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.

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.

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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

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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.

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 :

• 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…………….

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!

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.