and the USA. As such, the historical background I’ve provided here has the same focus.

** It’s worth noting that changes in street addresses are not a problem unique to researching histories in Christchurch, but were in fact relatively common, as early systems needed to be replaced due to the growth of urban settlements.

References

CCC, n.d. Property numbering. [online] Available at: https://ccc.govt.nz/consents-and-licences/property-information-and-lims/property-numbering [Accessed 14 December 2023].

Cicchini, Marco, 2012. A new ‘inquisition’? Police reform, urban transparency and house numbering in eighteenth-century Geneva. Urban History 39(4): 614-623.

Globe. Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

Lyttelton Times. Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

Press. Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

Rose-Redwood, Reuben, 2008. Indexing the great ledger of the community: urban house numbering, city directories, and the production of spatial legibility. Journal of Historical Geography 34: 286-310.

Rose-Redwood, Reuben, Tantner, Anton and Kim, Sun-Bae, 2022. “Addressing the world”: a political genealogy of the street address. In: Frédéric Giraut and Myriam Houssay-Holzschuch, ed. The Politics of Place Naming: Naming the World. Wiley Online Publishing. DOI:10.1002/9781394188307. Pp. 93-107.

Star (Christchurch) . Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

South Canterbury Times. Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

Tantner, Anton, 2009. Addressing the houses: the introduction of house numbering in Europe. Histoire & mesure 24(2): 7-30.

Thale, Christopher, 2007. Changing addresses: social conflict, civic culture, and the politics of house numbering reform in Milwaukee, 1913-1931. Journal of Historical Geography 33: 125-143.

Wanganui Chronicle. Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers

By any other name: shop edition

As any student of mythology knows, names have power. They carry stories and identities, not just for people, but for buildings, organisations and places (among others). As Kat discussed a few weeks ago, the names given to houses can tell us a great deal about the people who named those houses and the culture and society of their time. It’s not just houses, though – commercial names also have stories to tell and can reflect wider social trends or cultural events in their branding. We can see this in contemporary company names as well as historical ones – for example, a lot of the big brands of today have short, single word names, many of which are unrelated to the product or service being sold or the people behind the company (hi, Apple!). There are considerations in the way companies are named now that are specific to this era of history – for example, names that are easily found by search algorithms on the internet (not something nineteenth century businesses had to consider). Company names can also be part of the social or cultural zeitgeist of the time, like, apparently, a fad for vaguely space-sounding company names after the launch of the Sputnik 1 satellite in the mid-twentieth century.

In nineteenth century Christchurch, there were all sorts of names for businesses and organisations. Some of them are amazing – I refer you to the friendly societies (you can thank me later), my favourite of which was the Royal Antedilvuian Order of Buffaloes, until I saw that there was a Ye Anciente Order of Frothblowers. There were definitely chapters of the Buffaloes in Christchurch, with the Royal Pythagorean Lodge and the Royal Jubilee Buffalo Lodge meeting in the 1880s. Unfortunately, and I am genuinely disappointed by this, I have found no trace of the Frothblowers in the city.  

Businesses were perhaps a little less flamboyant in their names than friendly societies, but there is still information to be gleaned from their branding. I think this is particularly true of shops, the focus of today’s post, especially when we consider them in the context of our own relationship with consumer culture. Shops are like people, in a way – they have personalities, they have reputations, they vie for our attention and participate in performing an identity just like people do. There was even a ruling in the USA about companies being people, remember that? In all seriousness, though, consumers can have properly personal relationships with retailers (enhanced by their marketing!), relationships that involve loyalty and attachment and genuine sadness when a shop ceases to exist (the thing, of course, is that shops – and companies in general – cultivate and use that relationship to sell goods and services and cannot necessarily reciprocate those feelings of loyalty and attachment beyond the profit margin...). Identity is absolutely a key component of branding, especially in an area of commerce that needs to interact with actual people in order to be successful. Names are a big part of this, as one of the entry points to that personality the shop is trying to convey.

From the shops I’ve come across through my thesis research, which looks specifically at the supply and retail of nineteenth century household goods in Christchurch, there are three main trends in naming that have become apparent: ‘house’ names, proprietor names and what I’ve been colloquially referring to as ‘story names’. Fair warning, this is by no means an exhaustive list – it is very much just what I’ve come across from working with the archaeology and, specifically, with shops that retail household goods and fabrics. There may well be trends among other types of retailers or businesses that I’m not addressing here.

House names

This became particularly apparent when I started researching glass and china shops in Christchurch, in part because of the large number of shops – and archaeology – found on the site of Te Pae. One of these was a fancy goods store from the 1860s and 1870s called London and Paris House, which reminded me of another Tuam Street glass and china store from the 1880s known as Windsor House. London and Paris House, which began life as a drapers under the Misses Ellis in the late 1850s, could be explained as a call-back to the phrase “the best London and Paris Houses” or “the fashionable houses of London and Paris”, which appear in newspaper advertisements for clothing and fabric at the time (Lyttelton Times 17/11/1863: 6; Star 20/01/1894: 4). Windsor House, however, didn’t quite have the same association, nor did (brace yourselves..) Albion House, Granite House, Leamington House, Bradford House, Argyle House, Paris House, Glasgow House, Cashel House, Leeds House, Whately House, Hertford House, Yorkshire House, Regent House, Criterion House, Sydenham House, Waterloo House, Victoria House or Dunstable House.

A selection of artefacts from London and Paris House, 1862-1873, when it was under the proprietorship of Henry Leake. Leake took over the London and Paris House drapery established by Miss Ellis and Miss Ellis in 1859 and turned the brand into a fancy goods store. It continued to be a fancy goods store under Thomas Pillow, who took over from Leake in 1873, until 1876 (Lyttelton Times 28/01/1873:), when a man named Fountain Barber took over the premises, but got rid of the brand name (Lyttelton Times 8/12/1876: 1). Image: Jessie Garland.

Most of these reference place names, many of them also famous British places, packaged in a ‘house’ format that presumably evoked a certain stateliness and social standing. The connection to the ‘old country’ is also implicit, reminding European colonists of a part of the world that they would have associated with good taste. Most of these shops were also drapers or tailors and we can still see that naming convention in the modern fashion industry – people still refer to ‘fashion houses’. I do wonder if there was also an association – deliberate or not – with nobility and gentry implied through the use of the format, where ‘houses’ imply legacy and lineage and old establishment, reinforced by reference to historic, grand British places.

Perhaps this is what the fancy goods stores were also going for, no matter how else they marketed themselves. Windsor House, for example, was the work of C. C. Banks, easily the most creative marketer I came across in my research – as well as advertising his shop as the cheapest in Christchurch (Star 7/03/1881: 2), Charles Banks also capitalised on a local murder mystery-turned insurance fraud saga to suggest that the “finger of the severed hand pointed towards Windsor House” (Star 21/01/1886: 2).

Would this advertisement get you through the door? Star 21/01/1886: 2.

Proprietor names

Alongside the house names, there were also shop names that used the names of the proprietors and/or business owners as the brand name. Unlike something like Windsor House or London and Paris House, which relies on a cultural connection to something outside the business, proprietor names relied on the association of the shop with the person behind it, putting their reputation and involvement into the identity of the brand. This should be familiar to all of us – we still see this a lot especially with non-retail companies, although a little less than we used to, perhaps, because of other trends in branding. Here in Ōtautahi, we still have Ballantynes (J. Ballantyne and Co.), Smith’s City (Henry Cooper Smith) or Bunnings (Arthur and Robert Bunning).

In the nineteenth century, we had so many. Some of the ones we have archaeological evidence for are Gould and Miles (a general store), Sheppard and Co. (also a general store) and Dallas and Co. (auctioneers), all of them present on the site of what is now Te Pae. These names are stories of partnerships as well as people – for example, George Gould and Grosvenor Miles opened their shop on Colombo Street in 1854, a sequel to the shop George Gould had opened on Armagh Street in 1851, the first in Christchurch (Lyttelton Times 10/05/1851: 1; 1/07/1854: 3). They were succeeded in 1865 by Sheppard and Co., a partnership between Walter Sheppard (husband of Kate) and George Piercy (Lyttelton Times 12/08/1865: 1; 8/03/1866: 3). This partnership dissolved in 1875 and the shop once again changed its name, this time to George Piercy, Grocer (Press 1/07/1875: 4). Shops branded with the names of their proprietors are unsurprisingly more likely to change as the people do (although not always!). By contrast, London and Paris House had a succession of three proprietors and a change of wares, all under the same name.

A selection of 1850s-1860s artefacts from the stores of Gould and Miles and their successors Sheppard and Co., found on the site of what is now Te Pae. Image: Jessie Garland.

Story names

And then, there are the shops that grow their own names. For example, in 1860, a man named John Younghusband opened a small shop on Colombo Street. It was primarily a stationer’s shop, but he also sold toys and books and hosted a circulating library. The shop was tiny, sandwiched between other, larger buildings. When first advertised, it carried the grandiose name of “John Younghusband’s Fancy Emporium”, which was perhaps too large a name for such a small building (Lyttelton Times 1/12/1860: 7). Within a couple of years, it had instead become “that well-known little shop at 9 Colombo Street” and by 1863, it was indisputably named The Well-Known Little Shop, a truly Dickensian name that was perhaps a little easier for the shop to bear (Press 29/11/1862: 7; Press 23/11/1863: 1). Notably, if we’re thinking about the impression of identity that is performed through shop names, there is quite the difference between Well-Known Little Shop and John Younghusband’s Fancy Emporium. Not necessarily better or worse, but certainly different.

A selection of artefacts from the Well-Known Little Shop. John Younghusband lived on the same section as the shop with his family, so this assemblage is a mixture of discarded stock from the shop and the domestic material culture of their household. Image: Jessie Garland.

I’ve barely scratched the surface here – these are shops and shop names whose stories have been revealed through the archaeological work carried out in the city. There will be many, many more types and trends in the naming of nineteenth century commercial establishments – I haven’t even touched on the bazaars and barely talked about the emporiums. And don’t even get me started on the naming of hotels. Perhaps this is something we can revisit when the database is finished and we can do a more thorough analysis of businesses and the various ways they presented themselves to the consumer.

 

It is interesting, though, to think about names in the context of commerce and especially in context of consumerism, as we are being sold the goods under the umbrella of the name. There are so many factors that influence our choices as consumers and the performance of retail identity is an inescapable one. We are not immune to marketing and curated experiences, no matter how much we think we are, even when that performance is just in a name. Perhaps it’ll be something you think about as you do your Christmas shopping in the next few weeks – where do these names come from and what are they trying to evoke in us? Are they conjuring a suggestion of a place in the world, of a style of life, of a particular status, or a trustworthy personal connection? What stories do those names tell and how much have we been listening without even realising?

 Jessie Garland


A story of snuff: Christchurch’s respectable drug

Five years ago, rescue archaeologists uncovered a small ceramic jar where Te Pae Christchurch Convention Centre now stands. This jar serves as a portal to nineteenth century Christchurch.

Nineteenth century Christchurch

Let us imagine. It is the mid to late 1800s, and you are standing in the heart of Christchurch city. To your right, traders are noisily bustling in Market Square. To your left stands Christchurch’s tallest building, Christchurch Cathedral, and in front of you, there is a veranda-fronted wooden shop.

The shop in 1884. Image: Burton Brothers, 1884.

We can’t be sure whose shop you are standing in front of, but it might be James and John Mummery’s bakery, their hotel “The Fire Brigade Arms”, a corn store, a shop for draperies and fancy goods, a furrier, or a painter and decorator (Trendafilov et al. 2018a: 159-160).

Rubbish

You step forward, open the front door, and walk through the shop to reach the back yard. Here, you can be more certain about what you will discover: a common feature in every backyard - a rubbish pit.

An 1862 map, with the location where the bottle was found highlighted in red. This is the location of the shop highlighted in the 1884 photograph above. Image: Fooks 1862.

Snuff – status in a bottle

Inside the pit, amid the broken glass, ceramics, brick, and metal (Trendafilov et al. 2018a), you spot a small ceramic snuff jar. It catches your eye because you don’t see bottles like this every day – it’s fancy, imported, and has script printed onto it.

Taddy and Co. snuff/tobacco jar. Image: J. Garland.

You pick up the bottle and imagine its months-long voyage by sea, from central London into the hands of its eventual owner. “And who was the owner?”, you wonder.

While clay pipes are common, not everyone turns to snuff for their nicotine fix (Trendafilov et al. 2018b: 81-86). Snuff is a fashionable choice for both women and men and oozes respectability (Goodman 1993: 82). Even Queen Charlotte, “Snuffy Charlotte”, was a regular user in the early nineteenth century (Harrison 1986: 1649).

Still from Netflix’s “Bridgerton”, which fictionalised Queen Charlotte’s life but accurately portrayed her real-life snuff addiction. Image: Jeffrey, 2022.

What has changed?

As you turn to leave, you drop the bottle back into the pit and catch a waft of the tobacco that was ground to make the snuff. The bottle’s owner chose plain snuff – deciding against any of the fancy, fashionable flavours available (Harrison 1986: 1649).

You picture the bottle’s owner taking a pinch of snuff and letting out a “healthy” sneeze – sneezing was considered a tonic (Harrison 1986: 1649) – and then smiling as the snuff delivered its narcotic effect. Little do they know the story that their discarded jar will tell in the future.  

Jane Leighs

References

Burton Brothers, 1884. Christchurch. Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa. Ref C.011604.

Fooks, C., 1862. Christchurch, Canterbury, New Zealand, 1862 [cartographic material]. Christchurch City Libraries.

Goodman, J., 1993. Tobacco in history: the cultures of dependence. London: Routledge.

Harrison, D. F. N., 1986. Dangers of Snuff, Both “Wet” and “Dry”. British Medical Journal (Clinical Research Edition), 293: 1649-1651.

Jeffrey, J., 2022. Wait, what is Queen Charlotte sniffing in ‘Bridgerton’? [online] Available at: https://www.today.com/popculture/tv/bridgerton-queen-charlotte-sniffing-snuff-rcna22208 [Accessed 26 October 2023].

Trendafilov, A., Garland, J., Whybrew, C., Mearns, L., Lillo Bernabeu, M., Hennessey, M. and Webb, K., 2018a. Christchurch Convention Centre Precinct - Volume 2: Final report on archaeological monitoring under HNZPT authority 2017/280eq, Christchurch, New Zealand.

Trendafilov, A., Garland, J., Whybrew, C., Mearns, L., Lillo Bernabeu, M., Hennessey, M. and Webb, K., 2018b. Christchurch Convention Centre Precinct - Volume 3: Final report on archaeological monitoring under HNZPT authority 2017/280eq, Christchurch, New Zealand.

What kind of house is that?

Gosh, well, I’m so glad you asked, because I have just the thing for you! A typology, even – archaeologists do love a good typology, but I suspect it’s the sort of word that might make most people’s eyes glaze over (hence why I waited until the second sentence to bring it up…). Anyhow. Typologies are pretty useful when it comes to analysing large sets of data, hence why one formed the core of my research into what houses in 19th century Christchurch looked like. Now, to be honest, I didn’t develop this typology myself: like any good academic, I took someone else’s and tweaked it to meet my own needs.

The typology I started with was that developed by Jeremy Salmond, author of Old New Zealand Houses 1800-1940 (if you’re interested in 19th century houses, I cannot recommend this book highly enough). Salmond’s book focuses on vernacular architecture – that is, the every day sort of houses that most people have lived in – and he divided houses into two types, cottages and villas, with lovely little sketches to illustrate the various subtypes. But there was one rather significant problem from my point of view: he didn’t actually define what distinguished the two types, except in the broadest terms: “‘Villa’ is used here to refer to later Victorian houses of more than four or five rooms, typically built in the suburbs, and after the 1870s often elaborately decorated. ‘Cottage’, on the other hand, refers to any simple smaller house of the period” (Salmond 1986: 154). Which was all a bit too vague for my purposes – I needed something nice and simple and, more importantly, objective to underly my analysis. Further, Salmond’s sketches indicate far greater differences between the two types. In fact, the sketches indicate a key difference between villas and cottages and what I would use as the key defining feature of my typology: roof form. All of Salmond’s cottage examples (bar one or two) had a gable roof, while all of his villas had a hipped roof. And those exceptions? Well, in my typology, they would be classified as villa. It’s notable that said cottages looked exactly like some of Salmond’s villas.

Within my two main types, I had two subtypes: standard and bay (for those with a protruding bay). Salmond identifies a lot more subtypes, based on roof form, presence or absence of bay, location of bay, shape of the bay and whether or not there was a veranda, amongst other things (Salmond 1986: 73-74, 168-173). For the purposes of my research, this created too many subtypes, and any meaningful analysis was rendered impossible (by way of illustration, Salmond worked out that there were some 6000 possible types of villas and 216 types of cottages; Salmond 1986: 74, 173).

So what did these types look like? Well, let’s dive in! As it were.

Standard cottages

Different types of standard cottages (after Salmond (1986: 73)).

This was the most basic type of house. In early Christchurch, these were one of the most common types of houses, and could be quite big. For example, one I recorded had 11 rooms. And a cellar. With central heating . Not even making that up. But, as time passed, these cottages become the preserve of those who could only just afford to build a house – or wanted to build very cheaply. No doubt because it was cheap to build, this form persisted until at least the early years of the 20th century. By the 1870s, this was a small working class house, typically single storey, with an average of five or six rooms and an average floor area of 61.6 square metres. In most cases, these houses did not have any built-in decorative features, either on the interior or the exterior – but see the particularly cute cottage below. These houses might have a villa or a cottage layout.

A late 1870s brick standard cottage, Scott Street. Image: K. Webb.

A rather decorative standard cottage from the Avon loop. Image: P. Mitchell.

Bay cottages

A little bit fancy: a selection of different types of bay cottages (after Salmond (1986: 74)).

These were built by people with working or middle class occupations, although the latter often built them as rental properties. Like the standard cottage, these were built in early Christchurch and continued to be built until at least the end of the 19th century. They usually had some modest form of external decoration, such as a moulded door or window surround, but little more than that. Most had either a bay window or a veranda, and some had both. Most had a villa layout, and ceiling roses were not uncommon, although any other form of built-in internal decoration was unusual. The average floor area was 83.8 square metres.

A semi-detached bay cottage from the central city. Image: K. Watson.

A central city bay cottage, showing some of the modest decoration these houses often had. Image: L. Tremlett.

Standard villa

A very normal sort of house in Christchurch: the standard villa (shown with variations on the hipped roof; after Salmond 1986: 168-173).

The most common type of house in my research, making up 50% of my sample, suggesting it was a pretty common type in Christchurch in the late 19th century. First appears in c.1875 (possibly a bit later than other cities in New Zealand). The average floor area was 114.5 square metres, and most had five or six rooms. It was also quite common for them to have eight, 10 or 12 rooms. They were generally one-storey, mostly detached and invariably symmetrical – which meant they all looked quite similar. They were predominantly built by people with working or middle class occupations. They were relatively plain on the exterior, although typically had a little bit more decoration than the average bay cottage, and ceiling roses were not uncommon. Few had bay windows and most had a villa layout.

A rare example of a single-storey semi-detached standard villa. Image: F. Bradley.

A two-storied standard villa. Image: L. Tremlett.

Bay villa

A little bit more fancy still: the bay villa (after Salmond 1986: 168-173).

These became common in Christchurch in c.1880 and were typically the preserve of people with middle or upper middle class occupations. Most were detached, single storey and asymmetrical (although they didn’t have to be – see the double bay villa, for example). Most had a bay window, most had a veranda and these houses usually had more external decoration that the average standard cottage, bay cottage or standard villa. They had from seven to 18 rooms, with an average floor area of 141.3 square metres. All had a villa layout. Inside, most had a hall arch, ceiling roses and ceiling cornices.

A very sweet bay villa, built on the outskirts of the central city by someone with an upper middle class occupation. Image: M. Hennessey.

A late 1880s bay villa, from Burwood. Image: C. Staniforth.

Of course, even the best of typologies can’t cover all the building forms, so my typology has the inevitable ‘other’ category, to catch those that just didn’t fit. And I should also note that this typology does not cover elite houses, such as these examples (and see also Jamie’s excellent recent blog posts about one particular elite house in Christchurch).

For me, this typology provided a useful way to organise and analyse my data, thus helping me better understand the nature and development of domestic architecture in 19th century Christchurch. In particular, it enabled me to analyse how house form changed over time, and to explore the relationship between occupational class and house form. I was able connect house types with specific periods and people and thus better understand why people the houses they did. It also allowed me to identify what was ‘normal’ for this particular place and time and thus, more importantly, what wasn’t – and who didn’t follow that normal pattern, because that is often where the most interesting stories lie.

K.atharine Watson

References

Salmond, J., 1986. Old New Zealand Houses 1800-1940. Reed, Auckland.

What's in a name?

Rose Cottage. Norfolk Villa. Overton Cottage. Park House. These were all names of houses in nineteenth century Christchurch. As with any name, they tell us things about the people who bestowed and used the name. Names, after all, are a fundamental part of our identity, and much thought goes into their careful selection, from both the name itself to the particular spelling used. House names, in fact, have quite a history, dating back to the Roman era in Western Europe, although they have become less common since the middle of the nineteenth century (Garrioch 1994: 20-21). Once upon a time, they were the only form of ‘address’ a property had (side note: researching this blog led me down quite the rabbit hole about the history of street numbers – basically: capitalism – stay tuned for that blog post in the coming weeks). The use of street numbers was one of the factors that led to the demise of shop signs and house names, but others include changing social organisation and the changing nature of the street itself (Garrioch 1994: 39).

Not an actual house name from Ōtautahi Christchurch. Just an image to break up the long text.

How common were house names in nineteenth century Christchurch? The short answer is, I don’t know. The trick to answering this question is, somewhat obviously, identifying whether or not a house had a name. Let me explain. I’ve identified quite a few named houses in the city, but only through historical research. None of the houses we recorded in post-earthquake Ōtautahi had any physical evidence of a name on the building. Which isn’t to say that that was always the case – in fact, an excellent example of a house name has been recorded by a colleague in Dunedin, where the name was in the fanlight above the front door (Petchey and Brosnahan 2016). The house names I recorded were ones I identified in nineteenth century newspapers, most commonly when a house or its contents was advertised for sale or lease, or when its occupants advertised for servants. Sometimes, too, a birth or death might be recorded at a particular house. But the point is, someone had to be putting notices in the paper for me to find the name. Given that this (a) cost money to do and (b) required you to be doing one of these things, you can see how this means that the house names from potentially quite a large part of society wouldn’t be historically visible.

Were these names I found in the paper visible on the houses at the time? Good question. On the balance of probability, I think so, otherwise what would the point of putting the name in the newspaper have been? (Although there may well have been a status element to this.) Further, where a house name was used by more than one occupant, I think it’s more likely that the name appeared on the house.

Read on to find out more about a selection of the house names I have found, and why the occupants were using that particular name. Fair warning, in some cases the answer is far from satisfactory (reminding us yet again of the frustrations of historical research and how people can remain ultimately unknowable, in spite of the wealth of information it is possible to find about them).

Como c.1878-c.1883*

Como. Image: P. Mitchell.

Como sale notice. Image: Press 2/2/1878: 3.

No clue. Actually, that’s not quite true. The best I can come up with to explain this house name is that it is a reference to Lake Como, in Italy, an area famed for its beauty (and, more recently, celebrities…). The couple who built the house – Mr and Mrs Richard Rossiter Palmer – were only in Christchurch for about two years, and I’ve found little information about them. It’s possible that they had been to Lake Como and loved it, but it is also possible that the couple simply liked the name and all that it stood for: beauty, holidays, the glamour of Italy (some things don’t change). I lean towards this latter interpretation, partly because this was not the only house called Como around at the time: there was a Como Cottage in St Asaph Street and a Como in Rakaia (Lyttelton Times 8/4/1878: 1, Star (Christchurch) 12/6/1878: 2).

Cora Villa c.1879-c.189

Cora Villa. Image: P. Mitchell.

Cora Villa, to let. Image: Lyttelton Times 27/11/1879: 1.

This one is quite simple, and sad. The house was built by Joseph and Harriett Francis, and it was named for their daughter, Cora, who died in infancy, just before the house was built (BDM Online n.d.).

Aubyn House c.1883- c.1893

Aubyn House, a name that only applied to the house on the right of this pair of semi-detached houses. Image: M. Hennessey.

The sale of furniture at Aubyn House. Image: Press 28/6/1883: 4.

Another elusive connection. The St Aubyn family were (and still are) a prominent family in Cornwall, owning and living at St Michael’s Mount since the seventeenth century (St Michael’s Mount 2023). However, I could not find any connection between the family who used the name – Alfred and Alice Thompson – and Cornwall, or the St Aubyns. This isn’t to say that there wasn’t a connection (absence of evidence and all that…).

Aorangi c.1884- c.1916

Aorangi. Image: L. Tremlett.

Aorangi, which functioned as a school as well as a home. Image: Lyttelton Times 3/5/1884: 7.

Cultural appropriation. And a puzzler. Some readers will be familiar with ‘Aorangi’ as the name by which Aoraki Mt Cook was referred to by some in the mid-late twentieth century, before this error of dialect was corrected. However, the references I found to Aorangi in mid-nineteenth century newspapers were to an Aorangi in the North Island and, in early 1884, to a new steamship called the Aorangi (New Zealand Spectator and Cook’s Strait Guardian 5/11/1856: 3, Press 26/1/1884: 2). Not a single reference to the mountain. The steamship was owned by the New Zealand Shipping Company and called at Wellington and Christchurch on its maiden voyage to New Zealand in early 1884, bringing passengers (and freight) to New Zealand and taking the same, and frozen meat, back to England. There was A LOT of fuss about it in the papers.

The Yaldwyns, who gave the house its name, had lived in Otago and Wellington before moving to Christchurch, and William Yaldwyn had been a government-appointed auditor for a number of areas in the lower North Island. It’s possible that this is how they came across the name or, more prosaically, that all the media coverage of the ship introduced them to word, they liked it and thus they used it to name their house in May 1884.

Cotswold House c.1884- c.1895

Cotswold House. Image: M. Hennessey.

Sarah Fisher, of Cotswold House, advertising for a servant. Image: Lyttelton Times 13/2/1884: 1 .

Named as such by Sarah and the Reverend Thomas Fisher. In fact, probably just named by Thomas, who was from the village of Winchcombe in Gloucestershire, just on the outskirts of the Cotswolds (Ancestry 2019). Of note is that Sarah and Thomas named their earlier house in Christchurch Alcester Lodge (Star (Christchurch) 30/12/1871: 1), a name preserved for a time in the adjoining Alcester Street (CCL 2016: 21). As it happens, the street immediately to the north is Winchcombe Street, named for Thomas’s place of birth. Alcester is about 35 km north of Winchcombe.

St Vedas c.1896- c.1930

St Vedas. Image: F. Bradley.

St Vedas, for sale. Image: Press 13/121930: 28,

Not even an actual saint. There is a St Vedast in the Catholic pantheon of saints, and it’s possible that ‘St Vedas’ was an error by the newspaper (or even by Jane and John Nicholson). St Vedast, however, was typically anglicised as St Foster – although there have been three St Vedast churches in England (two of which remain standing; Wikipedia 2023). But John Nicholson was from Ireland (of course I don’t know where Jane was from), where there are no recorded St Vedast churches, although it does increase the possibility that he might have been Catholic.

Tainui c.1896-c.1916

Tainui. Image: K. Webb.

Tainui, to let. Image: Lyttelton Times 17/5/1895: 1.

More cultural appropriation. This time by Henry and Susan Kirk. For those readers who aren’t familiar with the word, Tainui are a North Island-based iwi, more commonly known as Waikato-Tainui. Waikato-Tainui were attacked by the Crown, and their lands invaded, in the early 1860s. Some 1.2 million acres of their land was subsequently confiscated, as punishment for their ‘rebellion’, a process known as raupatu. Would the Kirks have known about this? It’s hard to say. The story had certainly disappeared from the local newspapers by the 1890s (although Waikato-Tainui continued to fight for redress; Waikato-Tainui n.d.). As with Aorangi, there was a ship called Tainui that was frequently mentioned in the newspapers in the 1890s…

Or there’s another factor, and it’s relevant for Aorangi too. By the late nineteenth century, te reo Māori names for houses were becoming popular, frequently chosen for the way they sounded, rather than with any recognition of the meaning or cultural context of the word (Cowan 1900: 1, Petersen 2000: 57). This was part of a broader trend of Māori art, decorative details and carvings starting to be used in Pākehā houses (Petersen 2000: 57). In her discussion of this, Petersen situates this development within a growing nationalism on the part of New Zealand’s Pākehā population, coupled with a developing sense of national identity, and that, for some at least, the country’s Māori culture had a role to play in this. Furphy (2002: 59-60) goes a step further in his discussion of a similar trend for using Aboriginal words for house names in Australia, siting this within a process of indigenisation. This was a process by which colonial settlers sought to become ‘indigenous’ by assimilating and appropriating indigenous culture, thereby carving out a new identity for themselves that drew on that culture to firmly embed them in that new place, at the same time as they rode roughshod over the indigenous culture in question. There is an argument to be made that the Yaldwyns and Kirks were active participants in this process in New Zealand.

Furphy’s detailed examination of this trend notes that indigenous names were typically used without any knowledge of their cultural significance or context, but chosen simply because they sounded good – a conclusion that is striking in its similarity to James Cowan’s (1900: 1) observation that New Zealand’s home owners experienced “a genuine delight when they discover a smoothing-sounding and appropriate combination of liquid Māori words”. There is no record of how Māori felt about this trend, but the fact that, in te ao Māori, names are typically gifted, not simply taken, indicates how problematic choices like those made by the Yaldwyns and the Kirks were. Add to that the fact that ‘Tainui’ in particular is a name of immense significance, and affixing them to a house is likely to have been particularly offensive.

These house names, then, demonstrate something of the range of approaches people took to naming their home. There were the Francises, memorialising their lost daughter; the Fishers, looking with nostalgia to the place they – he – had left behind; and the Palmers, selecting a name that embodied rest, relaxation and retreat. And then there were the Yaldwyns and the Kirks, who chose te reo Māori words, possibly just because they sounded melodious... And possibly after being introduced to the word via ships, of all things. But there’s another element to this, too. The Fishers, in selecting an English name, essentially looked to the past and the place they had come from, reinforcing their cultural background to their neighbourhood and community. The Yaldwyns and the Kirks, however, for all the problems with their name selection, were looking to the future. Perhaps they even saw themselves as New Zealanders or, at least, closer to their colonial home than to the home they had left behind.

 Katharine Watson

*These are the dates the name is known to have been in use.

References

Ancestry, 2019. Rev. Thomas Richard Fisher. [online] Available at: https://www.ancestry.com.au/family-tree/person/tree/28849058/person/12514637379/facts?_phsrc=AxX295&_phstart=successSource [Accessed 25 January 2019].

BDM Online. Available at: https://www.bdmhistoricalrecords.dia.govt.nz/

CCL, 2021. Christchurch Street Names – A. Available at: https://my.christchurchcitylibraries.com/christchurch-place-names/

CCL, n.d. Frederick Thompson, 1805-1881. [online] Available at: https://christchurchcitylibraries.com/Heritage/People/T/ThompsonFrederick/

Cowan, James, 1900. Maori place names. New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, 1 June 1900, p.1.

Furphy, Sam, 2002. Aboriginal house names and settler Australian identity. Journal of Australian Studies 26(72): 59-68.

Garrioch, David, 1994. House names, shop signs and social organization in Western European cities, 1500-1900. Urban History 21(1): 20-48.

Lyttelton Times (Christchurch). Available online at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/

New Zealand Spectator and Cook’s Strait Guardian. Available online at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/

Petchey, Peter and Brosnahan, Sean, 2016. Finding meaning and identity in New Zealand buildings archaeology: the example of ‘Parihaka’ House, Dunedin. Journal of Pacific Archaeology 7(2): 26-42.

Petersen, Anna K. C., 2000. The European use of Maori art in New Zealand homes c.1890-1914. In: B. Brookes, ed. At Home in New Zealand: History, Houses, People. Wellington: Bridget Williams Books, 2000, pp.57-73.

Press. Available online at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/

St Michael’s Mount, 2023. St Michael’s Mount. [online] Available at: https://www.stmichaelsmount.co.uk/about-us [Accessed 19 October 2023].

Star (Christchurch). Available online at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/

The Argus. Available online at: https://trove.nla.gov.au/

Waikato-Tainui, n.d. Te Hiitori o Te Raupatu. [online] Available at: https://waikatotainui.com/about-us/history/ [Accessed 19 October 2023].

Wikipedia, 2023. Vedast. [online] Available at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vedast [Accessed 19 October 2023].

Ink-credible inks

This past week (let’s be honest, this year) has been a bit chaotic, work-wise, so it’s another blog post of artefact photos from me. Hopefully, in the next post I write, I’ll be able to give a bit more of an update on the database project and what we’re up to, but that day is not today. This week, because I’ve been doing a lot of writing and scribbling with pens and pencils, I’ve decided to showcase writing implements, particularly ink bottles. Most of us don’t use ink for writing as much as we used to and, thanks to the ballpoint pen, we certainly don’t require ink in the same format as our ancestors did. The ink bottles used by people in the nineteenth and early twentieth century came in a range of forms and sizes, but can be separated broadly into inkwells - that is, small bottles into which the pen-nib was dipped directly - and larger, ‘bulk’ ink bottles, used to refill these smaller bottles and inkwells. As an artefact of daily life, they are an indication of literacy, although not the only one. From the marks and names on the bottles, we can see the trade relationships to Britain and Europe and learn something about developments in ink manufacturing; from the shapes, we can learn about changes and innovations in glass-making during the nineteenth century.

A small circular inkwell with black residue still visible inside the bottle. This was found on the site of the old Occidental Hotel and could have been used by a hotel staff or a guest staying there. Image: Maria Lillo Bernabeu.

Penny ink bottles! So called because of their price, these are a very common find on nineteenth century archaeological sites in Christchurch (and New Zealand). Image: Jessie Garland.

P. and J. Arnold were British based manufacturers and exporters of ink during the nineteenth century. Their company had its beginnings in the early eighteenth century under another name and, by the nineteenth century, they were producing up to 30 different kinds of ink that were sent around the world. Image: Jessie Garland.

These delightful little bottles are known as ‘boat inks’ by collectors, although you might have to squint to see the resemblance to a boat. They’re notable for the grooves along the shoulder of the bottle, which allowed the user to rest their pen on the bottle without it rolling off. Image: Jessie Garland.

A cone ink (otherwise known as a “ring cone” or “cone carmine”). The inspiration for the name is a little more obvious here, given the distinctive shape, while ‘ring’ refers to the ring of glass on the shoulder of the bottle. This was found in association with an 1890s-early 1900s burn layer on a site on the west of the city. Image: Chelsea Dickson.

A beautiful wee octagonal ink bottle. This has the crude “burst-off” finish characteristic of these bottles, which were cheap and easily made. This one is from a c. 1880s context in the central city. Image: Jessie Garland.

A tiny square ink well with a slightly uneven base (this would not have stood flat on a desk!). I love that you can see the uneven cavity of the inside of the bottle through the side - how the glass pools in one corner but thins in the other. Image: Jessie Garland.

Another very predictable name - this is what’s known as a “bell ink”, although the bell shape is not so distinctive in this example as it might be in some others. This was found in a c. 1860s-1870s collection of rubbish deposited into a central city gully channel. Image: Jessie Garland.

An ink bottle shaped like a shoe! Why not. Image: Jessie Garland.

I love this bottle. This is what’s known as a churchwarden ink bottle, most commonly associated with red ink and identifiable from the distinctive square finish (or top). This was found on a site in Lyttelton, although we can’t associate it with any one business or household. It was made by Doulton and Co., Lambeth, potters well-known for their stoneware bottles and jars. The registration mark on the side dates its production to some time after 1876. Image: Jessie Garland.

French ink! It wasn’t just English inks and ink bottles exported to colonies like New Zealand. Several of these bottles, which bear the mark of Antoine et Fils (Antoine and Son) ‘L’Encre Japonaise’ (Japanese Inks), have been found throughout the city in deposits dating to the 1870s and 1880s. Antoine et Fils were Parisian based ink manufacturers operating from at least the 1870s, although we don’t know much about their business. Image: Jessie Garland.

And last, but by no means least, an ink bottle with a truly literary link (beyond the obvious). This ink bottle is stamped with the mark of Smith, Elder and Co., a London based publishing company who famously published Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre in 1847. The company began as a bookseller and stationer, but became well-known as a publisher after the success of Jane Eyre. This bottle was found on a site associated with a local bookseller and stationer on Colombo Street in the 1860s. Image: Jessie Garland.

Underground Overground post: A man named Wuzerham

Today’s blog post comes to you from Underground Overground Archaeology, and it’s all about a man named Wuzerham. Wuzerham was an Indian indentured servant who came to Christchurch in the 1850s, with Jane and John Cracroft WIlson (who I’ve written about before in the post on 1850s houses in the city). This post provides an insight into racism in the 19th century city, and the experiences of one Indian man. It’s also a great example of how the details of a life can be constructed from primary sources that are about a person, rather than written by that person.

On the mysteries of doors

I know, I know: doors, on the face of it, are not the least bit mysterious. They’re quite solid and stable and kind of unassuming. I mean, they might feature in the odd drama – door slammed! – or serve as a tightly guarded boundary by a child – keep out! – but these are (hopefully) occasional roles. And for the most part, I’m guessing you don’t think too much about them – unless they start squeaking, of course… Before we get to the mysterious aspects of doors, let’s start by considering their function of a door. Which probably seems barely worthy of consideration, but bear with me.

A particularly fabulous late Victorian internal door. Image: F. Bradley.

At their most basic, doors provide access to a room. In so doing, they can also serve to keep heat in, or dust and dirt out. They can also keep noise and smells in (or out). Doors, then, are also a means of control – they help control the climate and environment of a room. They also control access: a closed door effectively means knock before entering, while an open door invites entry freely. Thus, they become part of a boundary, between spaces, or between people. In this way, doors can be used to control social interactions, essentially establishing boundaries between those in the room and those outside. In Victorian homes where servants were employed, such a mechanism could have been used to separate servants from family members and their activities.

If these were the function of a door, what of its appearance? Well, by far the most common internal door form in 19th century Christchurch was a four-panel door with a low lockrail (internal doors are my focus here today). In these doors, which you’re probably familiar with, the panels are set into bed mouldings. The position of the lockrail is important – this is where the handle and, perhaps more obviously, the lock were set, and a low lockrail was at about hand-height for most adults. But here’s the thing. The position of the lockrail changes in the early 20th century and becomes high – still perfectly reachable for an adult, but not so for a child. This has long intrigued me, because it’s the Victorian era that we think of as being that of children being seen and not heard. But a child could easily have opened a door in a Victorian era house. Not so much an Edwardian era one.

A typical Victorian era internal door, with four panels and a low lock rail. Image: K. Webb.

A typical Edwardian era internal door, also with four panels, but with a high lock rail. Image: K Webb.

Why, then, this change? I wish I knew. The simplest answer is fashion, but there is always a reason why fashions change – this is the whole point of material culture studies: nothing happens just because. There is a bigger shift that’s going on in New Zealand at around this time, with society becoming less formal. This sees a number of changes in houses, and the way space in them is used, but increasing the height of the door handle doesn’t fit with this (Leach 2000: 84-85). It may simply have been that doors needed to change, to look different, to mark those broader changes that were taking place.

But here’s another thing about those 19th century internal doors: they all had locks, presumably for extra security. As someone who’s not particularly good at locking even external house doors, this one bemuses me – and the crime rate in 19th century Christchurch was not that high. But the crime rate in the cities and countries Christchurch’s colonial settlers had left behind may have been, and so people may simply have been used to locks on internal doors as a standard thing. Edwardian internal doors also all had locks – in fact, I’m fairly certain locks on internal doors were a thing until at least World War II, but I don’t know exactly when they ceased to be the norm (nor when they first became common). The fact, though, that doors continued to be made with locks suggests that this was functionality that people wanted. I am curious, though, about when these locks stopped being the norm, and why that might have happened.

Which brings me to my final door conundrum: the position of them and the way they opened. It was by no means always the case, but doors were typically positioned in the middle of a wall. I appreciate that this doesn’t seem like a big deal, but if you live in a modern house, well, for starters, there are probably far fewer doors per room than there were in a Victorian house. But, more pertinent to the current discussion, in a modern house the door is typically at one end of a wall, and it opens back against the adjoining wall (in some cases, this was the only option, thanks to the layout of the house). Which makes sense, right? This way, the door doesn’t obscure the room and nor does it take up unnecessary space. But in 19th century houses, even when the door was at one end of the wall, it typically opened into the room, rather than swinging back against the adjoining wall. And in rooms where the door was positioned more centrally, it often opened in such a way that it obscured the bulk of the room as you entered (if you had to open the door when you entered). Why might this have been the case?

A standard villa, Bassett Street, Christchurch, c.1898. Notice how the doors into Rooms 2 & 8 are positioned centrally in the walls, and the way they open essentially obscures the room as you enter. Meanwhile, the doors into the other rooms are positioned at one end of the wall (which is unusual), but the doors do not swing back against the adjoining wall, but instead swung into the room. Image: P. Mitchell and K. Watson.

It’s hard to know. Was it a concern for doors swinging back against the adjoining wall and damaging the latter that led to the angle of opening? Did a door opening into a room, and obscuring part of the room as it was opened, provide more of a sense of drama, more of a slow reveal of the contents of that room (remembering that Victorians had A LOT of things on display)? Or did it help to preserve the privacy of those in the room, particularly in a house where there were servants (and there were concerns about separating families and their servants; Leach 2000: 80, Macdonald 2000: 42)? Was that the door, with its moulded door surround, was more of a feature within a room if it were centrally positioned, and thus became part of the room’s display, as it were?

See? Doors are maybe not quite so immediately knowable as you thought. The mysteries they pose are not huge ones, but resolving them would help us to better understand human behaviours in the past, including people’s attitudes towards their house and the use of space in it, towards security and towards their relationships with other people, particularly other people with whom they shared their house. Human behaviours shift in response to and in line with broader changes in society, to changes in economic systems, morals and belief systems, amongst other things. These behaviours are not just reflected in our material culture – such as houses – but are negotiated through it.

 Katharine Watson

References

Leach, H., 2000. The European house and garden in New Zealand: a case for parallel development. In: B. Brookes, ed. At Home in New Zealand: Houses, History, People. Wellington: Bridget Williams Books, pp.73-88.

Macdonald, C., 2000. Strangers at the hearth: the eclipse of domestic service in New Zealand homes c.1830s-1040s. In: B. Brookes, ed. At Home in New Zealand: Houses, History, People. Wellington: Bridget Williams Books, pp.41-56.