Last week was Disaster Awareness Week, and the “featured disaster” was an earthquake – a big deal for most New Zealanders, and especially those of us who live or work in Wellington. And while disaster awareness and preparation is of professional interest to me, there’s also the fact that earthquakes seem to have been quite significant in early Norgrove history.
Prior to the arrival of settlers, Maori were well-used to earthquakes. They had a word for them (ru) and an explanation – the god Ruamoko, son of Ranginui, the sky, and Papatuanuku, the earth, buried at his mother’s breast. Ruamoko is the god of volcanoes and earthquakes, and the earth’s tremors are caused by his subterranean movements.
Early settlers from 1840 onwards had already experienced many minor earthquakes, and one or two real doozies. On the 4th of December 1846, Wellington was jolted by a severe earthquake lasting several seconds, which caused people to run outside in panic. Perhaps not Sarah, though, as only the day before she had given birth to son Horace, and was probably still in bed recovering. There were at least 10 aftershocks over the next few days; then began a series of smaller earthquakes which went on for the next two years, about one a month.
Then on 16 October 1848 came the first major quake to affect Wellington. At about 1.40am on Monday morning, during a horrible night of severe gales and heavy rain, residents were woken, and in some cases thrown from their beds, by a major earthquake now estimated to have been of magnitude 7.5 on the Richter scale. The earthquake was actually centred in Awatere Valley in Marlborough, but was felt from Hawke’s Bay to Canterbury. The bulk of the damage was in Wellington, which was the most densely populated area at the time, with around 4500 settlers in addition to the Maori population. Three people in Wellington died as a result of the earthquake – a sergeant from the Mt Cook barracks, and two of his small children, who were buried by the collapse of a brick wall.
Sarah’s daughter Emma claimed to have been born during the earthquake, but in fact she was born during the tail-end of the big aftershocks, on 23 October. I have to wonder whether the shock and stress of the big earthquake and the ongoing aftershocks caused Sarah to go into labour prematurely; if that was the case, it doesn’t seem to have done Emma any harm, as she outlived the rest of her siblings and died at a ripe old age, two days after her 97th birthday.
In an attempt to “avert the recurrence of any similar visitation”, Lieutenant-Governor Eyre proclaimed Friday 20th October as a day of “public and solemn fast, prayer, and humiliation”. He also took the somewhat bizarre precaution of shifting most of the coinage from his treasury aboard a naval ship anchored in the harbour, although why he thought it would be safer there suggests how little he understood about earthquakes.
The 1848 earthquake badly damaged brick and stone buildings. Wooden buildings fared better, although many lost their brick chimneys. A major aftershock on the Tuesday afternoon finished off many of the buildings which had been badly damaged – fortunately by then the weather had improved, and people weren’t trying to keep the rain out of the holes where their chimneys had once been. On Wednesday morning the tide came in rather higher than it should have, and a number of Lambton Quay and Te Aro properties were inundated. William and Sarah and their family were living on Lambton Quay at this time – the houses here generally fared better in the earthquake than those at Te Aro and Thorndon, but didn’t escape completely because of the disastrous high tide.
We know that some time in 1849 the family moved from Lambton Quay to Thorndon Quay – could the 1848 earthquake have been a contributing factor in the decision to move? Was their house so badly damaged that they had to move? Did they think that Thorndon Quay might be safer in an earthquake? Or had William managed to put together enough money to buy a property rather than continue renting? Did they simply need more room, now that they had five children?
The next major earthquake was The Big One – a massive shock of 8.2 on the Richter scale, on 23 January 1855. This earthquake was on the Wairarapa faultline, and it visibly changed the landscape in ways that can still be seen over 150 years later.
Wellingtonians were in the middle of a two-day celebration of the 15th anniversary of the founding of the settlement. On the day before, there had been whale-boat races in the harbour; on the day of the earthquake, crowds of people had travelled to Miramar for horse-racing. Whether Sarah attended any of the events is unknown, but William and Ovid were still in the Victorian goldfields, leaving Sarah alone in the Thorndon Quay house with six children ranging in age from 12 (Oscar) to 2 (Kate).
At 17 minutes past nine on the Tuesday evening, the great earthquake struck. The first shock last 50 seconds, but must have seemed much longer as houses shook, windows broke, ornaments and furniture were thrown to the ground, and chimneys collapsed. Many people had trouble getting out of their houses because doors and windows jammed. The tide was high at the time, and the water level suddenly rose over two metres, flooding many of the shops and houses in Lambton Quay. The water then receded to a level several metres below the previous low tide mark, and for the next 8 hours it rose and fell every 20 to 25 minutes. A tsunami about ten minutes after the earthquake caused flooding in the sea-side suburbs, but didn’t have any appreciable effect in the inner harbour.
Most people spent the rest of the night outside, in makeshift tents or huddled in sheets and blankets, as the aftershocks continued. When daylight came, the extent of the damage was visible, from fallen and damaged to buildings to the unexpected change in Lambton Quay where the beach-front had experienced an uplift of about 1 metre. Many of the roads contained deep fissures which oozed mud. Aftershocks continued throughout the day, causing no little danger to the 65th regiment, who from daybreak had started pulling down the worst-damaged buildings. Amazingly, only one person was killed in Wellington, local identity Baron von Alzdorf, flattened by a falling chimney in his hotel.
Repairing the damage took months. How Sarah and the children coped is not known; however, it would seem that the earthquake brought William and Ovid home from Australia as fast as they could get there. In 1855, this wasn’t all that fast. It would have taken weeks for a letter from Sarah to reach William; in fact, it’s likely that he saw newspaper reports of devastation and catastrophe in Wellington, and immediately set off from the diggings, taking the first ship that would get him and Ovid back to New Zealand. This was the Wild Irish Girl, which landed them at Nelson on 10 May 1855. I haven’t yet found any record of how he and Ovid travelled back to Wellington, but perhaps a day or two spent looking around Nelson while waiting for a ship gave William a favourable opinion of the town, which had suffered much less earthquake damage. By October 1855, fourteen years after arriving in New Zealand, the whole family had removed to Nelson – driven away by Wellington’s shaky situation?
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Winter colds
The other day my friend Helen asked how Sarah would have managed with a houseful of kids and babies with colds. Much like Helen herself was managing, I guess, except without the Vicks…
My first thought was – no tissues! All those extra handkerchiefs to wash, dry and iron – yucky. And there were none of the over-the-counter medications that make colds a bit easier to live with these days. For Sarah, dealing with colds would have meant the old-fashioned home remedies:
My first thought was – no tissues! All those extra handkerchiefs to wash, dry and iron – yucky. And there were none of the over-the-counter medications that make colds a bit easier to live with these days. For Sarah, dealing with colds would have meant the old-fashioned home remedies:
- Hot drinks, like lemon and honey, with or without whisky, and lemon-barley water;
- Essential oils of camphor or cloves, inhaled in steam or mixed with grease or fat to be used as chest rubs;
- Mustard plasters or mustard baths
If Sarah had any Maori friends, they might have suggested a tea of hoiheri bark (lacebark) and an inhalation of vapours from boiled kahikatea bark. Plenty of warmth and rest, and a lot of time to recover, would have been the order of the day.
The common cold would have been far more of a threat to Sarah’s family than it is to us today. For one thing, there was no sick leave. If William had developed a heavy cold and had to take to his bed, he would have lost working days and income, which would have put the whole family at risk. For another thing, the potential complications of a simple cold were far more dangerous in a world without antibiotics and modern medical care.
Sarah’s number one priority would have been to prevent her family from getting sick in the first place. Whether she sewed them into flannel from autumn to spring, as was often recommended, we don’t know, but you would have to hope that the spring-time unwrapping of such a family coincided with the annual bath! She would certainly have made sure they were warmly-dressed and well wrapped up for winter weather. She might not have had much idea how colds spread (come to that, neither do most of my work-mates and fellow commuters, who so generously bring their germs to share) but she would have been concerned that no-one took a chill from getting caught out in the rain or breathing damp night air. And like most mums, if she got sick herself, she would probably have had to soldier on taking care of the family, rather than taking to her bed with a hot toddy and a good book.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Weaning the baby
My god-daughter Izzy is 7 months old and she just got her first tooth, not that she was very keen to show it to me yesterday. She’s getting started on solid food. Her Mum Helen says she likes sweetcorn and potato, peas and broccoli, kumara and carrot, but she’s not that impressed with the sharper tastes of apple and plum. Banana is OK though. Izzy gets mushy veggies into spooned into her and she smears them back all over her Mum, who wants to know what great-great grandma weaned the babies onto.
My assumption was that Ovid would be weaned onto mushy veggies, just like Izzy, except that his wouldn’t come in convenient little jars and tins from the supermarket. Then I consulted Dr Thomas Bull’s 1840 manual, The Maternal Management of Children, in Health and Disease, and discovered that nineteenth-century babies were weaned onto things like boiled cereals, which were sieved and mixed with milk. Sometimes they were started on flour boiled with milk and water. Dr Bull also suggested “tops and bottoms, steeped in hot water, with the addition of fresh milk and loaf sugar to sweeten”. Tops and bottoms of what? Carrots? Swedes? No, there’s not a vegetable to be seen in the weaning plan of C19th infants. “Tops and bottoms” are apparently small rolls of dough, baked, cut in halves and then baked in the oven, used as food for infants. Mmmmm, not much nutritional value. Dr Bull said beef tea and chicken broth could be added occasionally, along with a little cooked egg. “Animal food” was strongly discouraged as being bad for the digestion, however sugar was regarded as a necessary condiment, as was salt, which stimulated the digestion and prevented worms! Fruit was OK, and water the preferred beverage, although apparently toast-and-water might be more palatable. [Really? This seems to be a drink for infants and invalids found in a number of old recipe books. Toasted (but not burnt) bread is soaked in water and then strained. It’s supposedly a refreshing drink. Can I bring myself to try it?] Finally, Dr Bull spoke out strongly against the maternal practice of giving wine, beer or any stimulant to any child, except medicinally!
From around twelve to 24 months, Dr Bull suggested the following meal plan :
Still not a vegetable in sight!
The weaning of Ovid Norgrove is something of a puzzle for me. These days, solids start appearing in baby’s diets after 6 months. Back then, Dr Bull was suggesting between 9 and 12 months as the optimum time to start introducing solids. His view was that with mother and baby in good health, weaning shouldn’t be delayed after 12 months of age. His colleague Dr Jacobi agreed, noting that while many mothers continue breast-feeding to prevent conception, sometimes until the child is four years old, breast-feeding is not a guaranteed way of avoiding pregnancy. However, Sarah tells us that on the voyage to New Zealand, Ovid was breast-fed; she didn’t start weaning him until they reached New Zealand 4½ months later. The Gertrude sailed from England on Ovid’s first birthday, so he would have 16 months old before she started weaning him off the breast. His brother Oscar was conceived about 3 months later, so either the breast-feeding or the close proximity of the neighbours on Gertrude had been acting as contraception!
Rations weren’t provided for children under one year of age on the immigrant ships – they were expected to be breastfed. However, a number of “comforts” were provided for the breast-feeding mums and their babies – stout for the mums, and good old sago, tapioca and arrow-root for the babies. Chances are Ovid actually started on solids while on Gertrude – the cereals, a little bread soaked in preserved milk, and maybe a ship’s biscuit to gnaw on when his teeth started to come through. Once in New Zealand, fresh cow’s milk was available – he had his first taste within hours of coming ashore – but if Sarah followed the traditional approach, he probably didn’t see a mashed vegetable until he was much older. Sarah had eight siblings; twins Alfred and Anne were born when she was five, and by the time she turned eight, she had five brothers and sisters. No doubt she had been helping her mother raise babies since she was a small child; sister Caroline was born six months after Sarah had Ovid, so she went straight from caring for her siblings to raising her own babies. She probably did the same things with her children as her mother did, and fed them the same sorts of foods as her mother, and her mother’s mother, had traditionally prepared.
So there we are. Nineteenth century baby food was cereals and breads, seasoned with salt and sugar – not quite as nutritious as what modern babies receive, but less likely to stain than when baby lovingly wipes a face-full of mushy pumpkin all over mum’s blouse.
My assumption was that Ovid would be weaned onto mushy veggies, just like Izzy, except that his wouldn’t come in convenient little jars and tins from the supermarket. Then I consulted Dr Thomas Bull’s 1840 manual, The Maternal Management of Children, in Health and Disease, and discovered that nineteenth-century babies were weaned onto things like boiled cereals, which were sieved and mixed with milk. Sometimes they were started on flour boiled with milk and water. Dr Bull also suggested “tops and bottoms, steeped in hot water, with the addition of fresh milk and loaf sugar to sweeten”. Tops and bottoms of what? Carrots? Swedes? No, there’s not a vegetable to be seen in the weaning plan of C19th infants. “Tops and bottoms” are apparently small rolls of dough, baked, cut in halves and then baked in the oven, used as food for infants. Mmmmm, not much nutritional value. Dr Bull said beef tea and chicken broth could be added occasionally, along with a little cooked egg. “Animal food” was strongly discouraged as being bad for the digestion, however sugar was regarded as a necessary condiment, as was salt, which stimulated the digestion and prevented worms! Fruit was OK, and water the preferred beverage, although apparently toast-and-water might be more palatable. [Really? This seems to be a drink for infants and invalids found in a number of old recipe books. Toasted (but not burnt) bread is soaked in water and then strained. It’s supposedly a refreshing drink. Can I bring myself to try it?] Finally, Dr Bull spoke out strongly against the maternal practice of giving wine, beer or any stimulant to any child, except medicinally!
From around twelve to 24 months, Dr Bull suggested the following meal plan :
Its breakfast between seven and eight o’clock, to consist of tops and bottoms, steeped in hot water, a little milk added, and the whole sweetened with sugar; or bread may be softened in hot water, the latter drained off, and fresh milk and sugar added to the bread. Its dinner about twelve o’clock, to consist, every other day, of a small quantity of animal food (chicken, fresh mutton, or beef, being the only meats allowed) with a little bread and water; on the alternate days, well boiled rice and milk, a plain bread, sago, tapioca, or arrow-root pudding, containing one egg; or farinaceous food, with beef-tea. Its afternoon meal, about four o’clock, the same diet as formed the breakfast. At seven, a little arrow-root, made with a very small proportion of milk, or a biscuit, or a crust of bread, after which the child should be put to bed.
Still not a vegetable in sight!
The weaning of Ovid Norgrove is something of a puzzle for me. These days, solids start appearing in baby’s diets after 6 months. Back then, Dr Bull was suggesting between 9 and 12 months as the optimum time to start introducing solids. His view was that with mother and baby in good health, weaning shouldn’t be delayed after 12 months of age. His colleague Dr Jacobi agreed, noting that while many mothers continue breast-feeding to prevent conception, sometimes until the child is four years old, breast-feeding is not a guaranteed way of avoiding pregnancy. However, Sarah tells us that on the voyage to New Zealand, Ovid was breast-fed; she didn’t start weaning him until they reached New Zealand 4½ months later. The Gertrude sailed from England on Ovid’s first birthday, so he would have 16 months old before she started weaning him off the breast. His brother Oscar was conceived about 3 months later, so either the breast-feeding or the close proximity of the neighbours on Gertrude had been acting as contraception!
Rations weren’t provided for children under one year of age on the immigrant ships – they were expected to be breastfed. However, a number of “comforts” were provided for the breast-feeding mums and their babies – stout for the mums, and good old sago, tapioca and arrow-root for the babies. Chances are Ovid actually started on solids while on Gertrude – the cereals, a little bread soaked in preserved milk, and maybe a ship’s biscuit to gnaw on when his teeth started to come through. Once in New Zealand, fresh cow’s milk was available – he had his first taste within hours of coming ashore – but if Sarah followed the traditional approach, he probably didn’t see a mashed vegetable until he was much older. Sarah had eight siblings; twins Alfred and Anne were born when she was five, and by the time she turned eight, she had five brothers and sisters. No doubt she had been helping her mother raise babies since she was a small child; sister Caroline was born six months after Sarah had Ovid, so she went straight from caring for her siblings to raising her own babies. She probably did the same things with her children as her mother did, and fed them the same sorts of foods as her mother, and her mother’s mother, had traditionally prepared.
So there we are. Nineteenth century baby food was cereals and breads, seasoned with salt and sugar – not quite as nutritious as what modern babies receive, but less likely to stain than when baby lovingly wipes a face-full of mushy pumpkin all over mum’s blouse.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Let there be light
I have a theory that humans are meant to hibernate in winter, like bears. Come late autumn, I’m ready to disappear into my cave and doze away the winter in the company of a pile of good books and DVDs. I’d like to emerge in spring, somewhat skinnier, better-read and well-rested, raring to go. Unlike the bears, though, I have a mortgage to pay……
I do think we’re out of touch with the natural order of things. We’ve extended our day at both ends with artificial lighting, and we try to hold to pretty much the same routine, summer and winter. Back before artificial lighting, winter meant going to bed not long after sunset, and staying there till sunrise – human hibernation! No wonder I get grumpy in winter – out of bed long before dawn, while the sensible sparrows still have their heads tucked under their wings. It’s barely light when I get to work, and it’s dark when I leave again.
I couldn’t function in winter without electric lighting. Click on the switch, and there’s light – easy, except for the increasing price of it. I do wonder how William and Sarah managed. When I think about them, I can’t help but imagine them in the same quality indoor lighting that I’m used to. I have to remind myself that lighting for them was a completely different thing, and that by comparison with what we have today, the quality of their indoor light was very poor.
William and Sarah had to make far better use of daylight than I do, and get as much done between sun-up and sun-down as possible. Even working indoors, Sarah would have needed to be close to a window to see what she was doing, whether sewing or peeling potatoes. Cloudy overcast winter’s day? Too bad. She couldn’t switch on a light as we do.
Eventually it would get so dark, Sarah would have no choice but to light the lights, and what a choice she had – slush lights, candles and oil lamps. It’s a good thing those Victorians ate so much meat – they needed the fat not just for making soap, but also for making candles and slush lights. Victorian lighting leads me into a whole lot of new terminology to go with the old technology.
The slush lights were basically fat melted into any suitable container, left to harden with a wick in the middle. They must have smelled disgusting, but the candles weren’t much better, being more likely to be tallow than beeswax. Even the lamp fuel was most likely to be smelly whale oil. Lamp and candle wicks were different – they didn’t burn up and disappear like modern ones, they just hung around. The charred bit of wick was called the “snuff” and candle-snuffers weren’t for putting out candles, they were scissor-type arrangements to cut and catch the snuff. You put out your candle by smothering it with a candle “duffer”; blowing or pinching it out left you with a room full of stinky smoke.
Most women made their own candles; home-made being more economical than the store-bought kind. Apparently the candles available in Wellington in the 1840s were imported from Australia and were of very poor quality. William and Sarah might have had to buy a few until Sarah accumulated enough tallow to make her own. A candle-mould was probably one of the household items the Norgroves brought from England, along with at least one metal candle box – metal to keep out the rats and mice, who would have been only too happy to eat the candles. Some women made all their winter candles during the summer; others left it until autumn because the candles would harden quicker in the cooler temperatures.
When it came to lighting the candles, they might have used a paper taper or even wood splinter lit from the fire. Tinder boxes were still in use, but Lucifer matches had been around since the 1830s. Whether William and Sarah would have had money to spend on such things is another matter, but even if they did, they would have used them sparingly, just like the candles.
Along with all the different terminology and equipment – the candle-sticks and chamber-sticks, snuffers and duffers, lucifers, lamps, chimneys, candle-lanterns and moulds – Victorian lighting was labour-intensive. Women had to make the candles and the slush-lights, and store them where the rats couldn’t get at them but people could. They had to clean lamp chimneys and trim candle wicks, and scrape wax out of candle-sticks, and roll paper spills to use as tapers. Flicking a light switch and changing the occasional light bulb is much easier, not to mention cleaner. And it’s lighting that doesn’t smell like dead animals.
While these days candle-light might be fun for a romantic dinner, and it might be manageable for a few hours during a power cut, our candles are clean-burning wax ones, often scented, and we’re not trying to read or sew by their light. William and Sarah’s candles would have flickered and sputtered, and cast deep shadows in corners. They wouldn’t have had a lavish array of candles and lamps lighting up the house – they would have used as few as possible. In winter they would have sat close to the fire, to make the best use of its light; and they wouldn’t have sat up late after sunset anyway.
William and Sarah would have hibernated in winter, getting up with the sun and going to bed when it did. Their days were short and their nights were long – although interestingly, this didn’t result in a whole bunch of little Norgroves. Out of ten children, only Kate, Zoë and Sidney appear to have been conceived from winter night snuggling. William and Sarah were probably too tired to do anything but sleep.
I do think we’re out of touch with the natural order of things. We’ve extended our day at both ends with artificial lighting, and we try to hold to pretty much the same routine, summer and winter. Back before artificial lighting, winter meant going to bed not long after sunset, and staying there till sunrise – human hibernation! No wonder I get grumpy in winter – out of bed long before dawn, while the sensible sparrows still have their heads tucked under their wings. It’s barely light when I get to work, and it’s dark when I leave again.
I couldn’t function in winter without electric lighting. Click on the switch, and there’s light – easy, except for the increasing price of it. I do wonder how William and Sarah managed. When I think about them, I can’t help but imagine them in the same quality indoor lighting that I’m used to. I have to remind myself that lighting for them was a completely different thing, and that by comparison with what we have today, the quality of their indoor light was very poor.
William and Sarah had to make far better use of daylight than I do, and get as much done between sun-up and sun-down as possible. Even working indoors, Sarah would have needed to be close to a window to see what she was doing, whether sewing or peeling potatoes. Cloudy overcast winter’s day? Too bad. She couldn’t switch on a light as we do.
Eventually it would get so dark, Sarah would have no choice but to light the lights, and what a choice she had – slush lights, candles and oil lamps. It’s a good thing those Victorians ate so much meat – they needed the fat not just for making soap, but also for making candles and slush lights. Victorian lighting leads me into a whole lot of new terminology to go with the old technology.
The slush lights were basically fat melted into any suitable container, left to harden with a wick in the middle. They must have smelled disgusting, but the candles weren’t much better, being more likely to be tallow than beeswax. Even the lamp fuel was most likely to be smelly whale oil. Lamp and candle wicks were different – they didn’t burn up and disappear like modern ones, they just hung around. The charred bit of wick was called the “snuff” and candle-snuffers weren’t for putting out candles, they were scissor-type arrangements to cut and catch the snuff. You put out your candle by smothering it with a candle “duffer”; blowing or pinching it out left you with a room full of stinky smoke.
Most women made their own candles; home-made being more economical than the store-bought kind. Apparently the candles available in Wellington in the 1840s were imported from Australia and were of very poor quality. William and Sarah might have had to buy a few until Sarah accumulated enough tallow to make her own. A candle-mould was probably one of the household items the Norgroves brought from England, along with at least one metal candle box – metal to keep out the rats and mice, who would have been only too happy to eat the candles. Some women made all their winter candles during the summer; others left it until autumn because the candles would harden quicker in the cooler temperatures.
When it came to lighting the candles, they might have used a paper taper or even wood splinter lit from the fire. Tinder boxes were still in use, but Lucifer matches had been around since the 1830s. Whether William and Sarah would have had money to spend on such things is another matter, but even if they did, they would have used them sparingly, just like the candles.
Along with all the different terminology and equipment – the candle-sticks and chamber-sticks, snuffers and duffers, lucifers, lamps, chimneys, candle-lanterns and moulds – Victorian lighting was labour-intensive. Women had to make the candles and the slush-lights, and store them where the rats couldn’t get at them but people could. They had to clean lamp chimneys and trim candle wicks, and scrape wax out of candle-sticks, and roll paper spills to use as tapers. Flicking a light switch and changing the occasional light bulb is much easier, not to mention cleaner. And it’s lighting that doesn’t smell like dead animals.
While these days candle-light might be fun for a romantic dinner, and it might be manageable for a few hours during a power cut, our candles are clean-burning wax ones, often scented, and we’re not trying to read or sew by their light. William and Sarah’s candles would have flickered and sputtered, and cast deep shadows in corners. They wouldn’t have had a lavish array of candles and lamps lighting up the house – they would have used as few as possible. In winter they would have sat close to the fire, to make the best use of its light; and they wouldn’t have sat up late after sunset anyway.
William and Sarah would have hibernated in winter, getting up with the sun and going to bed when it did. Their days were short and their nights were long – although interestingly, this didn’t result in a whole bunch of little Norgroves. Out of ten children, only Kate, Zoë and Sidney appear to have been conceived from winter night snuggling. William and Sarah were probably too tired to do anything but sleep.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
First, catch your pukeko
I’ve been reading Tony Simpson’s A Distant Feast : The Origins of New Zealand’s Cuisine, looking at the sort of food our immigrant ancestors might have been eating. For someone who sticks to basic beef, pork and chicken, the vast number of recipes for offal and game has just about given me nightmares. Those Victorians ate anything and everything.
Despite the complaints about food on the immigrant ships, for many of the steerage passengers, the food in the embarkation depots and on ships was better than what most of them had seen in a long time. Many immigrants grew quite stout on board ship; children often became ill at the quantities of food their loving parents stuffed into them.
On arrival in New Zealand, the immigrants discovered that beef and pork were generally plentiful and cheap. Maori had enthusiastically adopted the practice of raising pigs and cattle, and growing fruit and vegetables, for sale or trade to the Europeans. The New Zealand climate made growing vegetables pretty straightforward, and veggie gardens flourished at most early Wellington homes. Raw vegetables were still regarded with a certain amount of suspicion, and most people preferred them to be thoroughly cooked to remove any lingering trace of the poisons they were thought to contain. Even my grandmother’s cookbook from the early 1900s recommends boiling cabbage for 20 minutes – and adding a piece of washing soda to ensure it retained its green colour. Mmmmmm…..
In Britain, fish had been regarded as food for the poor – it was free for the catching, after all. It seems most settlers also avoided sea-fish – whether because the taint was of poverty or the raw sewage in the harbour is not clear. Chicken wasn’t eaten much either – chickens were kept for eggs rather than for food, and only the old ones that had given up laying found their way into the pot.
Then there was game and wild food – pheasants, rabbit, hare, wild pork, eels, koura – if Dad could catch it, Mum would cook it. Even, if you were short of cash and the larder was bare, the ubiquitous swamp hen :
Pukeko Cream Soup
Prepare the bird and set in a large saucepan and cover with water. Add three kumaras and one onion and salt to taste. Now simmer until the bird is tender [this may take some hours] then remove from stock and vegetables. Sieve kumaras and onion and add to stock with half a pint of milk. Heat again and thicken with one tablespoon of cornflour. Before serving, add a small quantity of cream and garnish each serving with chopped parsley and freshly-ground pepper. [And presumably, throw away the pukeko?]
Despite the complaints about food on the immigrant ships, for many of the steerage passengers, the food in the embarkation depots and on ships was better than what most of them had seen in a long time. Many immigrants grew quite stout on board ship; children often became ill at the quantities of food their loving parents stuffed into them.
On arrival in New Zealand, the immigrants discovered that beef and pork were generally plentiful and cheap. Maori had enthusiastically adopted the practice of raising pigs and cattle, and growing fruit and vegetables, for sale or trade to the Europeans. The New Zealand climate made growing vegetables pretty straightforward, and veggie gardens flourished at most early Wellington homes. Raw vegetables were still regarded with a certain amount of suspicion, and most people preferred them to be thoroughly cooked to remove any lingering trace of the poisons they were thought to contain. Even my grandmother’s cookbook from the early 1900s recommends boiling cabbage for 20 minutes – and adding a piece of washing soda to ensure it retained its green colour. Mmmmmm…..
In Britain, fish had been regarded as food for the poor – it was free for the catching, after all. It seems most settlers also avoided sea-fish – whether because the taint was of poverty or the raw sewage in the harbour is not clear. Chicken wasn’t eaten much either – chickens were kept for eggs rather than for food, and only the old ones that had given up laying found their way into the pot.
Then there was game and wild food – pheasants, rabbit, hare, wild pork, eels, koura – if Dad could catch it, Mum would cook it. Even, if you were short of cash and the larder was bare, the ubiquitous swamp hen :
Pukeko Cream Soup
Prepare the bird and set in a large saucepan and cover with water. Add three kumaras and one onion and salt to taste. Now simmer until the bird is tender [this may take some hours] then remove from stock and vegetables. Sieve kumaras and onion and add to stock with half a pint of milk. Heat again and thicken with one tablespoon of cornflour. Before serving, add a small quantity of cream and garnish each serving with chopped parsley and freshly-ground pepper. [And presumably, throw away the pukeko?]
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Moving house
A bunch of us spent yesterday helping our friend Helen move house. It wasn’t the greatest of days – it always seems to pour with rain as soon as you’ve got the beds on the back of a trailer. So there we were, somewhere between cloudbursts – Helen and I were stuffing stereo components and soft toys in the boot of her car, Mac was tying down furniture on the back of his trailer, Em was trying to persuade baby Isobel that sleep was a good idea, and Murray, Dennis and Ivor were hefting furniture onto another trailer at the front of the house – when Helen said, “how do people who don’t have friends manage this?” Good question – I guess they pay people, or struggle along by themselves. And, as I’m still working through William and Sarah’s first few days in Wellington, the big question for me was, how did the Norgroves manage their move from the immigration barracks at Kaiwharawhara to their first house on Thorndon Flat?
The Norgroves had friends, yes, although possibly not like 6-foot, six and a half inch Dennis, able to pick up large sofas and “persuade” them through narrow doorways. They didn’t have family on hand – no parents looking after the kids and organising sandwiches and bacon-and-egg pie for the workers’ lunch, no sister and brother-in-law to help out. But then again, they didn’t have beds and sofas, sideboards and fridges either. The assisted immigrants who travelled steerage to New Zealand couldn’t bring any furniture with them, unlike the cabin passengers, who could bring whatever they could squeeze into their cabins. The only furniture William and Sarah had for their home was the table that William made for that first cup of tea when they came ashore from Gertrude. There might have been some very basic items of furniture on the mud whare that became their first home – maybe shelves and hooks on the wall, perhaps a rough chair or bench, but probably not even a bed.
Many settlers slept on the floor to start with. The first primitive bed was often made from stout stakes rammed into the earth floor, with a rope and sacking hammock base slung from them, and a sacking mattress stuffed with plant material on top. The wooden boxes that brought possessions from England served double duty as both storage and seating. One large tin tub would have been used for everything from washing dishes to bathing them and the baby.
If William and Sarah couldn’t bring furniture, what would they have brought in the boxes that travelled in Gertrude’s hold? William’s tools were a priority – not just the tools of his plumbing trade, but general purpose tools as well. Sarah tells us that on that first day, William unpacked “saw, hammer and nails”, and began making a table.
Sarah would have brought her essential kitchen cooking equipment, including a camp oven; their first kitchen would also have had their tin or pewter plates, cutlery and mugs from the voyage, as well as their share of Gertrude’s left-over provisions. The immigrant ships stocked provisions for six months, and each mess could elect to use less and draw the remainder on landing. Sarah would have had their share of a month’s rations – around 15 kgs of preserved meat, 25kg of ship’s biscuits, and lesser amounts of flour, rice, preserved potatoes, peas, raisins, suet, butter, sugar, tea, salt, coffee, pepper, mustard and vinegar. She wouldn’t have had anywhere to store it, and one of William’s early priorities would have been the manufacture of some kind of food safe, to keep rats and mice away from the supplies, and perhaps some storage bins to keep the flour, rice and sugar dry.
We have no idea of what else William and Sarah brought with them. They would have had their own clothes, and Ovid’s, and Sarah would probably have brought quantities of several different fabrics along with her sewing bag. Would they have brought a china dinner set, or like many settlers, assumed it could be readily replaced on arrival? I’m sure William would have brought books as well as his painting and drawing materials. And Sarah would have asked, just as friends and family have asked me every time I move house, “do you really need all these books?” And like me, William’s reply would have been, “of course”. In fact, like me, William would have probably jettisoned shirts and trousers and jerseys to fit in a few more essential books! Did Sarah have quantities of best linen – embroidered pillow-cases and table cloths – in addition to the sheets, blankets and towels brought along for use on the ship? Would she have tucked treasured knick-knacks and ornaments, sugar bowls, and glasses, in amongst the clothes? What difficult choices had to be made by these people who had far fewer possessions than most of us these days; what should go to the new country, and what should be left behind?
At least having little luggage and only one piece of furniture should have made moving from the immigration barracks to the new house relatively easy. The distance was around two to three kilometres – half an hour to an hour’s walk. John Plimmer tells us that he “hailed a man who was driving a team of bullocks, and asked him if he would take my luggage to town”; Plimmer viewed the man’s rates as extortionate, but accepted them, and so the Plimmer family left the immigration barracks. The Norgroves had no friends and family rolling up in cars with trailers, and there were no household removal firms. Did they find someone to carry their belongings in a bullock cart, or did they walk to the new house, William perhaps making several trips to bring their boxes? I don’t know; for the purposes of the story I have to guess, and my guess is that they walked, carrying Ovid and their bags. At least it would have given William time to try and prepare Sarah for the fact that their new home was nothing like what they had left behind, although probably nothing could have really prepared her for the first sight of that mud whare with clay floors. And while Sarah might have wanted to collapse on the floor and cry her heart out in disappointment, I bet she just straightened her shoulders and set about turning that rough dwelling into a home for her little family.
The Norgroves had friends, yes, although possibly not like 6-foot, six and a half inch Dennis, able to pick up large sofas and “persuade” them through narrow doorways. They didn’t have family on hand – no parents looking after the kids and organising sandwiches and bacon-and-egg pie for the workers’ lunch, no sister and brother-in-law to help out. But then again, they didn’t have beds and sofas, sideboards and fridges either. The assisted immigrants who travelled steerage to New Zealand couldn’t bring any furniture with them, unlike the cabin passengers, who could bring whatever they could squeeze into their cabins. The only furniture William and Sarah had for their home was the table that William made for that first cup of tea when they came ashore from Gertrude. There might have been some very basic items of furniture on the mud whare that became their first home – maybe shelves and hooks on the wall, perhaps a rough chair or bench, but probably not even a bed.
Many settlers slept on the floor to start with. The first primitive bed was often made from stout stakes rammed into the earth floor, with a rope and sacking hammock base slung from them, and a sacking mattress stuffed with plant material on top. The wooden boxes that brought possessions from England served double duty as both storage and seating. One large tin tub would have been used for everything from washing dishes to bathing them and the baby.
If William and Sarah couldn’t bring furniture, what would they have brought in the boxes that travelled in Gertrude’s hold? William’s tools were a priority – not just the tools of his plumbing trade, but general purpose tools as well. Sarah tells us that on that first day, William unpacked “saw, hammer and nails”, and began making a table.
Sarah would have brought her essential kitchen cooking equipment, including a camp oven; their first kitchen would also have had their tin or pewter plates, cutlery and mugs from the voyage, as well as their share of Gertrude’s left-over provisions. The immigrant ships stocked provisions for six months, and each mess could elect to use less and draw the remainder on landing. Sarah would have had their share of a month’s rations – around 15 kgs of preserved meat, 25kg of ship’s biscuits, and lesser amounts of flour, rice, preserved potatoes, peas, raisins, suet, butter, sugar, tea, salt, coffee, pepper, mustard and vinegar. She wouldn’t have had anywhere to store it, and one of William’s early priorities would have been the manufacture of some kind of food safe, to keep rats and mice away from the supplies, and perhaps some storage bins to keep the flour, rice and sugar dry.
We have no idea of what else William and Sarah brought with them. They would have had their own clothes, and Ovid’s, and Sarah would probably have brought quantities of several different fabrics along with her sewing bag. Would they have brought a china dinner set, or like many settlers, assumed it could be readily replaced on arrival? I’m sure William would have brought books as well as his painting and drawing materials. And Sarah would have asked, just as friends and family have asked me every time I move house, “do you really need all these books?” And like me, William’s reply would have been, “of course”. In fact, like me, William would have probably jettisoned shirts and trousers and jerseys to fit in a few more essential books! Did Sarah have quantities of best linen – embroidered pillow-cases and table cloths – in addition to the sheets, blankets and towels brought along for use on the ship? Would she have tucked treasured knick-knacks and ornaments, sugar bowls, and glasses, in amongst the clothes? What difficult choices had to be made by these people who had far fewer possessions than most of us these days; what should go to the new country, and what should be left behind?
At least having little luggage and only one piece of furniture should have made moving from the immigration barracks to the new house relatively easy. The distance was around two to three kilometres – half an hour to an hour’s walk. John Plimmer tells us that he “hailed a man who was driving a team of bullocks, and asked him if he would take my luggage to town”; Plimmer viewed the man’s rates as extortionate, but accepted them, and so the Plimmer family left the immigration barracks. The Norgroves had no friends and family rolling up in cars with trailers, and there were no household removal firms. Did they find someone to carry their belongings in a bullock cart, or did they walk to the new house, William perhaps making several trips to bring their boxes? I don’t know; for the purposes of the story I have to guess, and my guess is that they walked, carrying Ovid and their bags. At least it would have given William time to try and prepare Sarah for the fact that their new home was nothing like what they had left behind, although probably nothing could have really prepared her for the first sight of that mud whare with clay floors. And while Sarah might have wanted to collapse on the floor and cry her heart out in disappointment, I bet she just straightened her shoulders and set about turning that rough dwelling into a home for her little family.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Why I'd want to hug a tree
I get a lot of thinking done in the shower. In fact, I have some of my best ideas when I’m in the shower. Standing with my head under a stream of hot water, the sound of the water a kind of white noise blanking out everything else in the background – this guarantees ideas. Of course, quite a lot of ideas go straight down the drain with the shampoo, because there’s no way I can stop and write things down…
This morning it occurred to me to wonder what I’d want most when
I got ashore if I’d spent five months on a sailing ship like William and Sarah did. It didn’t take me long to decide on my top priorities :
This morning it occurred to me to wonder what I’d want most when
I got ashore if I’d spent five months on a sailing ship like William and Sarah did. It didn’t take me long to decide on my top priorities :
- fresh water. After months of drinking brackish, tainted, mud-coloured water which probably wasn’t of great quality to start with, I think I probably would have staggered ashore and thrown myself face down into the Kaiwharawhara stream and slurped like a dog. How many of the Gertrude passengers would have done likewise? I bet most of them at least bent to scoop up a handful to taste – how else would William have known how sweet and clear the water was?
- privacy. Not a concept that the Victorians were particularly familiar with, given the large numbers in their families. But it’s something I cherish, and if I’d spent twenty weeks cheek by jowl with 170 men, women, children and babies, I’d want to go somewhere very quiet, all by myself, for a while. The immigrants might not have the same concept of privacy, and desire for it, as I do, but they were probably looking forward to getting away from their fellow passengers, especially the ones whose voices or manner or very appearance had begun to grate after such a long time together. No wonder the Gertrude passengers were less than thrilled when they discovered they were expected to squash themselves together again in the immigration barracks, and no wonder men like William wasted no time finding new accommodation.
- cleanliness. I’ve grown up in a society that places a very high value on personal hygiene, unlike those early settlers. I wouldn’t just be face down in the stream, I’d be in there clothes and all with a bar of soap, scrubbing myself raw. Five months on a sailing ship with minimal washing facilities? Assuming the passengers were even moderately clean to start with, by Wellington they would be scurfy, greasy, smelly, lice-infested and disgusting. Apparently, if the wind was blowing onshore, the townspeople could smell the immigrant ships some distance off. Lovely. A good scrub might not have been a top priority for the Gertrude passengers, but it would be for me. This could also help answer point 2 above – my desire for privacy – I suspect I’d have the stream to myself!
- salad! Five months without fresh vegetables would be almost unbearable. I’m not a fanatic for salads, but I’m pretty sure that by the end of five months eating boiled salt beef, doughy puddings and bad spuds, I’d be dreaming about crispy lettuce, juicy tomatoes and crunchy carrots. Not sure that my fellow passengers would be thinking the same way – the view that the only good vegetable was a well-cooked one dominated English and New Zealand cuisine well into the twentieth century. However they might feel about salads, the Gertrude passengers would have been looking forward to a change of diet, and fresh food.
And after all that, how about a nice walk, enjoying the sights we’ve been deprived of for so long? Trees, grass, simple stuff like that – contemporary accounts indicate that the immigrants were craving perfectly ordinary land-based scenery by the time their ships reached New Zealand. I think I’d probably feel like hugging a tree or two…
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Friends and neighbours
I’ve been pursuing my quest to find Norgrove friends from their earliest days in Wellington, living on Thorndon Flat. First up, I had to figure out where Thorndon Flat was, because it’s not a locality name that is used today. In a general sense, Thorndon Flat was the area north of Clay Point (now Stewart Dawson’s corner, at the intersection of Lambton Quay and Willis St) – the government end of town in the 1840s. In a more particular sense, Thorndon Flat referred to the area to the east of Molesworth Street. It would have encompassed the flattish land now roughly bounded by Molesworth Street to the west, Katherine Mansfield Place to the south, Hobson St to the east and not quite to Tinakori Rd in the north (there being a bit of a gully between the “flat” and Tinakori Rd where the motorway is now). It’s quite a large area, and presumably a stranger looking for the Norgrove house in 1842 could have wandered around quite a bit of Thorndon before finding it. At least I can be confident that wherever the house was, it wasn’t on any of the streets that actually existed at the time (Mulgrave, Murphy, Molesworth, Pipitea) because those street names would have been given as the address rather than “Thorndon Flat”.
The area had some of the prime Wellington sections, but the wealthy owners were all absentee, and the land was mostly idle, or rented to settlers who couldn’t afford to buy their own land. Only one of the wealthy owners actually lived on Thorndon Flat – Charles Clifford Esq, gentleman, grazier and later JP, arrived as a cabin passenger on the George Fyfe in November 1842 and took up residence on his town acre. Chances are, he didn’t have much contact with his steerage class neighbours, and it’s unlikely that he invited the Norgroves round for tea and cucumber sandwiches.
To identify William and Sarah’s neighbours 1841 and 1842, I looked at the earliest available electoral records, the burgess rolls of 1842 and 1843, to see which other passengers from Gertrude lived nearby.
After a couple of false starts at obtaining some form of local government, Wellington was proclaimed the first borough in New Zealand on 21 May 1842. An electoral roll was immediately drawn up, although elections were not held until October. All adult males were eligible to be on the roll – they just had to enrol and pay a fee of £1. The fee may have disenfranchised many – William Norgrove does not appear on the 1842 roll, but does appear in 1843, when the fee had been reduced to 2/6. Despite the 1842 fee, a surprising number of would-be electors made their home on Thorndon Flat – 21 men, most of whom can be tracked back into passenger lists as being married men with families.
I had already identified John and Amelia Gill as steerage passengers from Gertrude and Thorndon Flat residents. Other possible Gertrude friends were Adrian Lowe, a 27 year old printer and engraver and his 28 year old wife Frances, and their six month old daughter.
A fellow Gertrude passenger, but possibly not bosom buddy, was William Pike. He was accompanied by his wife Elizabeth and their two sons and three daughters, who ranged in age from five months to eight years. William gave his occupation as “agricultural labourer” but on arrival in Wellington he became a storekeeper. Amongst his wares, Pike sold wines and spirits, although without a license. During the 1840s, Pike made numerous court appearances for illegal liquor sales, and was sentenced to jail at least twice. It seems he was well-known to the locals as a supplier of liquor, as there was no shortage of people willing to testify to their purchases – presumably the only illegality was selling without a license, and purchasers weren’t prosecuted. This must have made the neighbourhood interesting, with people dropping by under cover of darkness to purchase untaxed and illegal alcohol. Did the Norgroves know what was going on, or not? Did they even buy liquor from the Pikes? Did Mrs Pike carry on running the store, liquor and all, while her husband was in jail? Would William and Sarah have been supportive of her in her time of need, or would they have quietly avoided her?
William and Eliza Fisher were a young couple with an infant daughter who arrived on the Catherine Stewart Forbes in June 1841. William Fisher was a painter and plasterer, so it’s even possible he might have worked with our William in the early days, although later in the 1840s he would have become a business rival.
Eliza Fisher may have been one who, by virtue of having lived in Wellington for fourth months, was able to help Sarah settle in, show her where to go and how to get things done. Other women who were already settled nearby included Mary Ann Buxton, who arrived on Adelaide in 1840 with her husband and children; Jessie Evans, a young nursemaid who also arrived on the Adelaide, accompanied by her brother John; Mrs John McBeth, who arrived on Bengal Merchant in February 1840; and Sarah Pratt, who was 29 and childless when she and her husband arrived on Martha Ridgeway in November 1840. Another Martha Ridgeway passenger would have been one of the few middle-aged women in the neighbourhood – Elizabeth Hunt was 47 when she set off for New Zealand with her husband, nine children, one daughter-in-law and a grandson. The younger women of Thorndon Flat may have turned to her for the kind of advice and support they were used to getting from their own mothers.
In all, in May 1842, there were 21 families in Thorndon Flat whose men enrolled to vote, as well as 2 single men. There must have been others who, like William, couldn’t spare £1 to exercise their vote, or who perhaps were not interested in participating in democracy. By May 1843, when the next burgess roll was drawn up, only seven of the original families can be confirmed as remaining in Thorndon Flat, although there may have been others whose menfolk weren’t on the burgess roll. It would be an interesting exercise to figure out where they all went, but that’s not why I’m here………………
The point of this exercise was to figure out who was living near William and Sarah in 1841/1842. Thorndon Flat turns out to have been a larger neighbourhood than I was expecting – physically, it’s a space which has a huge number of buildings crammed into these days, including the building I work in. In the early 1840s, the houses must have been reasonably widely separated, with lots of empty space – it’s where the gentlemen of the Wellington Cricket Club first played their cricket matches, and it was also used as a military parade ground. Even so, it’s clear that William and Sarah would have found plenty of congenial company among people of similar backgrounds.
The area had some of the prime Wellington sections, but the wealthy owners were all absentee, and the land was mostly idle, or rented to settlers who couldn’t afford to buy their own land. Only one of the wealthy owners actually lived on Thorndon Flat – Charles Clifford Esq, gentleman, grazier and later JP, arrived as a cabin passenger on the George Fyfe in November 1842 and took up residence on his town acre. Chances are, he didn’t have much contact with his steerage class neighbours, and it’s unlikely that he invited the Norgroves round for tea and cucumber sandwiches.
To identify William and Sarah’s neighbours 1841 and 1842, I looked at the earliest available electoral records, the burgess rolls of 1842 and 1843, to see which other passengers from Gertrude lived nearby.
After a couple of false starts at obtaining some form of local government, Wellington was proclaimed the first borough in New Zealand on 21 May 1842. An electoral roll was immediately drawn up, although elections were not held until October. All adult males were eligible to be on the roll – they just had to enrol and pay a fee of £1. The fee may have disenfranchised many – William Norgrove does not appear on the 1842 roll, but does appear in 1843, when the fee had been reduced to 2/6. Despite the 1842 fee, a surprising number of would-be electors made their home on Thorndon Flat – 21 men, most of whom can be tracked back into passenger lists as being married men with families.
I had already identified John and Amelia Gill as steerage passengers from Gertrude and Thorndon Flat residents. Other possible Gertrude friends were Adrian Lowe, a 27 year old printer and engraver and his 28 year old wife Frances, and their six month old daughter.
A fellow Gertrude passenger, but possibly not bosom buddy, was William Pike. He was accompanied by his wife Elizabeth and their two sons and three daughters, who ranged in age from five months to eight years. William gave his occupation as “agricultural labourer” but on arrival in Wellington he became a storekeeper. Amongst his wares, Pike sold wines and spirits, although without a license. During the 1840s, Pike made numerous court appearances for illegal liquor sales, and was sentenced to jail at least twice. It seems he was well-known to the locals as a supplier of liquor, as there was no shortage of people willing to testify to their purchases – presumably the only illegality was selling without a license, and purchasers weren’t prosecuted. This must have made the neighbourhood interesting, with people dropping by under cover of darkness to purchase untaxed and illegal alcohol. Did the Norgroves know what was going on, or not? Did they even buy liquor from the Pikes? Did Mrs Pike carry on running the store, liquor and all, while her husband was in jail? Would William and Sarah have been supportive of her in her time of need, or would they have quietly avoided her?
William and Eliza Fisher were a young couple with an infant daughter who arrived on the Catherine Stewart Forbes in June 1841. William Fisher was a painter and plasterer, so it’s even possible he might have worked with our William in the early days, although later in the 1840s he would have become a business rival.
Eliza Fisher may have been one who, by virtue of having lived in Wellington for fourth months, was able to help Sarah settle in, show her where to go and how to get things done. Other women who were already settled nearby included Mary Ann Buxton, who arrived on Adelaide in 1840 with her husband and children; Jessie Evans, a young nursemaid who also arrived on the Adelaide, accompanied by her brother John; Mrs John McBeth, who arrived on Bengal Merchant in February 1840; and Sarah Pratt, who was 29 and childless when she and her husband arrived on Martha Ridgeway in November 1840. Another Martha Ridgeway passenger would have been one of the few middle-aged women in the neighbourhood – Elizabeth Hunt was 47 when she set off for New Zealand with her husband, nine children, one daughter-in-law and a grandson. The younger women of Thorndon Flat may have turned to her for the kind of advice and support they were used to getting from their own mothers.
In all, in May 1842, there were 21 families in Thorndon Flat whose men enrolled to vote, as well as 2 single men. There must have been others who, like William, couldn’t spare £1 to exercise their vote, or who perhaps were not interested in participating in democracy. By May 1843, when the next burgess roll was drawn up, only seven of the original families can be confirmed as remaining in Thorndon Flat, although there may have been others whose menfolk weren’t on the burgess roll. It would be an interesting exercise to figure out where they all went, but that’s not why I’m here………………
The point of this exercise was to figure out who was living near William and Sarah in 1841/1842. Thorndon Flat turns out to have been a larger neighbourhood than I was expecting – physically, it’s a space which has a huge number of buildings crammed into these days, including the building I work in. In the early 1840s, the houses must have been reasonably widely separated, with lots of empty space – it’s where the gentlemen of the Wellington Cricket Club first played their cricket matches, and it was also used as a military parade ground. Even so, it’s clear that William and Sarah would have found plenty of congenial company among people of similar backgrounds.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Women friends
There are always emails circulating on the internet about the importance of a woman’s friends. I was reading one yesterday that had been sent to Mum, which she wanted to share with her friends. It reminded me that the last bit of research I was working on was to try and identify some of Sarah’s friends – and that the main reason I hadn’t been researching and blogging for the last couple of weeks (apart from exhaustion – I’m sure humans are meant to hibernate in winter) is that I’ve been spending time with and helping my friends.
The reason it’s important to me to identify some of Sarah’s friends is because, like all those emails say, it’s your women friends who get you through the tough times, who share life’s joys and pains and humdrum moments with you. Your friends are the ones who tell you where to find the super-duper on-sale bargains. They go shopping with you, and know how to answer the question, “does my bum look big in this?” They hold your screaming baby so you can have five minutes peace and quiet in the loo. They put the kettle on and make cups of tea while you go and wash the tears off your face. They put your 10 year old daughter in make-up and high heels and smuggle her past the no-children-under-16 sign to visit you in hospital. They turn up in the afternoon and cram you and the kids in the car for an impromptu trip to the beach. They come to the fence to hand you cake still warm from the oven because they just had to tell you how happy they were that they’ve finally cracked the perfect marble cake recipe. They help you shift house. They lend you a table when you don’t have one. They sew with you. They send you cheery texts when you’re sick. Your women friends are there to hold you up when you can’t cope, when your marriage falls apart, when the kids are driving you crazy, when you don’t know how you’re going to pay the electricity bill, when you want to kill your boss. Your women friends celebrate with you when you’ve found a new love or had a baby or passed a test or just because it’s Friday.
When Sarah came to New Zealand, she left behind her mother, her sisters and her friends. Many of those relationships survived through letter-writing – we know about the family ones because some of the letters have survived, but we know nothing of the friends she left behind. And letters would have been small comfort in a new and unfamiliar country. New women friends would have been Sarah’s support, sharing with her the experiences of the rawness of early Wellington, the longing for the familiar things and people of home, the struggle to make do and get on in their new life. They would have watched out for each other’s children, helped deliver each other’s babies, shared news of home and worries about money. They would have laughed together at the small things women manage to find funny, and they would have cried together at heartbreaks and fears, tragedies and pains.
For the early days in Wellington, I can only speculate about who Sarah’s friends may have been. Eliza Plimmer is likely to have been a shipboard friend – the Plimmer and Norgrove bunks were adjacent, and like Sarah, Eliza was a young mum following her husband to a new country. How much time they might have spent together after arriving in Wellington is debatable – the Plimmers lived initially in Vivian St, while the Norgroves lived on Thorndon Flat. With busy lives and no access to transport, opportunities to meet must have been very limited. They would rapidly have grown apart socially, as well – John Plimmer’s quicly found success in business, as well as increased social and political influence, while William’s business ventures met with only patchy success.
Also on board Gertrude with the Norgroves were John and Amelia Gill, and their one-year old son, Frederick. The Gills settled in Thorndon Flat, so for the first year or so would have been close neighbours. With sons of the same age, and the shared experience of the voyage, it seems likely that Sarah and Amelia could have been friends. There are one or two other Gertrude families who also lived in the area who I’m targeting for some further research. Some time soon, a surprised descendant of a Gertrude passenger is going to get a email from me asking if they mind their great-great grandma being written into my great-great grandma’s story!
One friend we do know about is Emma Lumsden, who arrived in Wellington with her husband William on the Oriental just a few days before the Norgroves arrived on Gertrude. William Lumsden was a gardener and nurseryman. The Lumsdens don’t seem to have ever lived particularly close to the Norgroves – newspapers, almanacs and electoral rolls show them in Wadestown in the mid-1840s, Hawkestone St in 1849 and Tinakori Rd in the 1850s and 1860s. Somehow, though, a connection was made, and a friendship formed that lasted even after the Norgroves left Wellington – evidenced by one surviving letter. In 1863, by then widowed, Emma sends bulbs and seeds to Sarah, along with a very affectionate note to Emma Norgrove, then about 14 – could the young Emma have been named for Emma Lumsden even?
Then there’s Mrs Earll. We have a couple of letters written by Sarah later in life, one to daughter Gertrude and her husband Joe, who had moved to Wellington, and one to the family in Blenheim while Sarah was herself in Wellington visiting family and friends. The Earlls are mentioned in both letters – in fact Mrs Earll accompanied Sarah on the Wellington trip – Sarah says in her letter that “I should have been very dull but for Mrs Earll”, although her letter outlines a very busy and sociable time. William Earll seems to have been a joiner who had a sash and door factory in Blenheim, so it’s possible that the women may have met through their husbands who would have been connected by their jobs.
I’ve pondered long enough on Sarah’s friends. I’m going to and eat some of my friend Anne’s marble cake before it goes cold!
The reason it’s important to me to identify some of Sarah’s friends is because, like all those emails say, it’s your women friends who get you through the tough times, who share life’s joys and pains and humdrum moments with you. Your friends are the ones who tell you where to find the super-duper on-sale bargains. They go shopping with you, and know how to answer the question, “does my bum look big in this?” They hold your screaming baby so you can have five minutes peace and quiet in the loo. They put the kettle on and make cups of tea while you go and wash the tears off your face. They put your 10 year old daughter in make-up and high heels and smuggle her past the no-children-under-16 sign to visit you in hospital. They turn up in the afternoon and cram you and the kids in the car for an impromptu trip to the beach. They come to the fence to hand you cake still warm from the oven because they just had to tell you how happy they were that they’ve finally cracked the perfect marble cake recipe. They help you shift house. They lend you a table when you don’t have one. They sew with you. They send you cheery texts when you’re sick. Your women friends are there to hold you up when you can’t cope, when your marriage falls apart, when the kids are driving you crazy, when you don’t know how you’re going to pay the electricity bill, when you want to kill your boss. Your women friends celebrate with you when you’ve found a new love or had a baby or passed a test or just because it’s Friday.
When Sarah came to New Zealand, she left behind her mother, her sisters and her friends. Many of those relationships survived through letter-writing – we know about the family ones because some of the letters have survived, but we know nothing of the friends she left behind. And letters would have been small comfort in a new and unfamiliar country. New women friends would have been Sarah’s support, sharing with her the experiences of the rawness of early Wellington, the longing for the familiar things and people of home, the struggle to make do and get on in their new life. They would have watched out for each other’s children, helped deliver each other’s babies, shared news of home and worries about money. They would have laughed together at the small things women manage to find funny, and they would have cried together at heartbreaks and fears, tragedies and pains.
For the early days in Wellington, I can only speculate about who Sarah’s friends may have been. Eliza Plimmer is likely to have been a shipboard friend – the Plimmer and Norgrove bunks were adjacent, and like Sarah, Eliza was a young mum following her husband to a new country. How much time they might have spent together after arriving in Wellington is debatable – the Plimmers lived initially in Vivian St, while the Norgroves lived on Thorndon Flat. With busy lives and no access to transport, opportunities to meet must have been very limited. They would rapidly have grown apart socially, as well – John Plimmer’s quicly found success in business, as well as increased social and political influence, while William’s business ventures met with only patchy success.
Also on board Gertrude with the Norgroves were John and Amelia Gill, and their one-year old son, Frederick. The Gills settled in Thorndon Flat, so for the first year or so would have been close neighbours. With sons of the same age, and the shared experience of the voyage, it seems likely that Sarah and Amelia could have been friends. There are one or two other Gertrude families who also lived in the area who I’m targeting for some further research. Some time soon, a surprised descendant of a Gertrude passenger is going to get a email from me asking if they mind their great-great grandma being written into my great-great grandma’s story!
One friend we do know about is Emma Lumsden, who arrived in Wellington with her husband William on the Oriental just a few days before the Norgroves arrived on Gertrude. William Lumsden was a gardener and nurseryman. The Lumsdens don’t seem to have ever lived particularly close to the Norgroves – newspapers, almanacs and electoral rolls show them in Wadestown in the mid-1840s, Hawkestone St in 1849 and Tinakori Rd in the 1850s and 1860s. Somehow, though, a connection was made, and a friendship formed that lasted even after the Norgroves left Wellington – evidenced by one surviving letter. In 1863, by then widowed, Emma sends bulbs and seeds to Sarah, along with a very affectionate note to Emma Norgrove, then about 14 – could the young Emma have been named for Emma Lumsden even?
Then there’s Mrs Earll. We have a couple of letters written by Sarah later in life, one to daughter Gertrude and her husband Joe, who had moved to Wellington, and one to the family in Blenheim while Sarah was herself in Wellington visiting family and friends. The Earlls are mentioned in both letters – in fact Mrs Earll accompanied Sarah on the Wellington trip – Sarah says in her letter that “I should have been very dull but for Mrs Earll”, although her letter outlines a very busy and sociable time. William Earll seems to have been a joiner who had a sash and door factory in Blenheim, so it’s possible that the women may have met through their husbands who would have been connected by their jobs.
I’ve pondered long enough on Sarah’s friends. I’m going to and eat some of my friend Anne’s marble cake before it goes cold!
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Making soap
We were talking at lunch yesterday about the Depression, and things women did back then, like turning sheets side to middle, and making soap. Actually, with rising mortgage rates and petrol prices, and the drive for less waste and more sustainable lifestyles, there has been quite a bit in the media lately about the simpler life and rediscovering the thrifty tricks of our fore-mothers. Not to mention the health gurus recommending eating the way our [great] grandparents did (if not the way our cave ancestors did) – food in its closest-to-natural state, rather than processed and packaged beyond recognition. I heard a doctor the other night who said to imagine you were taking your grandmother or great grandmother to the supermarket – anything that she wouldn’t recognise as food shouldn’t go in the shopping trolley.
Which would be great, if only grandma was living at my place, so that when I staggered home from a day spent fighting corporate fires, there would be a great steaming plate of fresh cooked veggies from the garden waiting for my dinner. My grandmother wouldn’t recognise 50% of things in my kitchen cupboards and fridge. Great-great grandmother Sarah wouldn’t recognise 95% of the food in my kitchen, and she probably wouldn’t recognise my kitchen either, being as she didn’t have a fridge, electric oven, even hot and cold piped water, let alone a microwave.
Anyway, Dad said he was really surprised one day, arriving at my Mum’s parents’ place, to find my Nan making soap in the copper. This would have been the late 1950s or early 1960s, so there can’t have been many women still making their own soap. Mum says it was the soap they used for washing the dishes (well, thank goodness for dolphin-friendly detergent, I say). When Granny Norgrove (that would be Edith, wife of Oscar, Sarah’s second son) was still alive and living with Mum’s family, it was her particular job to make the soap. So, there’s soap-making for domestic use still in living memory in my family, and I can see the line of my soap-making fore-mothers stretching back into the distant past.
Sarah would absolutely have made her own soap. She would have saved all the fat and tallow that came into the house for this – right down to the last bacon rind, probably – until she had enough to make a big boil-up worthwhile. Storing fat without refrigeration – stinky. There were ways of granulating the fat for long-term storage without the pong, which involved boiling and straining, and reheating in water until the granular stage was achieved. Great choice – extra hours of back-breaking work, or putting up with rancid fat?
When it was time for soap-making, out came the copper or the kettle, and the lye and the fat, for a great boil-up. [Nasty stuff, lye. Soap-making time would have been one of those occasions when you’d want to be quite sure that your adventurous toddler was firmly tied to a solid piece of furniture far, far away from the soap-making operation.] The fire was lit and stoked up and fed well to keep it hot. Once the fat and lye were melted and creamy, salt was added to harden it, and then it was stirred like mad until the soap started forming and leaving a ring around the stirring stick. Then the fire was put out and the soap left to harden, or poured out into moulds. When hard, it was cut up with wire and stored for use – for washing dishes, or grating into the copper to wash the clothes, and even as bath soap. Unless you had something sweet-scented to add to the brew, you wouldn’t have come out of the bath smelling all that sweet and clean...
So soap-making was hot, hard physical work involving dangerous chemicals and reeking rancid fat. We might yearn for a return to simpler times, but I’d rather sleep on the hard seam of sheets turned side-to-middle than have to make soap. I’ll be more grateful in future for the dolphin-friendly squeezy-bottle detergent, the low-suds sensitive-skin washing powder, and the vanilla-scented body-wash……………
Which would be great, if only grandma was living at my place, so that when I staggered home from a day spent fighting corporate fires, there would be a great steaming plate of fresh cooked veggies from the garden waiting for my dinner. My grandmother wouldn’t recognise 50% of things in my kitchen cupboards and fridge. Great-great grandmother Sarah wouldn’t recognise 95% of the food in my kitchen, and she probably wouldn’t recognise my kitchen either, being as she didn’t have a fridge, electric oven, even hot and cold piped water, let alone a microwave.
Anyway, Dad said he was really surprised one day, arriving at my Mum’s parents’ place, to find my Nan making soap in the copper. This would have been the late 1950s or early 1960s, so there can’t have been many women still making their own soap. Mum says it was the soap they used for washing the dishes (well, thank goodness for dolphin-friendly detergent, I say). When Granny Norgrove (that would be Edith, wife of Oscar, Sarah’s second son) was still alive and living with Mum’s family, it was her particular job to make the soap. So, there’s soap-making for domestic use still in living memory in my family, and I can see the line of my soap-making fore-mothers stretching back into the distant past.
Sarah would absolutely have made her own soap. She would have saved all the fat and tallow that came into the house for this – right down to the last bacon rind, probably – until she had enough to make a big boil-up worthwhile. Storing fat without refrigeration – stinky. There were ways of granulating the fat for long-term storage without the pong, which involved boiling and straining, and reheating in water until the granular stage was achieved. Great choice – extra hours of back-breaking work, or putting up with rancid fat?
When it was time for soap-making, out came the copper or the kettle, and the lye and the fat, for a great boil-up. [Nasty stuff, lye. Soap-making time would have been one of those occasions when you’d want to be quite sure that your adventurous toddler was firmly tied to a solid piece of furniture far, far away from the soap-making operation.] The fire was lit and stoked up and fed well to keep it hot. Once the fat and lye were melted and creamy, salt was added to harden it, and then it was stirred like mad until the soap started forming and leaving a ring around the stirring stick. Then the fire was put out and the soap left to harden, or poured out into moulds. When hard, it was cut up with wire and stored for use – for washing dishes, or grating into the copper to wash the clothes, and even as bath soap. Unless you had something sweet-scented to add to the brew, you wouldn’t have come out of the bath smelling all that sweet and clean...
So soap-making was hot, hard physical work involving dangerous chemicals and reeking rancid fat. We might yearn for a return to simpler times, but I’d rather sleep on the hard seam of sheets turned side-to-middle than have to make soap. I’ll be more grateful in future for the dolphin-friendly squeezy-bottle detergent, the low-suds sensitive-skin washing powder, and the vanilla-scented body-wash……………
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Autumn
I was admiring the autumn leaves as I drove through Greytown on Saturday. Autumn seems to have been a long time coming – a drawn-out summer (not complaining) punctuated by some nasty storms, like a series of false starts. It seemed the trees didn’t quite know what to do for a while there, but now the autumn colours are in full swing. In a week or so, I’ll be driving through Greytown with the windscreen wipers going, to bat away the blizzards of tumbling leaves.
I wondered what Sarah and William thought of their first autumn in New Zealand, in 1842. New Zealand doesn’t have many deciduous native trees, and any English trees planted by settlers would be little more than saplings, so they wouldn’t have seen much autumn colour. And unless there’s a wild southerly, Wellington in autumn is pretty mild. Frosts are rare right down in the city, even in mid-winter. Only once have I seen a frost so hard and cold that even the railway sleepers around the side of the harbour between Petone and Wellington were white and glittering with ice crystals. Once or twice in a winter, I’ll see Parliament’s lawns frozen over – it’s such an unexpected sight that we public servants are startled out of our morning trudge to stop and stare.
So what was happening this week in 1842? The big news is that the Norgrove family was expecting an addition. Sarah was somewhere between 3 and 4 months pregnant – far enough along to be reasonably sure about it, but perhaps not far enough to be hinting in letters home about the anticipated “increase”. [The baby, to be born on November 1st, was my great-grandfather Oscar.] Sarah’s mind would have already been turning to how she was going to manage this confinement, so far from the support of her mother and sisters.
The family was still living on Thorndon flat, in the mud whare William rented for them on their second day in New Zealand. It had a clay floor, a leaky roof, and no glass in the windows – just calico covers. They were sharing with a former shipmate, who was in fact probably a lodger, and Sarah would have been feeding him and doing his washing as well as tending to William and Ovid. The expected baby must have put the pressure on, because before the end of winter the family moved to a better house on Lambton Quay.
In early May the weather was still relatively mild. The days were mainly breezy but fine, with day-time temperatures in the mid-teens, sometimes getting as high as 18 or 22. Labour was in short supply and high demand, and wages were good. “Mechanics” were commanding £2 a week, and general labourers £1/10. As William wasn’t yet advertising his painting business, it seems likely he was working for someone else and enjoying the benefit of the high wages.
Food prices were generally reasonable, although bread at 10s for a loaf was a little pricey – more likely reflecting a shortage of bakers than the price of flour, which was 3d to 4d per pound. Sarah could get fresh beef at 10d a pound, mutton at 9d a pound and pork at 4d a pound. Eggs were 3 shillings for a dozen, so a couple of laying hens at 4 shillings each would have been worth saving for.
The Mechanics’ Institute had had its first meeting. William was to become a stalwart member, and for a period, also taught the drawing class. There was plenty of land for sale in Wellington, and the Manawatu was beginning to open up as well. A selection of houses available for rent began to appear in newspaper advertisements, along with job vacancies. The only dark cloud on the horizon was the forthcoming investigation of land claims by William Spain, the Commissioner for Land. As virtually all of the New Zealand Company’s Wellington land purchases were to be investigated, it would have been an uncomfortable time for landowners and local Maori.
After six months in New Zealand, the Norgroves would have been starting to feel quite settled. The strangeness of the place would have started to wear off as they got into the routines of their new life. Their rather rickety accommodation probably hadn’t caused many problems in what would have seemed to them to be quite balmy weather. And their first little New Zealander was on his way……………..
I wondered what Sarah and William thought of their first autumn in New Zealand, in 1842. New Zealand doesn’t have many deciduous native trees, and any English trees planted by settlers would be little more than saplings, so they wouldn’t have seen much autumn colour. And unless there’s a wild southerly, Wellington in autumn is pretty mild. Frosts are rare right down in the city, even in mid-winter. Only once have I seen a frost so hard and cold that even the railway sleepers around the side of the harbour between Petone and Wellington were white and glittering with ice crystals. Once or twice in a winter, I’ll see Parliament’s lawns frozen over – it’s such an unexpected sight that we public servants are startled out of our morning trudge to stop and stare.
So what was happening this week in 1842? The big news is that the Norgrove family was expecting an addition. Sarah was somewhere between 3 and 4 months pregnant – far enough along to be reasonably sure about it, but perhaps not far enough to be hinting in letters home about the anticipated “increase”. [The baby, to be born on November 1st, was my great-grandfather Oscar.] Sarah’s mind would have already been turning to how she was going to manage this confinement, so far from the support of her mother and sisters.
The family was still living on Thorndon flat, in the mud whare William rented for them on their second day in New Zealand. It had a clay floor, a leaky roof, and no glass in the windows – just calico covers. They were sharing with a former shipmate, who was in fact probably a lodger, and Sarah would have been feeding him and doing his washing as well as tending to William and Ovid. The expected baby must have put the pressure on, because before the end of winter the family moved to a better house on Lambton Quay.
In early May the weather was still relatively mild. The days were mainly breezy but fine, with day-time temperatures in the mid-teens, sometimes getting as high as 18 or 22. Labour was in short supply and high demand, and wages were good. “Mechanics” were commanding £2 a week, and general labourers £1/10. As William wasn’t yet advertising his painting business, it seems likely he was working for someone else and enjoying the benefit of the high wages.
Food prices were generally reasonable, although bread at 10s for a loaf was a little pricey – more likely reflecting a shortage of bakers than the price of flour, which was 3d to 4d per pound. Sarah could get fresh beef at 10d a pound, mutton at 9d a pound and pork at 4d a pound. Eggs were 3 shillings for a dozen, so a couple of laying hens at 4 shillings each would have been worth saving for.
The Mechanics’ Institute had had its first meeting. William was to become a stalwart member, and for a period, also taught the drawing class. There was plenty of land for sale in Wellington, and the Manawatu was beginning to open up as well. A selection of houses available for rent began to appear in newspaper advertisements, along with job vacancies. The only dark cloud on the horizon was the forthcoming investigation of land claims by William Spain, the Commissioner for Land. As virtually all of the New Zealand Company’s Wellington land purchases were to be investigated, it would have been an uncomfortable time for landowners and local Maori.
After six months in New Zealand, the Norgroves would have been starting to feel quite settled. The strangeness of the place would have started to wear off as they got into the routines of their new life. Their rather rickety accommodation probably hadn’t caused many problems in what would have seemed to them to be quite balmy weather. And their first little New Zealander was on his way……………..
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Baby wrangling
Last week my friend Helen asked an interesting question – how did Sarah carry Ovid? Okay, so initially it didn’t seem much of a question. At the time, we were sitting together on the train, and Helen had her 15-week-old Isabel slung across her lap, and I had teeny little Izzy-feet pummelling my thigh, and it seemed kind of obvious how any mother would carry a baby. But what she meant was, how did Sarah carry Ovid when she needed her hands free? Helen pointed out how women in most cultures had some kind of sling arrangement for carrying small babies. Maori women carried them in a kind of kete, or sometimes a sling made out of beaten lacebark. Izzy herself had arrived on board the train in a nifty stretchy sling, tied and knotted around Helen’s body so that the baby was pressed firmly face-first into her mum’s chest.
I have no kind of mental picture of women of Sarah’s time and class carrying or wearing babies in this way. You don’t see it in art; you don’t see it in photographs – although with the long exposure times of early photography, there aren’t many candid snaps – everything is carefully posed, adults and older children frozen straight-faced. Very young children are often blurs in these early photographs because they simply couldn’t keep still. It seemed to me that western women had moved away from baby-wearing before the nineteenth century, and didn’t rediscover it until the 1960s and 70s. Some quick internet research confirms this – baby-wearing seems to have remained normal practice for women from all over the world except western women.
Helen speculated that perhaps Sarah and other young settler mums might have taken up the baby-wearing idea from Maori women. Would they have done this, or would they have been more likely to follow the more western pattern of simply leaving babies lying in their cradles while doing household chores? I imagine that Sarah’s later babies might have spend time in a perambulator, popularised by Queen Victoria later in the century; but that Ovid and the older children would either have been carried in arms, or not carried at all. American pioneer experience shows that young children were left to their own devices far more often than in earlier or later times, simply because their parents were working too hard to spare much time for them. It seems likely that early New Zealand settlers were in much the same position, and this raises a more interesting question about how Sarah coped in the first few years.
Back in England, although William and Sarah lived in their own little house, both of their families were reasonably close at hand. In her early days of motherhood, Sarah would have had ample help and support from the extended families. It would have even been likely that one of her sisters or sisters-in-law might have lived with them for a time to help out, although on the night of the 1841 census, two weeks before they left for New Zealand, the household consisted only of William, Sarah and Ovid. Leaving the extended family behind was a huge step, but to some extent the loss of support would have been buffered by the five months spent on Gertrude with other young families. The women would have helped each other out with child-care and other domestic tasks; older children and other adults would have been around to watch the babies and toddlers. It wasn’t until they went ashore in Wellington that William, Sarah and Ovid were truly on their own – although perhaps not even then, as they shared their first house with a shipmate. [Sarah herself uses the word “shipmate”, which suggests a single man rather than a woman or family.]
Would the friendships and support systems developed on Gertrude have held up once the steerage passengers came ashore? Or would they have been so scattered, and so busy trying to survive, that they were isolated into their individual families? How did Sarah cope with an active toddler while doing everything she had to do to care for her family? I suppose Ovid wasn’t the first toddler to have ever been tied to the kitchen table by leading strings to prevent him falling in the fire while his mother cooked the dinner!
More children, paradoxically, might have made things slightly easier for Sarah. Older children (often even toddlers) were pressed into service to care for their siblings. Chances were that Ovid carried and held Oscar at least as much as either of their parents did, and that Gertrude was watched over and petted by both of them. Modern mums would probably have fifty fits if they saw their two year old lugging the newborn around the house, but the reality of large families in lower socio-economic households has meant that this has always happened, and probably still does.
The facts of how Sarah managed are lost in the past. In terms of my story, the bits that hold the known facts together, I now have Helen’s thoughts tucked into my sub-conscious to percolate. I can see, perhaps, that in desperation, Sarah might have fashioned a make-shift sling to cradle a fractious infant while leaving her hands free to peel the potatoes. I can see that William would have needed to whip up a rocking cradle for Oscar, that Sarah could have rocked with her foot while sewing or writing letters. I can’t see her wearing any of the babies in a sling while going out of the house. On the other hand, a carry-cot, Moses-basket style, would have been a distinct possibility… Anybody have any more ideas?
I have no kind of mental picture of women of Sarah’s time and class carrying or wearing babies in this way. You don’t see it in art; you don’t see it in photographs – although with the long exposure times of early photography, there aren’t many candid snaps – everything is carefully posed, adults and older children frozen straight-faced. Very young children are often blurs in these early photographs because they simply couldn’t keep still. It seemed to me that western women had moved away from baby-wearing before the nineteenth century, and didn’t rediscover it until the 1960s and 70s. Some quick internet research confirms this – baby-wearing seems to have remained normal practice for women from all over the world except western women.
Helen speculated that perhaps Sarah and other young settler mums might have taken up the baby-wearing idea from Maori women. Would they have done this, or would they have been more likely to follow the more western pattern of simply leaving babies lying in their cradles while doing household chores? I imagine that Sarah’s later babies might have spend time in a perambulator, popularised by Queen Victoria later in the century; but that Ovid and the older children would either have been carried in arms, or not carried at all. American pioneer experience shows that young children were left to their own devices far more often than in earlier or later times, simply because their parents were working too hard to spare much time for them. It seems likely that early New Zealand settlers were in much the same position, and this raises a more interesting question about how Sarah coped in the first few years.
Back in England, although William and Sarah lived in their own little house, both of their families were reasonably close at hand. In her early days of motherhood, Sarah would have had ample help and support from the extended families. It would have even been likely that one of her sisters or sisters-in-law might have lived with them for a time to help out, although on the night of the 1841 census, two weeks before they left for New Zealand, the household consisted only of William, Sarah and Ovid. Leaving the extended family behind was a huge step, but to some extent the loss of support would have been buffered by the five months spent on Gertrude with other young families. The women would have helped each other out with child-care and other domestic tasks; older children and other adults would have been around to watch the babies and toddlers. It wasn’t until they went ashore in Wellington that William, Sarah and Ovid were truly on their own – although perhaps not even then, as they shared their first house with a shipmate. [Sarah herself uses the word “shipmate”, which suggests a single man rather than a woman or family.]
Would the friendships and support systems developed on Gertrude have held up once the steerage passengers came ashore? Or would they have been so scattered, and so busy trying to survive, that they were isolated into their individual families? How did Sarah cope with an active toddler while doing everything she had to do to care for her family? I suppose Ovid wasn’t the first toddler to have ever been tied to the kitchen table by leading strings to prevent him falling in the fire while his mother cooked the dinner!
More children, paradoxically, might have made things slightly easier for Sarah. Older children (often even toddlers) were pressed into service to care for their siblings. Chances were that Ovid carried and held Oscar at least as much as either of their parents did, and that Gertrude was watched over and petted by both of them. Modern mums would probably have fifty fits if they saw their two year old lugging the newborn around the house, but the reality of large families in lower socio-economic households has meant that this has always happened, and probably still does.
The facts of how Sarah managed are lost in the past. In terms of my story, the bits that hold the known facts together, I now have Helen’s thoughts tucked into my sub-conscious to percolate. I can see, perhaps, that in desperation, Sarah might have fashioned a make-shift sling to cradle a fractious infant while leaving her hands free to peel the potatoes. I can see that William would have needed to whip up a rocking cradle for Oscar, that Sarah could have rocked with her foot while sewing or writing letters. I can’t see her wearing any of the babies in a sling while going out of the house. On the other hand, a carry-cot, Moses-basket style, would have been a distinct possibility… Anybody have any more ideas?
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Landing at Kaiwharawhara
In 1841 when the Norgrove family came ashore from Gertrude at Kaiwharawhara, they were landed straight onto a narrow rocky beach. At the highest point of the beach was the rough road between Wellington and Petone, a road which further along was under water at high tide. Beyond the road were the tree-covered hills of the area now known as the Ngaio Gorge. I pass this spot twice a day, going to and from work, although the exact location has disappeared. Land has been reclaimed, so the shoreline is further out than it was in 1841. There are four lanes of highway, clusters of warehouses, several train tracks. The once crystal-clear Kaiwharawhara stream is little more than a culvert, pushed underground for much of its length, and where visible, it is dark and dirty within its concrete walls.
In the mornings, our train often pauses here, waiting for a signal to proceed. If I’ve been sleeping, I’m woken by the changed sound as we go through the tunnel under the motorway, and the jolting as multiple tracks join. If I’m awake, I look up from my work or my book, and search the landmarks – the island of Kaiwharawhara station between the tracks, the poster-coated and graffiti-painted warehouse behind it, the bushes beside the motorway which reach over and scrape the train’s roof, the stream where it tunnels under the road – looking for something, anything to tell me that this, right here, is where our life in New Zealand began.
In a rhyme of reminiscence written for her family, Sarah tells of their arrival :
The old Kaiwharawhara shed was in fact several very basic raupo huts, built by Maori for the New Zealand Company as immigration barracks. They were hardly better than Gertrude’s steerage accommodation, and no-one stayed there longer than they had to. According to Sarah, the next day William walked to town and rented their first home in New Zealand.
The only other account of this landing is a reminiscence by ship-mate John Plimmer, quoted in The Life of John Plimmer :
In the mornings, our train often pauses here, waiting for a signal to proceed. If I’ve been sleeping, I’m woken by the changed sound as we go through the tunnel under the motorway, and the jolting as multiple tracks join. If I’m awake, I look up from my work or my book, and search the landmarks – the island of Kaiwharawhara station between the tracks, the poster-coated and graffiti-painted warehouse behind it, the bushes beside the motorway which reach over and scrape the train’s roof, the stream where it tunnels under the road – looking for something, anything to tell me that this, right here, is where our life in New Zealand began.
In a rhyme of reminiscence written for her family, Sarah tells of their arrival :
The voyage was weary and long, we were twenty weeks in the ship.
We all landed safe and strong, on the beach at Kaiwawa slip the second day of November eighteen forty one
We came on shore and commenced to make our new home.
Your Father lighted a fire and boiled fresh water for tea.
Our shipmates said “What a treat, will you give some to we”.
He said “You are welcome my friends mine is a large kettle you see”.
The clearest of water close by enough for you and me”.
When your Father began to unpack saw, hammer and nails, there were some who stood by him and said “we ought to have brought they ourselves”
He said “Mates we must all set to work for our dear little
children and wives, you know they must all have food, I feel sure you have brought Knives”.They said “how funny you be, you have cheered us a bit today, and we will let you see us try to do as you say”.
When your Father a table had made, a clean cloth on it I spread, we thankfully sat down in that old Kiwarawara shed.
The old Kaiwharawhara shed was in fact several very basic raupo huts, built by Maori for the New Zealand Company as immigration barracks. They were hardly better than Gertrude’s steerage accommodation, and no-one stayed there longer than they had to. According to Sarah, the next day William walked to town and rented their first home in New Zealand.
The only other account of this landing is a reminiscence by ship-mate John Plimmer, quoted in The Life of John Plimmer :
“Our first experience of life in Maoriland, and of the Maori character, was of an unpleasant kind, although rather unique and original. When we landed on the beach there were great numbers of Maoris, both men and women, gathered around us. They willingly assisted us to carry our luggage to the sheds, and we noticed that they examined everything carefully. Just after dark, six of the largest men walked up to us, as we, with our wives and families, were sitting upon our luggage, their only covering being mats over their shoulders; the children were much frightened, and all of us disgusted. During the night they managed to convey away, in some mysterious manner, a large sack of biscuits, weighting two hundredweight, belonging to me….As I had soon had as much as I wanted of Kaiwarra, I hailed a man who was driving a team of bullocks, and asked him if he would take my luggage to town (which, by the way, was not town at all) and what he would charge for the job; he agreed to take it for thirty shillings. This was an extortion, being at the rate of about six shillings per cwt. for two miles. I was obliged, however, to accept his terms, as I did not like the alternative of stopping with our Maori neighbours.”
Friday, April 25, 2008
ANZAC Day
This is a brief departure from the world of my great-great grandparents, to remember my grandfathers, both of whom survived the horrors of the "war to end all wars".
Malcolm McNaught
Malcolm McNaught
Edgar Norgrove
Not forgotten.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Leaving the ship
A little bit more of the story - pure fiction, this part.
Finally it was their turn to disembark. Mr Ellis, the Third Mate, called them forward to the steps leading to the accommodation ladder. Sarah balanced Ovid on her hip, her workbag stuffed between his body and hers to leave one hand free for holding on. The winds were still quite strong after last night’s spectacular storm, and she had earlier tied her hat down with a scarf to prevent it from being ripped from her head.
Mr Ellis bared uneven and discoloured teeth in what he must have intended as a reassuring smile.
“You first, missus, and I’ll carry the lad for you”.
She gripped Ovid more tightly. She had travelled the last months in constant vigilance, full of worry that Baby might fall overboard, but she was never more afraid than when asked to entrust him to arms other than her own. Her fears must have been written clearly on her face, because as Mr Ellis reached for the boy, he winked and said, “Don’t worry, missus. I’ve not dropped anyone in the briny yet.”
That made her feel slightly foolish; after all the Mate was an experienced seaman, and she had never once seen him stumble even in the roughest of seas. Her face warmed with a blush, and she hid it in ensuring that Ovid’s sun-hat was set firmly on his head. The wind was worrying at it, although she had tied the strings tightly under his chin. She gave it another tug to be sure, before moving closer to the steps.
Mr Ellis grasped Ovid firmly around the middle and lifted. To her surprise, he hoisted the boy over his head and onto his shoulders. As Ovid crowed with delight and waved wildly to his father, the Mate secured both little ankles around his neck by grasping them together in one big, sea-roughened hand. Sarah hesitated, wanting to be sure Ovid was safe; wanting more than anything not to have to go through the frightening climb off the ship.
“Hold tight, lad”, Mr Ellis said, and she relaxed a little as Ovid wrapped his arms around the man’s head. He seemed perfectly happy taking in the view from his lofty perch, and she could see that the Mate held him quite securely.
She had no excuse left; she could delay no longer – there were still many behind her waiting for their turn. She looped the drawstrings of her workbag over her right wrist and took a tight grip on the wooden railing with her left hand; her hat was going to have to take care of itself. She stepped carefully up onto the platform beside Mr Ellis and Ovid. From behind her, she heard William’s low tones.
“Try not to look down, dearest.”
It was too late. She had already looked over the side, and the sight of the sea so far below made her stomach lurch; suddenly light-headed and fearing she might faint and topple headlong overboard, she grabbed for the railing with both hands and hung on. The swelling pewter sea was a very long way down, and the longboat waiting for them at the base of the ladder looked impossibly small. How was she going to do this?
Familiar warm hands gripped her shoulders.
“We’re almost there, dearest,” William said softly, his mouth close to her ear. “Take a few deep breaths. I’ll be right behind you.”
She inhaled obediently. William’s touch and the salty air were calming; after a moment she felt able to let go with one hand to reach for the whitened rope of the ladder railing. William’s hands slid away as she turned to face the side of the ship and began her cautious descent. She kept both hands firmly on the inner railing and tried desperately to keep from looking down. The ship and the ladder rose and fell dizzyingly together in the sea’s slight swell, and her stomach suddenly rose too. She was not going to lose her breakfast in front of all these people. She took another great breath, and concentrated her attention on the side of the ship, mere inches from her nose.
How strange it was to see Gertrude from the outside after all these months; the wooden hull which had been so new and perfect when they left Gravesend was marked and scraped, and damply encrusted with crystals of salt. William’s closeness was reassuring as she shuffled slowly down the ladder, feeling her way one foot at a time, the workbag swaying with every step. The sea made slopping sounds against the side of the ship, and the longboat bumped against the bottom of the ladder with a regular thud as they descended. Finally, she could hear the murmurs of encouragement from the men in the boat and she knew the ordeal by ladder was almost over.
At the bottom of the ladder a seaman reached out to guide her down the last few steps. His hands were big and roughened red by years at sea; he was missing at least two fingers, but his touch was gentle as he lifted her into the boat where other hands waited to guide her to a seat. The boards in the bottom of the boat were wet and suspiciously fishy, and she slipped twice in struggling over seats and sea-bags, between the pairs of sweating oarsmen to the stern. A sailor helped her turn to face forward, and held her arm as she lowered herself carefully onto the damp seat.
Awkward with embarrassment at being handled by all these strange men, she took a moment to fuss with her skirts, pulling them up a little to keep them dry, and shifting the workbag to her lap. Then, with order and composure restored, she looked up to find what had become of the rest of her family.
William had worked his way across the longboat to stand across the seat in front of her. The Mate bounded confidently down the accommodation ladder, one hand lightly on the railing and the other still clasping Ovid’s ankles. Ovid was finding his hat a great trial; he had fidgeted with it until it was twisted down over one eye. He pushed at it with his little hands, and before she could call out a warning, a sudden gust of wind caught it and whisked it off his head. She almost laughed out loud at the Mate’s surprised look as the hat flapped past him and dropped into the sea. It wasn’t funny though – she had made the hat herself, during the endless hot days of the doldrums, because Ovid’s own caps and bonnets had no brims to protect his delicate face from the sun. She had sacrificed one of William’s neckerchiefs and part of her own petticoat for it, and although it wasn’t high fashion, it would have done for a year or two yet. Now, though, naughty Baby giggled and pointed to where the errant hat drifted near the longboat.
At the base of the ladder, Mr Ellis lifted Ovid off his shoulders, and lowered him into the boat. The oarsmen passed him back, weathered hands securely wrapped around her precious boy as if he was the Crown Jewels. As she reached to take him from his father, the little boy announced “Hat, Mama,” in quite triumphant tones, and twisted in her arms to look for it in the water. “Your hat is lost and gone, Baby,” she told him, but as William sat down, the sodden hat was presented it to him on the blade of an oar, its dripping strings trailing like seaweed.
Finally it was their turn to disembark. Mr Ellis, the Third Mate, called them forward to the steps leading to the accommodation ladder. Sarah balanced Ovid on her hip, her workbag stuffed between his body and hers to leave one hand free for holding on. The winds were still quite strong after last night’s spectacular storm, and she had earlier tied her hat down with a scarf to prevent it from being ripped from her head.
Mr Ellis bared uneven and discoloured teeth in what he must have intended as a reassuring smile.
“You first, missus, and I’ll carry the lad for you”.
She gripped Ovid more tightly. She had travelled the last months in constant vigilance, full of worry that Baby might fall overboard, but she was never more afraid than when asked to entrust him to arms other than her own. Her fears must have been written clearly on her face, because as Mr Ellis reached for the boy, he winked and said, “Don’t worry, missus. I’ve not dropped anyone in the briny yet.”
That made her feel slightly foolish; after all the Mate was an experienced seaman, and she had never once seen him stumble even in the roughest of seas. Her face warmed with a blush, and she hid it in ensuring that Ovid’s sun-hat was set firmly on his head. The wind was worrying at it, although she had tied the strings tightly under his chin. She gave it another tug to be sure, before moving closer to the steps.
Mr Ellis grasped Ovid firmly around the middle and lifted. To her surprise, he hoisted the boy over his head and onto his shoulders. As Ovid crowed with delight and waved wildly to his father, the Mate secured both little ankles around his neck by grasping them together in one big, sea-roughened hand. Sarah hesitated, wanting to be sure Ovid was safe; wanting more than anything not to have to go through the frightening climb off the ship.
“Hold tight, lad”, Mr Ellis said, and she relaxed a little as Ovid wrapped his arms around the man’s head. He seemed perfectly happy taking in the view from his lofty perch, and she could see that the Mate held him quite securely.
She had no excuse left; she could delay no longer – there were still many behind her waiting for their turn. She looped the drawstrings of her workbag over her right wrist and took a tight grip on the wooden railing with her left hand; her hat was going to have to take care of itself. She stepped carefully up onto the platform beside Mr Ellis and Ovid. From behind her, she heard William’s low tones.
“Try not to look down, dearest.”
It was too late. She had already looked over the side, and the sight of the sea so far below made her stomach lurch; suddenly light-headed and fearing she might faint and topple headlong overboard, she grabbed for the railing with both hands and hung on. The swelling pewter sea was a very long way down, and the longboat waiting for them at the base of the ladder looked impossibly small. How was she going to do this?
Familiar warm hands gripped her shoulders.
“We’re almost there, dearest,” William said softly, his mouth close to her ear. “Take a few deep breaths. I’ll be right behind you.”
She inhaled obediently. William’s touch and the salty air were calming; after a moment she felt able to let go with one hand to reach for the whitened rope of the ladder railing. William’s hands slid away as she turned to face the side of the ship and began her cautious descent. She kept both hands firmly on the inner railing and tried desperately to keep from looking down. The ship and the ladder rose and fell dizzyingly together in the sea’s slight swell, and her stomach suddenly rose too. She was not going to lose her breakfast in front of all these people. She took another great breath, and concentrated her attention on the side of the ship, mere inches from her nose.
How strange it was to see Gertrude from the outside after all these months; the wooden hull which had been so new and perfect when they left Gravesend was marked and scraped, and damply encrusted with crystals of salt. William’s closeness was reassuring as she shuffled slowly down the ladder, feeling her way one foot at a time, the workbag swaying with every step. The sea made slopping sounds against the side of the ship, and the longboat bumped against the bottom of the ladder with a regular thud as they descended. Finally, she could hear the murmurs of encouragement from the men in the boat and she knew the ordeal by ladder was almost over.
At the bottom of the ladder a seaman reached out to guide her down the last few steps. His hands were big and roughened red by years at sea; he was missing at least two fingers, but his touch was gentle as he lifted her into the boat where other hands waited to guide her to a seat. The boards in the bottom of the boat were wet and suspiciously fishy, and she slipped twice in struggling over seats and sea-bags, between the pairs of sweating oarsmen to the stern. A sailor helped her turn to face forward, and held her arm as she lowered herself carefully onto the damp seat.
Awkward with embarrassment at being handled by all these strange men, she took a moment to fuss with her skirts, pulling them up a little to keep them dry, and shifting the workbag to her lap. Then, with order and composure restored, she looked up to find what had become of the rest of her family.
William had worked his way across the longboat to stand across the seat in front of her. The Mate bounded confidently down the accommodation ladder, one hand lightly on the railing and the other still clasping Ovid’s ankles. Ovid was finding his hat a great trial; he had fidgeted with it until it was twisted down over one eye. He pushed at it with his little hands, and before she could call out a warning, a sudden gust of wind caught it and whisked it off his head. She almost laughed out loud at the Mate’s surprised look as the hat flapped past him and dropped into the sea. It wasn’t funny though – she had made the hat herself, during the endless hot days of the doldrums, because Ovid’s own caps and bonnets had no brims to protect his delicate face from the sun. She had sacrificed one of William’s neckerchiefs and part of her own petticoat for it, and although it wasn’t high fashion, it would have done for a year or two yet. Now, though, naughty Baby giggled and pointed to where the errant hat drifted near the longboat.
At the base of the ladder, Mr Ellis lifted Ovid off his shoulders, and lowered him into the boat. The oarsmen passed him back, weathered hands securely wrapped around her precious boy as if he was the Crown Jewels. As she reached to take him from his father, the little boy announced “Hat, Mama,” in quite triumphant tones, and twisted in her arms to look for it in the water. “Your hat is lost and gone, Baby,” she told him, but as William sat down, the sodden hat was presented it to him on the blade of an oar, its dripping strings trailing like seaweed.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Interruption
Writing has been interrupted by great ructions in the kitchen. I had suspected there were mice in the cupboard under the sink. The brown blobs could have been wild rice, but the smell was finally, unmistakably, mouse. Earlier in the week, I took everything out of the cupboard and inserted the cat, but although he sniffed about with interest, he didn’t actually do anything. So today I decided that I’d better get in there and do something about it myself. I discovered that not only had the mice been in the cupboard under the sink, but they had found their way into the adjoining cupboard, which contains drawers of pantry staples. Well, it did contain them, but the mice have had a field day in there amongst all the packages, and mostly what I found was wreckage and mouse poop. So now the shopping list contains a great number of replacement items, along with a note to do something about mouse-proof containers. I’ve also attempted to mouse-proof the cupboard by hammering a triple-thickness sheet of aluminium cut from an oven-liner over the gaping great chasm in the bottom of the cupboard. I assume this is where the mice have been getting in, as there appears to be nothing below it except the under-side of the house. The hole is perfectly circular, so presumably not cut by the mice themselves unless they have got the knack of power tools. I think the drain pipe must have once gone straight down through the bottom of the cupboard. Anyway, the hole is certainly big enough for the mice to have driven themselves through in bus-loads.
I will keep a close eye on it for the next little while. As for Avro, I think he can go on half rations for a while – maybe that will encourage him to get under the house and deal to the mice. He hunts everything else with enthusiasm……earlier in the week I got out of bed to discover that during the night he had left an enormous rat in the hallway outside the bedroom. It must have been quite a battle because the rat was underneath my over-turned bicycle. Interestingly, the rat was completely unmarked by tooth and claw, and this along with its wide-eyed look of dead astonishment leads me to conclude that Avro killed it by dropping the bike on it. He’ll have to use more standard killing techniques on the mice, because he’s not going to be able to drag the bike under the house…
I will keep a close eye on it for the next little while. As for Avro, I think he can go on half rations for a while – maybe that will encourage him to get under the house and deal to the mice. He hunts everything else with enthusiasm……earlier in the week I got out of bed to discover that during the night he had left an enormous rat in the hallway outside the bedroom. It must have been quite a battle because the rat was underneath my over-turned bicycle. Interestingly, the rat was completely unmarked by tooth and claw, and this along with its wide-eyed look of dead astonishment leads me to conclude that Avro killed it by dropping the bike on it. He’ll have to use more standard killing techniques on the mice, because he’s not going to be able to drag the bike under the house…
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Causes of death
One of the research-rabbits that I’ve had running for a couple of weeks was a request to Births, Deaths and Marriages at the Department of Internal Affairs for copies of the entries in the Nelson Register of Deaths for Ovid, Zoë and Alice. The papers arrived in the mail this morning – just over a week for turn-around time, so that’s pretty impressive of the folk at BDM.
Zoë, the second-to-last daughter, died in 1856 at the age of three weeks. Family oral tradition left us with no information about Zoë or how she died. My speculation was the all-purpose “failure to thrive”; Mum wondered if it was an early cot death (I wonder what they called it back then, and how they explained it away?). Anyhow, according to William, who registered the death himself, poor wee Zoë died of “hooping cough”. That would be a horrible way to see your baby go.
Zoë died at the end of April 1856. Sarah fell pregnant again in September that year, and Alice was born on 11 June 1857. She died just over a year later, at the age of 14 months. We had been told she died of croup, and the death register entry confirms that as the cause of death.
Then, a month later, in a terrible double-blow for the family, Ovid died. Family tradition tells us he died of TB. Aunt Emma (there are a few “great”s in there – she was Ovid’s sister) told Mum that “one lung was completely gone”. We’d always taken from that statement that they knew this from an autopsy and/or coroner’s inquest – but thinking about it, they would not have been likely to have done one for TB, it being a relatively common death at the time. Autopsies and inquests were for sudden and unexplained deaths, and TB hardly seems to be something that sneaks up and kills a person before they realise they are sick. I guess it’s possible for a doctor to know that someone only has one functioning lung from all that chest-tapping they do when listening through a stethoscope – so maybe that’s where Aunt Emma’s information came from. Interestingly, the death register entry for Ovid reads, “water on the chest” – I guess fluid on the lungs (or lung), so really a death from complications of TB. Mum commented the other day that having TB was a shameful or embarrassing thing - no-one would want to admit having TB in the family – so maybe the use of “water on the chest” was an acceptable euphemism to spare a family’s feelings? I’m still looking for background material on TB to give me more of a clue about this.
At some stage, I will check the indexes for coroner’s inquests at Archives NZ, just in case there was one – but usually the wording on the death certificate would say something like “verdict of jury” or “verdict of coroner” if there had been an inquest. An inquest would also have been reported in the local paper – I’ve found William as a witness to an inquest of a small boy who drowned near the Norgrove home – so if there had been an inquest into Ovid’s death, chances are I would have found it already.
It only dawned on me today that Sidney, the youngest child, would never have known Ovid, let alone Alice and Zoë. Sidney was born in March 1860, almost 20 years after Ovid’s birth, and a year and a half after his death. His eldest surviving sibling was Oscar, who was 17. The sibling next in age to him was Kate, at 7. Although a late addition to the family, I guess Sidney must have been treasured and probably rather spoilt after everything that had gone before.
Zoë, the second-to-last daughter, died in 1856 at the age of three weeks. Family oral tradition left us with no information about Zoë or how she died. My speculation was the all-purpose “failure to thrive”; Mum wondered if it was an early cot death (I wonder what they called it back then, and how they explained it away?). Anyhow, according to William, who registered the death himself, poor wee Zoë died of “hooping cough”. That would be a horrible way to see your baby go.
Zoë died at the end of April 1856. Sarah fell pregnant again in September that year, and Alice was born on 11 June 1857. She died just over a year later, at the age of 14 months. We had been told she died of croup, and the death register entry confirms that as the cause of death.
Then, a month later, in a terrible double-blow for the family, Ovid died. Family tradition tells us he died of TB. Aunt Emma (there are a few “great”s in there – she was Ovid’s sister) told Mum that “one lung was completely gone”. We’d always taken from that statement that they knew this from an autopsy and/or coroner’s inquest – but thinking about it, they would not have been likely to have done one for TB, it being a relatively common death at the time. Autopsies and inquests were for sudden and unexplained deaths, and TB hardly seems to be something that sneaks up and kills a person before they realise they are sick. I guess it’s possible for a doctor to know that someone only has one functioning lung from all that chest-tapping they do when listening through a stethoscope – so maybe that’s where Aunt Emma’s information came from. Interestingly, the death register entry for Ovid reads, “water on the chest” – I guess fluid on the lungs (or lung), so really a death from complications of TB. Mum commented the other day that having TB was a shameful or embarrassing thing - no-one would want to admit having TB in the family – so maybe the use of “water on the chest” was an acceptable euphemism to spare a family’s feelings? I’m still looking for background material on TB to give me more of a clue about this.
At some stage, I will check the indexes for coroner’s inquests at Archives NZ, just in case there was one – but usually the wording on the death certificate would say something like “verdict of jury” or “verdict of coroner” if there had been an inquest. An inquest would also have been reported in the local paper – I’ve found William as a witness to an inquest of a small boy who drowned near the Norgrove home – so if there had been an inquest into Ovid’s death, chances are I would have found it already.
It only dawned on me today that Sidney, the youngest child, would never have known Ovid, let alone Alice and Zoë. Sidney was born in March 1860, almost 20 years after Ovid’s birth, and a year and a half after his death. His eldest surviving sibling was Oscar, who was 17. The sibling next in age to him was Kate, at 7. Although a late addition to the family, I guess Sidney must have been treasured and probably rather spoilt after everything that had gone before.
Monday, March 17, 2008
How I know that William suffered from sea-sickness!
I have a copy of a letter from William to Sarah, sent not long after he and Ovid arrived in Australia - however the letter is dated only "Saturday 12th", so I don't know exactly when this was. The original letter wasn't in good shape (there were holes in the paper), and even after all the years I've spent reading bad manuscripts, there were parts I still couldn't get - the gaps are in square brackets. Spelling, grammar, punctuation, capitalisation and abbreviations are William's own. Where I've assumed a letter or word to get the text to make sense, I show it in blue.
*******************************************************************
Dear Best Beloved
I imbrace this opportunity of sending to you By steamer that you may know How we are getting on & what are our Hopes & expectations
We left as you know on Sunday morn with a Delightful Breese from the [S.W.] reached Terawitte (Te Awaiti) at night got a S.E. wind in the night & went rattling away On Monday night got clear of the land encountered [a] SW gale [force] wind was obliged to put back to Port Hardy in Blind B[ay] on Friday Left Port Hardy on Sunday made the land of New [Zea]land on Monday Last Passing a most miserable time 25 Days on Board the th[at] I Believe most wretchedly found [ ] that ever sail But However we are [ ] safe & sound at last We got into Sydney H[arbour] [late] & therefore could see nothing of the H[arbour ] but in the morning I could Describe the Georgeous Beauty of Port Jackson it is truly a most magnificent Place
A noble Ocean Steamer the Argo lay just under our Bows a Large Man [of] War & a tender steamer the Acheron, a Host of merchant vessels of every nation & every conceivable size We Landed in a Beautiful Little Boat Licensed to carry 8. My first impression of Sydney as seen from the Bay was enthusiastic but it Banishes on Landing from all the accounts I had had of Sydney I was Disappointed not but that it contains many fine houses but it is not a nice town it is a fine town Building it is a Bay of fine Promise But at every turn you are reminded that you have long to wait before it will reach maturity [ ] All the Cheapside of Sydney has many Blank spaces many old Low wooden Houses with Moss grown shingles along side good stone H[arling] Stone is here the principle material for Building [ ] every where at Hand in the great[est] abundance & some very fine Houses are Being Built But I will tell you more in my next
I have been to Millers & got work to go to on Monday morning 15/- a Day I should not stay Long so you need not write to me he[re] But you shall have a letter before I Leave to Direct you what to Do I expect to stay 3 weeks not Longer the Passage to Melbourne is [ ] [ ]/6 per steamer 3 Days is the average Passage I shall take that as the most to Be Prepared for I suffer dreadfully Coming up sick nearly all the way My Dear Boy is all that I could wish Cheerful & Happy He cried 2 or 3 times coming up & said he hoped Oscar was a good boy to his Mother he Believed it would Break his Heart if he was not I may add & mine too But I have too much Confidence in him to think that he can Be otherwise & my Dear Gertrude oh how I wish I could get one kiss and my Dear Oscar I hope he is a good Boy But I know he is & the little ones I need not tell you to kiss them for me I shall send a Box of oranges by the next steamer if I possibly can as I shall not be able to get any in Melbourne Everything is very reasonable considering the immense rise in wages & consequent cost of Building Butter is 2/lb Bacon 8 ½ /lb Bread 7d 2 lbs Best English ale 6d pint Colonial 2 ½ [ ] Dear the price of meat I do not know but from the immense quantities consumed I Believe very cheap The weather has been very wet But this Day very delightful but Dull I hope you are all well as are we I have met several old Hands from NZ & now Dearest I hope you will all Be very Happy in anticipation of our joyous meeting with an independence to [pay] [you] for this Painful separation if you know How my Heart yearns to see & embrace you once more you would Pity me But I must conclude with my Best Love to you all & remain Dearest wife yours affectionately W Norgrove
Ps My Best respects to Mr & Mrs Smith & all those who may Do me the Honour to enquire for me
*******************************************************************
OK, that's pretty clear. Rotten trip, William suffered badly from sea-sickness, and wasn't looking forward to the next leg of the trip by sea to Melbourne! A little bit of detective work with Sydney shipping lists might help me narrow down the date.
*******************************************************************
Dear Best Beloved
I imbrace this opportunity of sending to you By steamer that you may know How we are getting on & what are our Hopes & expectations
We left as you know on Sunday morn with a Delightful Breese from the [S.W.] reached Terawitte (Te Awaiti) at night got a S.E. wind in the night & went rattling away On Monday night got clear of the land encountered [a] SW gale [force] wind was obliged to put back to Port Hardy in Blind B[ay] on Friday Left Port Hardy on Sunday made the land of New [Zea]land on Monday Last Passing a most miserable time 25 Days on Board the th[at] I Believe most wretchedly found [ ] that ever sail But However we are [ ] safe & sound at last We got into Sydney H[arbour] [late] & therefore could see nothing of the H[arbour ] but in the morning I could Describe the Georgeous Beauty of Port Jackson it is truly a most magnificent Place
A noble Ocean Steamer the Argo lay just under our Bows a Large Man [of] War & a tender steamer the Acheron, a Host of merchant vessels of every nation & every conceivable size We Landed in a Beautiful Little Boat Licensed to carry 8. My first impression of Sydney as seen from the Bay was enthusiastic but it Banishes on Landing from all the accounts I had had of Sydney I was Disappointed not but that it contains many fine houses but it is not a nice town it is a fine town Building it is a Bay of fine Promise But at every turn you are reminded that you have long to wait before it will reach maturity [ ] All the Cheapside of Sydney has many Blank spaces many old Low wooden Houses with Moss grown shingles along side good stone H[arling] Stone is here the principle material for Building [ ] every where at Hand in the great[est] abundance & some very fine Houses are Being Built But I will tell you more in my next
I have been to Millers & got work to go to on Monday morning 15/- a Day I should not stay Long so you need not write to me he[re] But you shall have a letter before I Leave to Direct you what to Do I expect to stay 3 weeks not Longer the Passage to Melbourne is [ ] [ ]/6 per steamer 3 Days is the average Passage I shall take that as the most to Be Prepared for I suffer dreadfully Coming up sick nearly all the way My Dear Boy is all that I could wish Cheerful & Happy He cried 2 or 3 times coming up & said he hoped Oscar was a good boy to his Mother he Believed it would Break his Heart if he was not I may add & mine too But I have too much Confidence in him to think that he can Be otherwise & my Dear Gertrude oh how I wish I could get one kiss and my Dear Oscar I hope he is a good Boy But I know he is & the little ones I need not tell you to kiss them for me I shall send a Box of oranges by the next steamer if I possibly can as I shall not be able to get any in Melbourne Everything is very reasonable considering the immense rise in wages & consequent cost of Building Butter is 2/lb Bacon 8 ½ /lb Bread 7d 2 lbs Best English ale 6d pint Colonial 2 ½ [ ] Dear the price of meat I do not know but from the immense quantities consumed I Believe very cheap The weather has been very wet But this Day very delightful but Dull I hope you are all well as are we I have met several old Hands from NZ & now Dearest I hope you will all Be very Happy in anticipation of our joyous meeting with an independence to [pay] [you] for this Painful separation if you know How my Heart yearns to see & embrace you once more you would Pity me But I must conclude with my Best Love to you all & remain Dearest wife yours affectionately W Norgrove
Ps My Best respects to Mr & Mrs Smith & all those who may Do me the Honour to enquire for me
*******************************************************************
OK, that's pretty clear. Rotten trip, William suffered badly from sea-sickness, and wasn't looking forward to the next leg of the trip by sea to Melbourne! A little bit of detective work with Sydney shipping lists might help me narrow down the date.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Ovid, Mrs Beeton and a wild Irish girl
Looking back over this blog, I think that from the outside, it must look like I’m taking a rather random approach to my research. I’m all over the place with the things I’m pursuing. The truth is, it’s not totally random. It’s not completely linear either, but there’s a method in my madness.
The organised, linear part of what I’m doing sits well behind the scenes. I have a huge spreadsheet with one workbook for each of the years in the 20-year period I’m concentrating on (1840 – 1860). Each year has a calendar, and everything goes in there – known facts and dates about the family; key dates in New Zealand history; notes on probable/possible dates of events. Most of the items are tagged with their source, so I can go from the date of an event to, for example, a newspaper clipping of it. I’ve got everyone’s birthday in there, every year, so I know how old each person was at the time of a particular event. And I’ve also (blush) charted the approximate duration of each of Sarah’s pregnancies, and colour-coded that block of dates in each year – which gives me an interesting perspective on the efficacy of breast-feeding as a mechanism of birth control – I can just about pick the date on which each baby was weaned!
The more random-seeming part is the research. I have lots of different things on the go at once. I’m chasing very specific bits of information in relation to the section I’m writing at any given time, but I’m also pursuing a whole range of other things as they crop up. As an archivist, I’m drawn to primary source material – there’s not a lot of Norgrove papers around, but there’s still a lot of useful material at National Archives and National Library. Their online systems enable me to identify particular documents or collections to investigate when I have time during the day when I’m in Wellington. There’s also a fair bit of primary and secondary material available via the internet, which is quicker for me to work with. Then there’s published secondary material – I’ve usually got two or three books on the go at once, and by the time I have finished with them, the pages bristle with neon marker flags. Sometimes I’m marking specific things to follow up and find more about; sometimes I just want to be able to go back and consider the relevance of something to Sarah and the family.
So, in no particular order, the last week’s work has meandered through the following :
The organised, linear part of what I’m doing sits well behind the scenes. I have a huge spreadsheet with one workbook for each of the years in the 20-year period I’m concentrating on (1840 – 1860). Each year has a calendar, and everything goes in there – known facts and dates about the family; key dates in New Zealand history; notes on probable/possible dates of events. Most of the items are tagged with their source, so I can go from the date of an event to, for example, a newspaper clipping of it. I’ve got everyone’s birthday in there, every year, so I know how old each person was at the time of a particular event. And I’ve also (blush) charted the approximate duration of each of Sarah’s pregnancies, and colour-coded that block of dates in each year – which gives me an interesting perspective on the efficacy of breast-feeding as a mechanism of birth control – I can just about pick the date on which each baby was weaned!
The more random-seeming part is the research. I have lots of different things on the go at once. I’m chasing very specific bits of information in relation to the section I’m writing at any given time, but I’m also pursuing a whole range of other things as they crop up. As an archivist, I’m drawn to primary source material – there’s not a lot of Norgrove papers around, but there’s still a lot of useful material at National Archives and National Library. Their online systems enable me to identify particular documents or collections to investigate when I have time during the day when I’m in Wellington. There’s also a fair bit of primary and secondary material available via the internet, which is quicker for me to work with. Then there’s published secondary material – I’ve usually got two or three books on the go at once, and by the time I have finished with them, the pages bristle with neon marker flags. Sometimes I’m marking specific things to follow up and find more about; sometimes I just want to be able to go back and consider the relevance of something to Sarah and the family.
So, in no particular order, the last week’s work has meandered through the following :
- Background reading has been the book My Hand Will Write What My Heart Dictates – journal and letter excerpts from New Zealand women in the nineteenth century. I want to look at the complete source material from one or two of these women; also have lots of things to think about from their words
- Tuberculosis – Ovid died of TB at 18. According to Mum, who got it from great-great Aunt Emma, one lung was almost gone when he died. So I’ve been looking for general historical information on TB in nineteenth century New Zealand (not a lot of it out there), as well as more specific information on the treatment and nursing of TB at the time, and the social attitudes towards it. I know someone is going to ask why it matters – the answer is that having a family member with a disability or chronic illness has a profound effect on a family. It changes the family dynamic, and it affects the lives of the healthy family members. So it matters, because as far as I can see, Ovid would have been nursed at home by his mother and sisters. It could have been quite a long illness; he might even have contracted it while gold-mining in Victoria with his father.
- Which led me to see if I could nail down the dates of the Victorian gold-mining trip a bit better, by digging into what the various Australian archives have online. And although I still don’t know when William and Ovid departed for Australia (probably very late 1852), I know now when they came back! They sailed from Victoria on the Wild Irish Girl in April 1855, arriving in Nelson on 12 May.
- Nelson? But the family hadn’t moved to Nelson yet, and anyway, why didn’t my index search of the Nelson Examiner show their names on an inbound passenger list? As it turns out, they were in the Examiner, but somebody must have had lousy handwriting because they appear in the passenger list as “Mr Norysom and son”!
- Logically, William and Ovid should appear shortly thereafter on an outbound passenger list from Nelson to Wellington. Not according to the Nelson Examiner – so either they travelled on something so small that it didn’t make the newspaper (poor William – he did suffer so from sea-sickness) or maybe, having checked out Nelson, they went and had a look at the Wairau and sailed to Wellington from there. I can’t check that online because the relevant newspapers for the period aren’t there, so further pursuit of this line of inquiry is temporarily parked.
- Meanwhile, the search for TB info led to some bizarre recipes from Mrs Beeton (searching for nursing information); the effect of tuberculosis on architecture (ever wondered about all those enclosed sun-porches on old houses?) and Samuel Butler’s voyage to New Zealand (online books)!
And so it goes on…………….
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Time and seasons
I’ve been thinking about time – how my relationship with the clock is vastly different from what William and Sarah’s would have been. It’s a natural enough reflection as the days start to get shorter. Five days a week, I get up in the dark, year-round. At least in summer, by the time I leave the house, it’s bright daylight; but now we’re getting into autumn, and the street-lights are still on when I leave for the railway station, although it’s not yet so dark that I can’t see what I’m tripping over. My life is ruled by the clock – getting up and getting things done in time to catch my train; at work my Outlook calendar is always pinging to announce the next meeting; then it’s back to the station again in time to catch the train home; a short evening and then into bed in time to get enough sleep to get up and do it all again. I have clocks all over the house (each of them showing a slightly different time), and it takes three alarms to wake me up enough to get out of bed at the right time every morning.
So I was thinking – who wound the clock – William or Sarah? Did they even have a clock in the early days? Presumably William had a pocket watch. Without radio, TV and the cellphone network, how did they find out what the correct time was? Did it matter – presumably the only time they needed to be sure they were on time was for church on Sundays – and that’s what church bells are for, to call the clock-less faithful.
William and Sarah wouldn’t have been mucked around by daylight saving, either – it didn’t become permanent till 1929. Life back then would have been a bit more in tune with the seasons. As I yawn my way through winter, I often say that I’m convinced that humans are meant to hibernate in winter. I’d be only too happy to retire to my cave with a pile of unread books, a heap of DVDs, and a freezer full of food; I would emerge in spring-time rested and well read and probably 20kgs heavier. It’s daylight that gives us our get up and go, and there’s precious little of that in winter. [Two of my three afore-mentioned alarm clocks are actually lights on timers – by gradually increasing the level of light in the bedroom, my body is tricked into thinking it’s dawn, and I surface from sleep in a natural sort of way. Well, at least awake enough not to leap bolt upright in bed and put my back out when the real alarm clock starts blaring.]
The extent of artificial light available to us now means we extend the length our days way past what William and Sarah would have experienced. They would have gone to bed not much past dark in the winter time, at least at times when money was scarce – no-one was going to waste money on expensive candles or lamp fuel. No sitting around watching TV or surfing the internet! There wouldn’t have been much time for reading, particularly for Sarah, who would have been flat-tack from morning to night running her household and looking after the family. In a world that wasn’t ruled by the clock, would she have felt the same relentless pressure to get things done? Each day had its deadlines, I suppose – things to get done before the kids got up, before they got home from school, before William got home for dinner, before the daylight went. Weekly deadlines, like Monday being wash-day – Sarah probably hated Mondays just as much as working women do today! Occasional deadlines, like getting letters finished before the next ship left for England, or preparations for the next baby before “confinement”. I guess it’s all relative – Sarah might not have had to worry about train timetables and getting to meetings, but she wasn’t sitting around twiddling her thumbs and admiring the scenery either!
So I was thinking – who wound the clock – William or Sarah? Did they even have a clock in the early days? Presumably William had a pocket watch. Without radio, TV and the cellphone network, how did they find out what the correct time was? Did it matter – presumably the only time they needed to be sure they were on time was for church on Sundays – and that’s what church bells are for, to call the clock-less faithful.
William and Sarah wouldn’t have been mucked around by daylight saving, either – it didn’t become permanent till 1929. Life back then would have been a bit more in tune with the seasons. As I yawn my way through winter, I often say that I’m convinced that humans are meant to hibernate in winter. I’d be only too happy to retire to my cave with a pile of unread books, a heap of DVDs, and a freezer full of food; I would emerge in spring-time rested and well read and probably 20kgs heavier. It’s daylight that gives us our get up and go, and there’s precious little of that in winter. [Two of my three afore-mentioned alarm clocks are actually lights on timers – by gradually increasing the level of light in the bedroom, my body is tricked into thinking it’s dawn, and I surface from sleep in a natural sort of way. Well, at least awake enough not to leap bolt upright in bed and put my back out when the real alarm clock starts blaring.]
The extent of artificial light available to us now means we extend the length our days way past what William and Sarah would have experienced. They would have gone to bed not much past dark in the winter time, at least at times when money was scarce – no-one was going to waste money on expensive candles or lamp fuel. No sitting around watching TV or surfing the internet! There wouldn’t have been much time for reading, particularly for Sarah, who would have been flat-tack from morning to night running her household and looking after the family. In a world that wasn’t ruled by the clock, would she have felt the same relentless pressure to get things done? Each day had its deadlines, I suppose – things to get done before the kids got up, before they got home from school, before William got home for dinner, before the daylight went. Weekly deadlines, like Monday being wash-day – Sarah probably hated Mondays just as much as working women do today! Occasional deadlines, like getting letters finished before the next ship left for England, or preparations for the next baby before “confinement”. I guess it’s all relative – Sarah might not have had to worry about train timetables and getting to meetings, but she wasn’t sitting around twiddling her thumbs and admiring the scenery either!
Sunday, March 2, 2008
William's views on education
A while back I quoted from a newspaper report of William’s speech at a public meeting held in 1856 to discuss the Education Act. In March 1856, the Nelson Provincial Government passed its own Education Act, providing for education in the province funded by a tax on rate-payers. It seems to have slipped quietly under the radar during its three readings, and the outcry only came after the Act had passed into law. Some people found the idea of a compulsory tax on every household objectionable; others had issues with the carefully-worded religious instruction provisions.
All households were to pay £1 per year towards funding education; in addition, those households with children between the ages of five and 14 were to pay 5 shillings per child, up to a maximum of an additional £1. In return, any schools funded under the Act were to be open to all children, with no additional fees to be paid for their attendance. Some people objected on the grounds that education should be funded by the government; some objected because they had already paid to educate their now-grown children and didn’t see why they should have to pay for the children of others; and some simply objected because the tax was compulsory.
The religious instruction provisions were interesting. Having already seen a completely secular education scheme fail in Wellington, the Nelson Provincial Government provided in their Act that “Any religious instruction given in schools shall be free from all controversial character, and shall be imparted at such hours that any parents objecting thereto may be able to withdraw their children from the school at the time when it is given.” It would be up to the elected school boards to determine whether a school offered any religious instruction, and the nature of it, and it would open to parents to withdraw their children if they so wished. It seems pretty inoffensive, but the local Catholic priest, who had been running a school attended largely by Protestants, got bent out of shape. He foresaw a situation where protestant-dominated school boards would run protestant schools on public funds, and the Catholic schools would struggle to get any share of public money. [As it happens, he was quite right. The original national Education Act made state-funded education free and secular (which is why we all sang hymns at school assembly, right?) and the Catholic schools were essentially privately funded until the 1975 Integrated Schools Act gave them access to state funding.]
Anyway, the meeting at which William spoke was some months later, in June, when concerns about the implementation of the Act were beginning to bite. The meeting started with the proposal of a resolution “that this meeting considers the Education Act unjust and oppressive, violating the civil and religious liberty which every one in this country is entitled to enjoy.” By the conclusion of the meeting, the original resolution had been so amended that it was reversed into saying that the Act was “a just and necessary measure, …calculated to be productive of welfare to this province”. In this form the resolution was carried by a majority of around three to one!
William’s own views were recorded in the Nelson Examiner of 21 June 1856 :
MR. NORGROVE said that, like Marmaduke Magog, it was not often that he spoke in public, but he must beg permission to say a few words on the subject of education. He remembered attending a Chartist meeting about 25 years ago, at which one of the great reasons urged for the passing of the people's charter was that the Government did not make proper provision for the education of the people [hear, hear]. He remembered that one of the speakers on that occasion had alluded to the mill girls of Manchester, who toiled from morning till night at the mills instead of going to school, and had remarked that the wonder was not that they were bad, but that they were so good [hear]. The same speaker went on to show that without education a people could become neither wise nor good, and that it was the duty of the state to care for the education of the people [hear, hear]. He (Mr Norgrove) was sorry to find that the question was so mistaken here, and that people forgot that in paying this tax for the support of a scheme of education, they were investing for posterity [hear, hear]. He had seven children, and he should some day be gathered to his fathers and leave a name behind him - it might be an indifferent one, but at all events it would be a name - and it was his earnest desire to see his boys receive a better education, and earn a better name than himself [cheers]. Should parents toil on day after day and leave their children what they considered a competence, without giving them some education to take care of that which, if they were ignorant and uneducated, some plausible scoundrel might come and chouse them of [hear, hear]? He was sorry to hear no argument on the other side; he wished to see the measure fairly tried, and he had no doubt that some day or other they would all be the better for it [vehement cheering].
Despite saying he wanted his boys to receive a better education than he had, William’s girls were also educated – the younger ones amongst the protestant crowd at the Catholic school mentioned above. The younger children seem to have had the opportunity to attend school regularly and do well – Horace, Emma and Kate appear in the school prize lists. In December 1857, 11-year old Horace received a prize in the First Division for "general good conduct". The following year, 10-year old Emma received her prize for general good conduct and attendance. In 1859, she came first in the Second Class. In 1860 she was 2nd in the First Class, and took a prize for Writing. That same year, eight-year old Kate came second in the Fourth Class.
I still don’t know how much of an education the older children received. There were schools in Wellington when Ovid, Oscar and Gertrude were small, but they were private schools, and attendance wasn’t compulsory. There may not have been money to spare for regular schooling – and Gertrude may have been needed at home to help with the babies. Certainly Ovid’s formal education was patchy – he was 12 when William took him to the Victoria goldfields, so if he had been in school until then, that would have been the end of it.
I don’t know that William got his wish, that his boys received a better education than he had. William was essentially a scholarship boy – he had received the secondary education that would usually have been out of reach for boys of his class, at an English Foundation School. Certainly, however, the investment for posterity in education was ultimately made in free and universal education. Succeeding generations of Norgrove descendants have done well – I think he would be proud of us.
All households were to pay £1 per year towards funding education; in addition, those households with children between the ages of five and 14 were to pay 5 shillings per child, up to a maximum of an additional £1. In return, any schools funded under the Act were to be open to all children, with no additional fees to be paid for their attendance. Some people objected on the grounds that education should be funded by the government; some objected because they had already paid to educate their now-grown children and didn’t see why they should have to pay for the children of others; and some simply objected because the tax was compulsory.
The religious instruction provisions were interesting. Having already seen a completely secular education scheme fail in Wellington, the Nelson Provincial Government provided in their Act that “Any religious instruction given in schools shall be free from all controversial character, and shall be imparted at such hours that any parents objecting thereto may be able to withdraw their children from the school at the time when it is given.” It would be up to the elected school boards to determine whether a school offered any religious instruction, and the nature of it, and it would open to parents to withdraw their children if they so wished. It seems pretty inoffensive, but the local Catholic priest, who had been running a school attended largely by Protestants, got bent out of shape. He foresaw a situation where protestant-dominated school boards would run protestant schools on public funds, and the Catholic schools would struggle to get any share of public money. [As it happens, he was quite right. The original national Education Act made state-funded education free and secular (which is why we all sang hymns at school assembly, right?) and the Catholic schools were essentially privately funded until the 1975 Integrated Schools Act gave them access to state funding.]
Anyway, the meeting at which William spoke was some months later, in June, when concerns about the implementation of the Act were beginning to bite. The meeting started with the proposal of a resolution “that this meeting considers the Education Act unjust and oppressive, violating the civil and religious liberty which every one in this country is entitled to enjoy.” By the conclusion of the meeting, the original resolution had been so amended that it was reversed into saying that the Act was “a just and necessary measure, …calculated to be productive of welfare to this province”. In this form the resolution was carried by a majority of around three to one!
William’s own views were recorded in the Nelson Examiner of 21 June 1856 :
MR. NORGROVE said that, like Marmaduke Magog, it was not often that he spoke in public, but he must beg permission to say a few words on the subject of education. He remembered attending a Chartist meeting about 25 years ago, at which one of the great reasons urged for the passing of the people's charter was that the Government did not make proper provision for the education of the people [hear, hear]. He remembered that one of the speakers on that occasion had alluded to the mill girls of Manchester, who toiled from morning till night at the mills instead of going to school, and had remarked that the wonder was not that they were bad, but that they were so good [hear]. The same speaker went on to show that without education a people could become neither wise nor good, and that it was the duty of the state to care for the education of the people [hear, hear]. He (Mr Norgrove) was sorry to find that the question was so mistaken here, and that people forgot that in paying this tax for the support of a scheme of education, they were investing for posterity [hear, hear]. He had seven children, and he should some day be gathered to his fathers and leave a name behind him - it might be an indifferent one, but at all events it would be a name - and it was his earnest desire to see his boys receive a better education, and earn a better name than himself [cheers]. Should parents toil on day after day and leave their children what they considered a competence, without giving them some education to take care of that which, if they were ignorant and uneducated, some plausible scoundrel might come and chouse them of [hear, hear]? He was sorry to hear no argument on the other side; he wished to see the measure fairly tried, and he had no doubt that some day or other they would all be the better for it [vehement cheering].
Despite saying he wanted his boys to receive a better education than he had, William’s girls were also educated – the younger ones amongst the protestant crowd at the Catholic school mentioned above. The younger children seem to have had the opportunity to attend school regularly and do well – Horace, Emma and Kate appear in the school prize lists. In December 1857, 11-year old Horace received a prize in the First Division for "general good conduct". The following year, 10-year old Emma received her prize for general good conduct and attendance. In 1859, she came first in the Second Class. In 1860 she was 2nd in the First Class, and took a prize for Writing. That same year, eight-year old Kate came second in the Fourth Class.
I still don’t know how much of an education the older children received. There were schools in Wellington when Ovid, Oscar and Gertrude were small, but they were private schools, and attendance wasn’t compulsory. There may not have been money to spare for regular schooling – and Gertrude may have been needed at home to help with the babies. Certainly Ovid’s formal education was patchy – he was 12 when William took him to the Victoria goldfields, so if he had been in school until then, that would have been the end of it.
I don’t know that William got his wish, that his boys received a better education than he had. William was essentially a scholarship boy – he had received the secondary education that would usually have been out of reach for boys of his class, at an English Foundation School. Certainly, however, the investment for posterity in education was ultimately made in free and universal education. Succeeding generations of Norgrove descendants have done well – I think he would be proud of us.
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