Q1: There are three very telling images in this book: the grand Natural History Museum in London, not long after it opened in South Kensington in 1881; the much smaller but still rather grand Canterbury Museum, built in 1870; and the very plain Auckland Museum, built in 1876. What stories do these three buildings tell us?
The Natural History Museum in London is a monument to Victorian imperial confidence — lavish, authoritative and designed to awe — that symbolised the global reach of the British Empire at its zenith. The Canterbury Museum in Christchurch is smaller but clearly inspired by that imperial model. It reflects the ambitions of a settler city trying to import not just architecture but also intellectual authority, and befitted Christchurch’s self-image as a cultured provincial capital.
Then we have the Auckland Museum of 1876 — plain, improvised and almost invisible by comparison. It was housed in an old public building, with little funding and few staff. But that’s what makes the story compelling. The contrast between the buildings isn’t just architectural — it reflects differing levels of civic support, cultural ambition and access to resources. Auckland’s museum didn’t look like much, but it had people with vision, especially Thomas Cheeseman. Over time, he took that underwhelming space and turned it into a serious scientific institution.
Q2: The Auckland Museum became the responsibility of the Auckland Institute in 1868. The building may at first have been humble but the institute’s aims were lofty and its members included some of the city’s most powerful figures. What was so important about what they did?
The Auckland Institute brought together a group of people — lawyers, politicians, teachers, doctors — who believed that science, learning and culture were essential for building a modern city. It helped that the early presidents of the Institute were a who’s who of Auckland. Importantly, the Institute’s founders — including figures like Thomas Gillies and Frederick Whitaker, both former Superintendents of the Auckland Province — were not only scientifically minded but also politically influential. Because of their dual roles they could secure both material resources and symbolic legitimacy for the museum. What’s remarkable is how much they did with so little. Auckland in the 1860s didn’t have a university, a proper library, or a scientific infrastructure. The Institute filled that gap, hosting public lectures, publishing research, connecting with scientific networks overseas and making scientific knowledge accessible to the public.
Q3: When Thomas Cheeseman joined the then newly founded Institute he was young, had no formal scientific training and was not especially powerful or well connected. How then did he so quickly rise to being the museum’s curator?
Cheeseman’s rise is a classic story of talent meeting opportunity. What he did have was deep curiosity, self-discipline and an incredible work ethic. Over time, people noticed. More importantly, he was reliable. When the curatorship became vacant in 1874 he wasn’t the obvious candidate — but as an Institute member he had developed a thorough knowledge of the museum’s inner workings. He understood the collections, he was respected by his peers and he’d begun to build relationships with international experts. In many ways, he had quietly become indispensable.
Q4: He was, as you note, Charles Darwin’s correspondent. How remarkable is it that he had the courage to write to Darwin seeking advice on identifying a native orchid?
It’s incredibly bold. At the time, Charles Darwin was arguably the most famous scientist in the world and also one of the most controversial. And it wasn’t just a lucky moment. Cheeseman’s note was careful, respectful and scientifically rigorous. It showed that he wasn’t just some amateur with an opinion — he was a careful observer who took the work seriously. Darwin saw that. For Cheeseman, it must have been thrilling and validating. It also helped open doors — that exchange helped establish his credibility in the scientific world, and it reinforced the idea that valuable knowledge didn’t just come from Oxford or London, it could come from a young man on the edge of empire, with a sharp mind and a notebook. That Cheeseman dared to write at all — and so confidently — speaks volumes about both his scientific maturity and his quiet self-assurance.
Q5: You have read all of his correspondence, now held in the Museum archives. What characterises these letters to fellow museum directors, collectors and others?
Cheeseman’s letters are a treasure trove. They’re not just administrative — they also reveal a man of immense diligence, courtesy and intellectual generosity. His letters to fellow museum directors, collectors, scientists and administrators are invariably polite and precise — almost never hasty or careless. They reflect a consistent professional tone: respectful, collaborative and deeply engaged with both the scientific and logistical details of museum work.
They are also strikingly specific. Whether he was requesting specimens, offering botanical identifications, or discussing display techniques, Cheeseman’s communication was methodical and clear. He was often at pains to acknowledge the efforts of others and to ensure that exchanges were reciprocal. This diplomacy served him well, especially in navigating relationships with better-funded institutions in the United States, Europe and Australia.
But his letters also show strategy. Cheeseman was always looking to improve the Auckland Museum — he wanted better displays, more up-to-date arrangement methods and access to new material. He didn’t ask for favours lightly. When he did, it was clear he had a plan. There’s a quiet ambition running through these letters. He knew Auckland was behind the times internationally, and he was determined to close the gap. You also see flashes of personality — dry humour, occasional frustration, but also real warmth when he’s writing to trusted colleagues. What comes through most clearly is a sense of duty. Cheeseman believed he was building something that mattered — not just for his time, but for generations to come.
Q6: He took his new wife, Rose, botanising on their honeymoon. Do you get the sense that work-life balance was a concept foreign to him?
Absolutely! This fusion of life and work was typical of many nineteenth-century naturalists, who saw themselves as custodians of knowledge and believed that their individual efforts contributed to a grand civilisational project. It also reflected the underdeveloped institutional structures of colonial science, which often depended on personal commitment and sacrifice. Taking Rose on a botanical collecting trip was completely in character. Fieldwork was where he felt most alive, and Rose dutifully supported him in these efforts by joining some of his collecting expeditions. But this wasn’t drudgery for him; he loved what he did. It was a vocation, a calling and often a consuming passion, which in turn gave him incredible stamina.
Q7: You portray him as gentlemanly and courteous but also as driven and competitive. What are some examples of that?
Thomas Cheeseman’s character combined the decorous civility expected of a Victorian gentleman with an unmistakable ambition to elevate himself, and the Auckland Museum, in the scientific world. His letters and actions show a man who rarely raised his voice in public, but who nonetheless fought determinedly for recognition, resources, and professional standing. Cheeseman was outwardly respectful toward his counterparts in Wellington and Christchurch, but he often worked behind the scenes to secure better funding, obtain more authentic and higher quality objects, or gain access to key international networks.
Cheeseman published widely, often to pre-empt rivals or correct perceived inaccuracies in the work of others. He was fastidious in botanical nomenclature, and his magnum opus, The Manual of the New Zealand Flora (1906), not only solidified his authority in the field but also subtly displaced earlier, rival works. Cheeseman played a long game of strategic self-advancement — and usually won.
Q8: And when did those impulses take him into ethically dubious territory?
While Thomas Cheeseman was largely guided by the norms of nineteenth-century science, some of his actions — particularly around the acquisition and display of taonga Māori — now fall into ethically ambiguous, if not outright troubling, territory. His drive to build the Auckland museum’s collections sometimes led him to treat cultural objects as specimens, detached from the communities that made and valued them.
One notable example was his involvement in the transfer and display of human remains. This was particularly so in the case of Auckland Museum obtaining (on loan) in 1903 a collection of waka kōiwi burial chests from Waiomio and Waimamaku in Northland. Such items were traditionally highly tapu and interred in caves, and their presence is a museum collection was as unlikely as it was inappropriate. Like many curators of his era, Cheeseman considered Māori ancestral remains as scientific artefacts. He catalogued and exchanged them with other institutions, often without community consent or consideration of their cultural significance — museum practices rooted in colonial ideologies that stripped Indigenous peoples of agency and treated their cultures as objects of European study.
His acquisition methods could also be problematic. In several cases, taonga were obtained through missionary networks, collectors or private sales, often with little documentation about provenance or permission. Cheeseman rarely questioned the ethics of these transactions. Instead, he focused on securing what he regarded as important additions to the museum's holdings. These actions were not driven by malice, but rather by an unshakeable belief in the civilising power of museums and the primacy of scientific classification. Today, however, they raise urgent questions about ownership, representation, and restitution. Cheeseman’s legacy, like that of many colonial-era curators, is thus both one of contribution and complicity.
Q9: He did not live to see the Auckland War Memorial Museum in the Domain built, but can that building in large part be attributed to him even so?
When the War Memorial idea emerged after the First World World War, Cheeseman acted quickly to align a new museum with the memorial project. That was a strategic masterstroke. It secured public support, funding and political will, and he advocated for the Auckland Institute and Museum to be central to the scheme, ensuring continuity and scientific credibility. Though the final fundraising campaign and architectural plans were completed after his death, the intellectual and institutional momentum was largely his. As a member of the selection panel, he would have assisted with both determining specifications for the competition entries, and choosing the winning design. Thereafter, as the successful Auckland architects developed working drawings for the new building, Cheeseman provided drawings and plans for interior details, in line with his vision of an ideal museum. Among many of the major decisions which can surely be attributed to him was the central placement of the Māori Court, at the very heart of the building. Entered directly from main foyer, it spanned the full width of the museum and housed many of the treasures obtained during Cheeseman’s curatorship — Te Toki a Tapiri, Te Oha, Te Puawai o Te Arawa, Tiki (Pukeroa gateway) and Pukaki.
Q10: How would you assess his legacy?
Thomas Cheeseman’s legacy is both profound and complex. He was one of New Zealand’s most important museum figures and a pioneering botanist, whose work laid the foundations for modern scientific inquiry in the country. Over nearly half a century, he transformed a modest and poorly housed collection into a respected scientific institution. His achievements in taxonomy — especially the publication of The Manual of the New Zealand Flora in 1906 — cemented his reputation internationally and ensured that New Zealand’s unique plant life was systematically catalogued for the first time. He also played a crucial role in shaping the museum as a civic institution. Cheeseman professionalised its operations, advocated tirelessly for improved facilities, and cultivated networks with international museums and scientific bodies.
Yet his legacy must also be viewed through a critical lens. His role in acquiring human remains and taonga now raises ethical challenges that museums must confront today. Nevertheless, Cheeseman’s intellectual rigour, institutional vision, and sheer endurance left an indelible mark on New Zealand’s scientific and cultural landscape. His work continues to inform botanical research and museological practice. If he was a man of his time, he was also one who, through scholarship and persistence, shaped the trajectory of the museum far beyond his own lifetime.
