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 BEGINNING
IOS APPLICATION DEVELOPMENT
WITH HTML AND JAVASCRIPT®

INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxiii

 PART I GETTING STARTED

CHAPTER 1 Introducing iOS Development Using Web Technologies . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
CHAPTER 2 Working with Core Technologies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
CHAPTER 3 The Document Object Model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
CHAPTER 4 Writing Your First Hello World Application . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
CHAPTER 5 Enabling and Optimizing Web Sites for the iPhone and iPad . . . . . . . . 79

 PART II APPLICATION DESIGN

CHAPTER 6 Designing the iPhone UI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
CHAPTER 7 Designing for iPad . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
CHAPTER 8 Styling with CSS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135

 PART III APPLICATION DEVELOPMENT

CHAPTER 9 Programming the Interface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153
CHAPTER 10 Handling Touch Interactions and Events . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
CHAPTER 11 Special Effects and Animation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207
CHAPTER 12 Integrating with iOS Services . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223
CHAPTER 13 Packaging Apps as Bookmarks: Bookmarklets
and Data URLs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235

 PART IV ADVANCED PROGRAMMING TECHNIQUES

CHAPTER 14 Programming the Canvas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251
CHAPTER 15 Offline Applications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269
CHAPTER 16 Building with Web App Frameworks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 287
CHAPTER 17 Bandwidth and Performance Optimizations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 303
CHAPTER 18 Debug and Deploy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 317

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  PART V NEXT STEPS: DEVELOPING NATIVE IOS APPLICATIONS
WITH HTML AND JAVASCRIPT
CHAPTER 19 Preparing for Native iOS Development . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 333
CHAPTER 20 PhoneGap: Native Apps from Your HTML, CSS,
and JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 345
CHAPTER 21 Submitting Your App to the App Store . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 363
APPENDIX Exercise Answers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 375

INDEX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .381

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 BEGINNING

iOS Application Development

with HTML and JavaScript®

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 BEGINNING

iOS Application Development

with HTML and JavaScript®

Richard Wagner

John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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 Beginning iOS Application Development with HTML and JavaScript®
Published by
John Wiley & Sons, Inc.
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Copyright © 2012 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Indianapolis, Indiana

Published simultaneously in Canada

ISBN: 978-1-118-15900-2
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 To KimmyWags and the J-Team

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 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

RICHARD WAGNER is Lead Product Architect of Mobile/Web at Maark, LLC. Previously, he was
the head of engineering for the Web scripting company Nombas and VP of Product Development
for NetObjects, where he was the chief architect of a CNET award-winning JavaScript tool named
NetObjects ScriptBuilder. He is an experienced web designer and developer and the author of
several Web-related books on the underlying technologies of the iOS application platform.

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 CREDITS

EXECUTIVE EDITOR PRODUCTION MANAGER

Carol Long Tim Tate

PROJECT EDITOR VICE PRESIDENT AND EXECUTIVE GROUP

Kelly Talbot PUBLISHER
Richard Swadley
TECHNICAL EDITOR
Michael Gilbert VICE PRESIDENT AND EXECUTIVE
PUBLISHER
PRODUCTION EDITOR Neil Edde
Kathleen Wisor
ASSOCIATE PUBLISHER
COPY EDITOR Jim Minatel
Charlotte Kughen
PROJECT COORDINATOR, COVER
EDITORIAL MANAGER Katie Crocker
Mary Beth Wakefield
PROOFREADER
FREELANCER EDITORIAL MANAGER Sheilah Ledwidge, Word One
Rosemarie Graham
INDEXER
ASSOCIATE DIRECTOR OF MARKETING Robert Swanson
David Mayhew
COVER DESIGNER
MARKETING MANAGER
Ryan Sneed
Ashley Zurcher
COVER IMAGE
BUSINESS MANAGER
© Sam Burt Photography / iStockPhoto
Amy Knies

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 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THE IPHONE AND IPAD HAVE EMERGED as my favorite pieces of technology I have ever owned. As
such, the topic of iOS application development has been a joy to write about. However, the book
was also a joy because of the stellar team I had working with me on this book. First and foremost,
I’d like to thank Kelly Talbot for his masterful role as project editor. He kept the project on track
and running smoothly from start to fi nish. I’d also like to thank Michael Gilbert for his insights and
ever-watchful eye that ensured technical accuracy in this book. Further, thanks also to Charlotte
Kughen for her editing prowess.

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 CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION xxiii

PART I: GETTING STARTED

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCING IOS DEVELOPMENT USING WEB

TECHNOLOGIES 3

Discovering the Safari on iOS Platform 3

Key Safari Features for Web Developers 6
Four Ways to Develop Web Apps for iOS 7
The Finger Is Not a Mouse 9
Limitations and Constraints 10
Setting Up Your Development Environment on a Local Network 11
CHAPTER 2: WORKING WITH CORE TECHNOLOGIES 15

Exploring HTML 5 Media Elements 15

Scripting JavaScript 18
Syntax and Basic Rules 18
Variables 20
Operators 26
Reserved Words 27
Basic Conditional Expressions 28
Loops 31
Comments 33
Functions 35
Data Types 39

CHAPTER 3: THE DOCUMENT OBJECT MODEL 47

What Is the DOM? 47

DOM as a Tree 48
Accessing the DOM from JavaScript 51
Accessing a Specific Element 51
Accessing a Set of Elements 52
Accessing Family Members 53
Retrieving Attributes 53
Manipulating the DOM 55
Creating an Element and Other Nodes 55

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 CONTENTS

Adding a Node to the DOM 55

Creating Other Elements 57
Setting a Value to an Attribute 59
Moving a Node 60
Cloning a Node 60
Removing a Node from the DOM 61
Removing an Attribute 62

CHAPTER 4: WRITING YOUR FIRST HELLO WORLD APPLICATION 65

Setting Up 66
Creating Your Index Page 66
Creating the Main Screen 67
Adding Detail Pages 70
CHAPTER 5: ENABLING AND OPTIMIZING WEB SITES
FOR THE IPHONE AND IPAD 79

Tier 1: iOS Compatibility 80

Tier 2: Navigation-Friendly Websites 82
Working with the Viewport 82
Turning Your Page into Blocks 85
Defining Multiple Columns (Future Use) 87
Tier 3: Custom Styling 87
Media Queries 88
Text Size Adjustment 88
Case Study: Enabling an Existing Web Site 89
Tier 4: Parallel Sites 92

PART II: APPLICATION DESIGN

CHAPTER 6: DESIGNING THE IPHONE UI 99

Evolving UI Design 99
The iPhone Viewport 100
Exploring iOS Design Patterns 102
Categorizing Apps 103
Navigation List-based UI Design 104
Application Modes 105
Exploring Screen Layout 106
Title Bar 106
Edge-to-Edge Navigation Lists 107
Rounded Rectangle Design Destination Pages 108

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 CONTENTS

Designing for Touch 109

Working with Fonts 110
Best Practices in iOS UI Design 111
Adding Finishing Touches 112
CHAPTER 7: DESIGNING FOR IPAD 117

Special iPad Considerations 117

Design Essentials 118
Dealing with Scrolling 118
Split View Design Pattern 119
Designing a UI for iPad 120

CHAPTER 8: STYLING WITH CSS 135

CSS Selectors Supported in Safari 135

Text Styles 137
Controlling Text Sizing with -webkit-text-size-adjust 138
Handling Overflowed Text with text-overflow 139
Creating Subtle Shadows with text-shadow 142
Styling Block Elements 142
Image-Based Borders with -webkit-border-image 142
Rounded Corners with -webkit-border-radius 143
Gradient Push Buttons with -webkit-appearance 144
Multiple Background Images 144
Setting Transparencies 145
Creating CSS-based iOS Buttons 147
Identifying Incompatibilities 148

PART III: APPLICATION DEVELOPMENT

CHAPTER 9: PROGRAMMING THE INTERFACE 153

Top Level of Application 154

Examining Top-Level Styles 155
Adding the Top Toolbar 157
Adding a Top-Level Navigation Menu 159
Displaying a Panel with an Internal URL 160
Creating a Secondary Navigation List 162
Designing for Long Navigation Lists 163
Creating a Destination Page 164
Adding a Dialog 168

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 CONTENTS

Scripting UI Behavior 178

On Document Load 179
Loading a Standard iUI Page 181
Handling Link Clicks 183
Loading a Dialog 184

CHAPTER 10: HANDLING TOUCH INTERACTIONS AND EVENTS 189

Three Types of Touch Events 189

Mouse-Emulation Events 190
Many Events Handled by Default 190
Conditional Events 190
Mouse Events: Think “Click,” Not “Move” 191
Click-Enabling Elements 192
Event Flow 192
Unsupported Events 192
Touch Events 194
Gesture Events 196
Detecting an Orientation Change 196
Changing a Style Sheet When Orientation Changes 198
Changing Element Positioning Based on Orientation Change 203
Trapping for Key Events with the On-Screen Keyboard 204
CHAPTER 11: SPECIAL EFFECTS AND ANIMATION 207

Gradients 207
Creating CSS Gradients 207
Creating Gradients with JavaScript 210
Adding Shadows 212
Adding Reflections 213
Working with Masks 215
Creating Transform Effects 217
Creating Animations 218
CHAPTER 12: INTEGRATING WITH IOS SERVICES 223

Making Phone Calls from Your App 224

Sending Emails 226
Sending SMS Messages 229
Pointing on Google Maps 230

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 CONTENTS

CHAPTER 13: PACKAGING APPS AS BOOKMARKS:

BOOKMARKLETS AND DATA URLS 235

Working with Bookmarklets 236

Adding a Bookmarklet to Safari on iOS 236
Exploring How Bookmarklets Can Be Used 237
Storing an Application in a Data URL 239
Constraints and Issues with Using Data URLs 239
Developing a Data URL App 240

PART IV: ADVANCED PROGRAMMING TECHNIQUES

CHAPTER 14: PROGRAMMING THE CANVAS 251

Identifying the User Agent 251

Programming the iOS Canvas 254
Defining the Canvas Element 254
Getting a Context 254
Drawing a Simple Rectangle 256
Drawing Other Shapes 257
Drawing an Image 259
Advanced Drawing 261
Drawing with Encoded Images 262
Adding Color and Transparency 264
Creating an Image Pattern 265
CHAPTER 15: OFFLINE APPLICATIONS 269

HTML 5 Offline Application Cache 269

Create a Manifest File 270
Reference the Manifest File 271
Programmatically Control the Cache 271
Checking Connection Status 273
Using Key-Value Storage 276
Saving a Key Value 276
Loading Key-value Data 277
Deleting Key-value Data 278
Going SQL with the JavaScript Database 283
Open a Database 283
Querying a Table 283

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 CONTENTS

CHAPTER 16: BUILDING WITH WEB APP FRAMEWORKS 287

Using jQuery Mobile 288

Using iWebKit 293
CHAPTER 17: BANDWIDTH AND PERFORMANCE
OPTIMIZATIONS 303

Optimization Strategies 303

Best Practices to Minimize Bandwidth 304
General 304
Images 305
CSS and JavaScript 305
Compressing Your Application 306
Gzip File Compression 306
JavaScript Code Compression 307
JavaScript Performance Optimizations 308
Smart DOM Access 309
Local and Global Variables 311
Dot Notation and Property Lookups 311
Avoiding Nested Properties 311
Accessing a Named Object 312
Property Lookups Inside Loops 312
String Concatenation 313
What to Do and Not to Do 314

CHAPTER 18: DEBUG AND DEPLOY 317

Simulating the iPhone or iPad on Your Development Computer 318

Xcode’s iOS Simulator 318
Using Safari on Mac or Windows 320
Working with Desktop Safari Debugging Tools 322
Working with the Develop Menu 322
Working with Safari’s Web Inspector 323
Working with the Scripts Inspector 325
Debugging on an iOS Device 326
Debug Console 326
DOM Viewer 327

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 CONTENTS

PART V: NEXT STEPS: DEVELOPING NATIVE IOS APPLICATIONS

WITH HTML AND JAVASCRIPT

CHAPTER 19: PREPARING FOR NATIVE IOS DEVELOPMENT 333

Downloading Xcode 333

Joining the iOS Developer Program 334
Getting an iOS Developer Certificate 335
Retrieving the Developer Certificate 337
Adding a Device for Testing 337
Creating an App ID 338
Creating a Provisioning Profile 340
Installing the Development Provisioning Profile 341
CHAPTER 20: PHONEGAP: NATIVE APPS FROM
YOUR HTML, CSS, AND JAVASCRIPT 345

Installing PhoneGap 345

Creating a New PhoneGap Project in Xcode 346
Running the Base Project 348
Adding Web Files to the Xcode Project 348
Merging Your Web App Code 349
Tweaking the Xcode Project 357
Allowing External References 357
Opening External Links in Safari 358
Adding an Icon and Launch Image 359
Running the Finished App 360
CHAPTER 21: SUBMITTING YOUR APP TO THE APP STORE 363

Step 1: Getting a Distribution Certificate 364

Step 2: Creating a Distribution Provisioning Profile 365
Step 3: Building a Distribution Release of Your App 368
Step 4: Submitting Your App to the App Store 369
APPENDIX: EXERCISE ANSWERS 375

INDEX 381

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 INTRODUCTION

THE AMAZING SUCCESS OF THE IPHONE and iPad over the past four years has proven that
application developers are now smack deep in a brave new world of sophisticated, multifunctional
mobile applications. No longer do applications and various media need to live in separate silos.
Instead, mobile web-based applications can bring together elements of web apps, native apps,
multimedia video and audio, and the mobile device.
This book covers the various aspects of developing web-based applications for iOS. Specifically, you will
discover how to create a mobile application from the ground up, utilize existing open source frameworks
to speed up your development times, emulate the look and feel of built-in Apple applications, capture
finger touch interactions, and optimize applications for Wi-Fi and wireless networks.

WHO THIS BOOK IS FOR

This book is aimed primarily for beginning and intermediate web developers who want to build new
applications for iOS or migrate existing web apps to this platform. In general, readers will fi nd it
helpful to have a working knowledge of the following technologies:
➤ HTML/XHTML
➤ CSS
➤ JavaScript
➤ Ajax
However, if you are a less experienced working with these technologies, be sure to take advantage of
the early chapters at the start of the book.

WHAT THIS BOOK COVERS

This book introduces readers to the web application platform for iOS. It guides readers through the
process of building new applications from scratch and migrating existing web applications to this
new mobile platform. As it does so, it helps readers design a user interface that is optimized for iOS
touch-screen displays and integrate their applications with iPhone services, including Phone, Mail,
Google Maps, and GPS.

HOW THIS BOOK IS STRUCTURED

The chapter-level breakdown is as follows:
1. Introducing iOS Development Using Web Technologies. Explores the Safari development
platform and walks you through different ways you can develop apps for iOS.

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Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
But you ought to see him. His hair is like my own daughter's—long,
glossy, golden hair; and his eyes are large and blue, and the lashes
curl on his cheek like heavy fringes. He is too pale and too thin: he
looks sadly delicate; but his wretched mother was a delicate little
creature, and he has doubtless inherited a world of disease and poor
blood from her. I wish he was here though, for you to see; but I
keep him at school, for when he is much with me, I feel myself
beginning to be interested in him; and I do not wish to love him—I
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sorrow for myself, by taking him into my heart, only to have him
plucked out again by death?"

All this was said with the most passionate vehemence of manner, as
if she were defending herself against some unjust charge. I said
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aspirations, and to raise itself from the trammels of earth; and in
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I acknowledged that I had been both foolish and sinful in allowing
my first disappointment to shadow all the sunlight of my existence. I
am not naturally of a desponding disposition, and nothing but a blow
as severe as the non-success of my "Finding the Body of Harold by
Torch-light" could have affected me to the extent of mental
prostration, as that under which I was now laboring. But this was
very hard to bear! My companion listened to me with a kind of blank
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"And now, tell me the cause of your melancholy face?" she asked, as
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I smiled at her authoritative tone, and said quietly: "I am an artist,

madam, and I had counted much on the success of my first
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infamous. I am the 'presumptuous dauber' of the critics—despised
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troubles seem of no more worth than a child's tears when he has
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And with these words, said in a strange, indifferent, matter-of-fact

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I looked at the card which she placed in my hand, and read the
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I found my friend waiting for me; and in a few moments was seated
before a blazing fire in a magnificent drawing-room, surrounded with
every comfort that hospitality could offer, or luxury invent.

"Here, at least, is happiness," I thought, as I saw the family

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skeleton can there be in this house to frighten away one grace of
existence? None—none! They must be happy; and, oh! what a
contrast to that poor lady I met with to-day; and what a painful
contrast to myself!"

And all my former melancholy returned like a heavy cloud upon my

brow; and I felt that I stood like some sad ghost in a fairy-land of
beauty, so utterly out of place was my gloom in the midst of all this
gayety and splendor.
One daughter attracted my attention more than the rest. She was
the eldest, a beautiful girl of about twenty-three, or she might have
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—dark, expressive, and tender; and her manners were the softest
and most bewitching I had ever seen. She was peculiarly attractive
to an artist, from the exceeding beauty of feature, as well as from
the depth of expression which distinguished her. I secretly sketched
her portrait on my thumb-nail, and in my own mind I determined to
make her the model for my next grand attempt at historical
composition—"the Return of Columbus." She was to be the Spanish
queen; and I thought of myself as Ferdinand; for I was not unlike a
Spaniard in appearance, and I was almost as brown.

I remained with my friend a fortnight, studying the midnight effects

of the iron-foundries, and cultivating the acquaintance of Julia. In
these two congenial occupations, the time passed like lightning, and
I woke as from a pleasant dream, to the knowledge of the fact, that
my visit was expected to be brought to a close. I had been asked, I
remembered, for a week, and I had doubled my furlough. I hinted at
breakfast, that I was afraid I must leave my kind friends to-morrow,
and a general regret was expressed, but no one asked me to stay
longer; so the die was unhappily cast.

Julia was melancholy. I could not but observe it; and I confess that
the observation caused me more pleasure than pain. Could it be
sorrow at my departure? We had been daily, almost hourly,
companions for fourteen days, and the surmise was not
unreasonable. She had always shown me particular kindness, and
she could not but have seen my marked preference for her. My heart
beat wildly as I gazed on her pale cheek and drooping eyelid; for
though she had been always still and gentle, I had never seen—
certainly I had never noticed—such evident traces of sorrow, as I
saw in her face to-day. Oh, if it were for me, how I would bless each
pang which pained that beautiful heart!—how I would cherish the
tears that fell, as if they had been priceless diamonds from the mine!
—how I would joy in her grief and live in her despair! It might be
that out of evil would come good, and from the deep desolation of
my unsold "Body" might arise the heavenly blessedness of such love
as this! I was intoxicated with my hopes; and was on the point of
making a public idiot of myself, but happily some slight remnant of
common sense was left me. However, impatient to learn my fate, I
drew Julia aside; and, placing myself at her feet, while she was
enthroned on a luxurious ottoman, I pretended that I must conclude
the series of lectures on art, and the best methods of coloring, on
which I had been employed with her ever since my visit.

"You seem unhappy to-day, Miss Reay," I said, abruptly, with my

voice trembling like a girl's.

She raised her large eyes languidly. "Unhappy? no, I am never

unhappy," she said, quietly.

Her voice never sounded so silvery sweet, so pure and harmonious.

It fell like music on the air.

"I have, then, been too much blinded by excess of beauty to have
been able to see correctly," I answered. "To me you have appeared
always calm, but never sad; but to-day there is a palpable weight of
sorrow on you, which a child might read. It is in your voice, and on
your eyelids, and round your lips; it is on you like the moss on the
young rose—beautifying while vailing the dazzling glory within."

"Ah! you speak far too poetically for me," said Julia, smiling. "If you
will come down to my level for a little while, and will talk to me
rationally, I will tell you my history. I will tell it you as a lesson for
yourself, which I think will do you good."

The cold chill that went to my soul! Her history! It was no diary of
facts that I wanted to hear, but only a register of feelings—a register
of feelings in which I should find myself the only point whereto the
index was set. History! what events deserving that name could have
troubled the smooth waters of her life?
I was silent, for I was disturbed; but Julia did not notice either my
embarrassment or my silence, and began, in her low, soft voice, to
open one of the saddest chapters of life which I had ever heard.

"You do not know that I am going into a convent?" she said; then,
without waiting for an answer, she continued: "This is the last month
of my worldly life. In four weeks, I shall have put on the white robe
of the novitiate, and in due course I trust to be dead forever to this
earthly life."

A heavy, thick, choking sensation in my throat, and a burning pain

within my eyeballs, warned me to keep silence. My voice would have
betrayed me.

"When I was seventeen," continued Julia, "I was engaged to my

cousin. We had been brought up together from childhood, and we
loved each other perfectly. You must not think, because I speak so
calmly now, that I have not suffered in the past. It is only by the
grace of resignation and of religion, that I have been brought to my
present condition of spiritual peace. I am now five-and-twenty—next
week I shall be six-and-twenty: that is just nine years since I was
first engaged to Laurence. He was not rich enough, and indeed he
was far too young, to marry, for he was only a year older than
myself; and if he had had the largest possible amount of income, we
could certainly not have married for three years. My father never
cordially approved of the engagement, though he did not oppose it.
Laurence was taken partner into a large concern here, and a heavy
weight of business was immediately laid on him. Youthful as he was,
he was made the sole and almost irresponsible agent in a house
which counted its capital by millions, and through which gold flowed
like water. For some time, he went on well—to a marvel, well. He
was punctual, vigilant, careful; but the responsibility was too much
for the poor boy: the praises he received, the flattery and
obsequiousness which, for the first time, were lavished on the
friendless youth, the wealth at his command, all turned his head. For
a long time, we heard vague rumors of irregular conduct; but as he
was always the same good, affectionate, respectful, happy Laurence,
when with us, even my father, who is so strict, and somewhat
suspicious, turned a deaf ear to them. I was the earliest to notice a
slight change, first in his face, and then in his manners. At last, the
rumors ceased to be vague, and became definite. Business
neglected; fatal habits visible, even in the early day; the frightful use
of horrible words, which once he would have trembled to use; the
nights passed at the gaming-table, and the days spent in the society
of the worst men on the turf—all these accusations were brought to
my father by credible witnesses; and, alas! they were too true to be
refuted. My father—heaven and the holy saints bless his gray head!
—kept them from me as long as he could. He forgave him again and
again, and used every means that love and reason could employ to
bring him back into the way of right; but he could do nothing against
the force of such fatal habits as those to which my poor Laurence
had now become wedded. With every good intention, and with much
strong love for me burning sadly amid the wreck of his virtues, he
yet would not refrain: the evil one had overcome him; he was his
prey here and hereafter. Oh, no—not hereafter!" she added, raising
her hands and eyes to heaven, "if prayer, if fasting, patient vigil,
incessant striving, may procure him pardon—not forever his prey!
Our engagement was broken off; and this step, necessary as it was,
completed his ruin. He died...." Here a strong shudder shook her
from head to foot and I half rose, in alarm. The next instant she was
calm.

"Now, you know my history," continued she. "It is a tragedy of real

life, which you will do well, young painter, to compare with your
own!" With a kindly pressure of the hand, and a gentle smile—oh! so
sweet, so pure and heavenly!—Julia Reay left me; while I sat
perfectly awed—that is the only word I can use—with the revelation
which she had made both of her history and of her own grand soul.

"Come with me to my study," said Mr. Reay, entering the room; "I
have a world to talk to you about. You go to-morrow, you say. I am
sorry for it; but I must therefore settle my business with you in good
time to-day."

I followed him mechanically, for I was undergoing a mental

castigation which rather disturbed me. Indeed, like a young fool—as
eager in self-reproach as in self-glorification—I was so occupied in
inwardly calling myself hard names, that even when my host gave
me a commission for my new picture, "The Return of Columbus," at
two hundred and fifty pounds, together with an order to paint
himself, Mrs. Reay, and half-a-dozen of their children, I confess it
with shame, that I received the news like a leaden block, and felt
neither surprise nor joy—not though these few words chased me
from the gates of the Fleet, whither I was fast hastening, and
secured me both position and daily bread. The words of that
beautiful girl were still ringing in my ears, mixed up with the bitterest
self-accusations; and these together shut out all other sound,
however pleasant. But that was always my way.

I went back to London, humbled and yet strengthened, having

learned more of human nature and the value of events, in one short
fortnight, than I had ever dreamed of before. The first lessons of
youth generally come in hard shape. I had sense enough to feel that
I had learned mine gently, and that I had cause to be thankful for
the mildness of the teaching. From a boy, I became a man, judging
more accurately of humanity than a year's ordinary experience
would have enabled me to do. And the moral which I drew was this:
that under our most terrible afflictions, we may always gain some
spiritual good, if we suffer them to be softening and purifying, rather
than hardening influences over us. And also, that while we are
suffering the most acutely, we may be sure that others are suffering
still more acutely; and if we would but sympathize with them more
than with ourselves—live out of our own selves, and in the wide
world around us—we would soon be healed while striving to heal
others. Of this I am convinced: the secret of life, and of all its good,
is in love; and while we preserve this, we can never fail of comfort.
The sweet waters will always gush out over the sandiest desert of
our lives while we can love; but without it—nay, not the merest
weed of comfort or of virtue would grow under the feet of angels. In
this was the distinction between Mrs. Arden and Julia Reay. The one
had hardened her heart under her trials, and shut it up in itself; the
other had opened hers to the purest love of man and love of God;
and the result was to be seen in the despair of the one, and in the
holy peace of the other.

Full of these thoughts, I sought out my poor lady, determined to do

her real benefit if I could. She received me very kindly, for I had
taken care to provide myself with a sufficient introduction, so as to
set all doubts of my social position at rest: and I knew how far this
would go with her. We soon became fast friends. She seemed to rest
on me much for sympathy and comfort, and soon grew to regard me
with a sort of motherly fondness that of itself brightened her life. I
paid her all the attention which a devoted son might pay—humored
her whims, soothed her pains; but insensibly I led her mind out from
itself—-first in kindness to me, and then in love to her grandson.

I asked for him just before the midsummer holidays, and with great
difficulty obtained an invitation for him to spend them with her. She
resisted my entreaties stoutly, but at last was obliged to yield; not to
me, nor to my powers of persuasion, but to the holy truth of which I
was then the advocate. The child came, and I was there also to
receive him, and to enforce by my presence—which I saw, without
vanity, had great influence—a fitting reception. He was a pensive,
clever, interesting little fellow; sensitive and affectionate, timid,
gifted with wonderful powers, and of great beauty. There was a shy
look in his eyes, which made me sure that he inherited much of his
loveliness from his mother; and when we were great friends, he
showed me a small portrait of "Poor mamma;" and I saw at once the
most striking likeness between the two. No human heart could
withstand that boy, certainly not my poor friend's. She yielded,
fighting desperately against me and him, and all the powers of love,
which were subduing her, but yielding while she fought; and in a
short time the child had taken his proper place in her affections,
which he kept to the end of her life. And she, that desolate mother,
even she, with her seared soul and petrified heart, was brought to
the knowledge of peace by the glorious power of love.

Prosperous, famous, happy, blessed in home and hearth, this has

become my fundamental creed of life, the basis on which all good,
whether of art or of morality, is rested: of art especially; for only by
a tender, reverent spirit can the true meaning of his vocation be
made known to the artist. All the rest is mere imitation of form, not
insight into essence. And while I feel that I can live out of myself,
and love others—the whole world of man—more than myself, I know
that I possess the secret of happiness; ay, though my powers were
suddenly blasted as by lightning, my wife and children laid in the
cold grave, and my happy home desolated forever. For I would go
out into the thronged streets, and gather up the sorrows of others,
to relieve them; and I would go out under the quiet sky, and look up
to the Father's throne; and I would pluck peace, as green herbs from
active benevolence and contemplative adoration. Yes; love can save
from the sterility of selfishness, and from the death of despair; but
love alone. No other talisman has the power; pride, self-
sustainment, coldness, pleasure, nothing—nothing—but that divine
word of Life which is life's soul!
 THE LITTLE SISTERS.

A lmsgiving takes the place of the work-house system, in the

economy of a large part of Europe. The giving of alms to the
helpless is, moreover, in Catholic countries, a religious office. The
voluntary surrender of gifts, each according to his ability, as a means
of grace, is more prominently insisted upon than among Protestants;
consequently systematic taxation for the poor is not resorted to. Nor
is there so great a necessity for it as in England; for few nations
have so many paupers to provide for as the English are accustomed
to regard as a natural element in society; and thus it happens, that
when, about ten years ago, there was in France no asylum but the
hospital, for aged and ailing poor, the want of institutions for the
infirm but healthy was not so severe as to attract the public eye.

But there was at that time a poor servant-woman, a native of the

village of La Croix, in Brittany—Jeanne Sugon was her name—who
was moved by the gentleness of her heart, and the fervor of her
religion, to pity a certain infirm and destitute neighbor, to take her to
her side as a companion, and to devote herself to her support. Other
infirm people earned, by their helplessness, a claim on her attention.
She went about begging, when she could not work, that she might
preserve life as long as Nature would grant it to her infirm charges.
Her example spread a desire for the performance of similar good
offices. Two pious women, her neighbors, united with Jeanne in her
pious office. These women cherished, as they were able, aged and
infirm paupers; nursed them in a little house, and begged for them
in the vicinity. The three women, who had so devoted themselves,
attracted notice, and were presently received into the order of
Sisters of Charity, in which they took for themselves the name of
"Little Sisters of the Poor"—Petites Sœrs des Pauvres.
The first house of the Little Sisters of the Poor was opened at St.
Servan, in Brittany. A healthy flower scatters seed around. We saw
that forcibly illustrated, in the progress, from an origin equally
humble, of the Rauhe Haus, near Hamburgh: we see it now again, in
the efforts of the Little Sisters, which flourished and fructified with
prompt usefulness. On the tenth anniversary of the establishment at
St. Servan, ten similar houses had been founded in ten different
French towns.

The Petites Sœurs live with their charges in the most frugal way,
upon the scraps and waste meat which they can collect from the
surrounding houses. The voluntary contributions by which they
support their institution, are truly the crumbs falling from the rich
man's table. The nurse fares no better than the objects of her care.
She lives upon equal terms with Lazarus, and acts toward him in the
spirit of a younger sister.

The establishment at Dinan, over which Jeanne Sugon herself

presides, being under repair, and not quite fit for the reception of
visitors, we will go over the Sisters' house at Paris, which is
conducted on exactly the same plan.

We are ushered into a small parlor, scantily furnished, with some

Scripture prints upon the walls. A Sister enters to us with such a
bright look of cheerfulness as faces wear when hearts beneath them
feel that they are beating to some purpose in the world. She
accedes gladly to our desire, and at once leads us into another room
of larger size, in which twenty or thirty old women are at this
moment finishing their dinner; it being Friday, rice stands on the
table in the place of meat. The Sister moves and speaks with the
gentleness of a mother among creatures who are in, or are near to
the state of second childhood. You see an old dame fumbling eagerly
over her snuff-box lid. The poor creatures are not denied luxuries;
for, whatever they can earn by their spinning is their own money,
and they buy with it any indulgences they please; among which
nothing is so highly prized or eagerly coveted as a pinch of snuff.
In the dormitories on the first floor, some lie bed-ridden. Gentler still,
if possible, is now the Sister's voice. The rooms throughout the
house are airy, with large windows, and those inhabited by the
Sisters are distinguished from the rest by no mark of indulgence or
superiority.

We descend now into the old men's department; and enter a warm
room, with a stove in the centre. One old fellow has his feet upon a
little foot-warmer, and thinly pipes out, that he is very comfortable
now, for he is always warm. The chills of age, and the chills of the
cold pavement remain together in his memory; but he is very
comfortable now—very comfortable. An other decrepit man, with
white hair and bowed back—who may have been proud, in his
youth, of a rich voice for love-song, talks of music to the Sister; and,
on being asked to sing, blazes out with joyous gestures, and strikes
up a song of Béranger's in a cracked, shaggy voice, which
sometimes—like a river given to flow under ground—is lost entirely,
and then bubbles up again, quite thick with mud.

We go into a little oratory, where all pray together nightly before

they retire to rest. Thence we descend into a garden for the men;
and pass thence by a door into the women's court. The chapel-bell
invites us to witness the assembly of the Sisters for the repetition of
their psalms and litanies. From the chapel we return into the court,
and enter a large room, where the women are all busy with their
spinning-wheels. One old soul immediately totters to the Sister (not
the same Sister with whom we set out), and insists on welcoming
her daughter with a kiss. We are informed that it is a delusion of her
age to recognize in this Sister really her own child, who is certainly
far away, and may possibly be dead. The Sister embraces her
affectionately, and does nothing to disturb the pleasant thought.

And now we go into the kitchen. Preparation for coffee is in

progress. The dregs of coffee that have been collected from the
houses of the affluent in the neighborhood, are stewed for a long
time with great care. The Sisters say they produce a very tolerable
result; and, at any rate, every inmate is thus enabled to have a cup
of coffee every morning, to which love is able to administer the
finest Mocha flavor. A Sister enters from her rounds out of doors
with two cans full of broken victuals. She is a healthy, and, I think, a
handsome woman. Her daily work is to go out with the cans directly
after she has had her morning coffee, and to collect food for the
ninety old people that are in the house. As fast as she fills her cans,
she brings them to the kitchen, and goes out again; continuing in
this work daily till four o'clock.

You do not like this begging? What are the advertisements on behalf
of our own hospitals? what are the collectors? what are the dinners,
the speeches, the charity sermons? A few weak women, strong in
heart, without advertisement, or dinners, or charity sermons;
without urgent appeals to a sympathizing public; who have no
occasion to exercitate charity, by enticing it to balls and to theatrical
benefits; patiently collect waste food from house to house, and feed
the poor with it, humbly and tenderly.

The cans are now to be emptied; the contents being divided into
four compartments, according to their nature—broken meat,
vegetables, slices of pudding, fish, &c. Each is afterward submitted
to the best cookery that can be contrived. The choicest things are
set aside—these, said a Sister, with a look of satisfaction, will be for
our poor dear sick.

The number of Sisters altogether in this house engaged in

attendance on the ninety infirm paupers, is fourteen. They divide the
duties of the house among themselves. Two serve in the kitchen,
two in the laundry; one begs, one devotes herself to constant
personal attendance on the wants of the old men, and so on with
the others, each having her special department. The whole
sentiment of the household is that of a very large and very amiable
family. To feel that they console the last days of the infirm and aged
poor, is all the Little Sisters get for their hard work.
 HOW GUNPOWDER IS MADE.—
VISIT TO HOUNSLOW MILLS.

H ounslow Gunpowder Mills are not so much like a special

"town," as so many other large manufactories appear, but
rather have the appearance of an infant colony—a very infant one,
inasmuch as it has very few inhabitants. We never met a single man
in all our rambles through the plantations, nor heard the sound of a
human voice. It is like a strange new settlement, where there is
ample space, plenty of wood and water, but with scarcely any
colonists, and only here and there a log-hut or a dark shed among
the trees.

These works are distributed over some hundred and fifty acres of
land, without reckoning the surface of the Colne, which, sometimes
broad, sometimes narrow, sometimes in a line, and sometimes
coiling, and escaping by a curve out of sight, intersects the whole
place. It is, in fact, a great straggling plantation of firs, over swells
and declivities of land, with a branch or neck of a river meeting you
unexpectedly at almost every turn. The more we have seen of this
dismal settlement "in the bush," the more do we revert to our first
impression on entering it. The place is like the strange and squalid
plantation of some necromancer in Spenser's "Fairy Queen." Many
trees are black and shattered, as if by lightning; others distorted,
writhing, and partially stripped of their bark; and all of them have a
sort of conscious look that this is a very precarious spot for the
regular progress of vegetation. You wander up narrow winding
paths, and you descend narrow winding paths; you see the broad
arm of a river, with little swampy osier islands upon it, and then you
enter another plantation, and come upon a narrow winding neck of
river, leading up to a great black slanting structure, which you are
told is a "blast-wall;" and behind this is the green embankment of a
fortification, and further back you come upon one of the black,
ominous-looking powder "houses." You advance along other tortuous
paths, you cross small bridges, and again you enter a plantation,
more or less sombre, and presently emerge upon an open space,
where you see a semicircular road of red gravel, with cart-ruts
deeply trenched in it; and then another narrower road down to a
branch of the river, where there is another little bridge; and beyond
this, on the other side, you see a huge water-wheel revolving
between two black barn-like houses. You ascend a slope, by a path
of mud and slush, and arriving at another larger open space, you
find yourself in front of a sheet of water, and in the distance you
observe one enormous wheel—the diabolical queen of all the rest—
standing, black and immovable, like an antediluvian skeleton, against
the dull, gray sky, with a torrent of water running in a long narrow
gully from beneath its lower spokes, as if disgorged before its death.
This open space is surrounded by trees, above which, high over all,
there rises a huge chimney, or rather tower; and again, over all this
there float clouds of black smoke, derived from charred wood, if we
may judge of the effect upon our noses and eyes.

At distances from each other, varying from thirty or forty to a

hundred and fifty yards, over this settlement are distributed, by
systematic arrangement of the intervals, and the obstructive
character of the intervening ground and plantations, no less than
ninety-seven different buildings. By these means, not only is the
danger divided, but the loss, by an explosion, reduced to the one
"house" in which the accident occurs. Such, at least, is the intention,
though certainly not always affording the desired protection. The
houses are also, for the most part, constructed of light materials,
where the nature of the operation will admit of it; sometimes
extremely strong below, but very light above, like a man in armor
with a straw hat; so that if a "puff" comes, there will be a free way
upward, and they hope to get rid of the fury with no greater loss
than a light roof. In some cases the roofs are of concrete, and
bomb-proof; in others, the roofs are floated with water in shallow
tanks. There are five steam-engines employed, one being a
locomotive; and the extraordinary number of twenty-six water-mills,
as motive powers for machinery—obviously much safer than any
other that could be obtained from the most guarded and covered-in
engines requiring furnaces.

In this silent region, amidst whose ninety-seven work-places no

human voice ever breaks upon the ear, and where, indeed, no
human form is seen except in the isolated house in which his allotted
task is performed, there are secreted upward of two hundred and
fifty work-people. They are a peculiar race; not, of course, by
nature, in most cases, but by the habit of years. The circumstances
of momentary destruction in which they live, added to the most
stringent and necessary regulations, have subdued their minds and
feelings to the conditions of their hire. There is seldom any need to
enforce these regulations. Some terrific explosion here, or in works
of a similar kind elsewhere, leaves a fixed mark in their memories,
and acts as a constant warning. Here no shadow of a practical joke,
or caper of animal spirits ever transpires; no witticisms, no oaths, no
chaffing, or slang. A laugh is never heard; a smile seldom seen.
Even the work is carried on by the men with as few words as
possible, and these uttered in a low tone. Not that any body fancies
that mere sound will awaken the spirit of combustion, or cause an
explosion to take place, but that their feelings are always kept
subdued. If one man wishes to communicate any thing to another,
or to ask for any thing from somebody at a short distance, he must
go there; he is never permitted to shout or call out. There is a
particular reason for this last regulation. Amidst all this silence,
whenever a shout does occur, every body knows that some
imminent danger is expected the next moment, and all rush away
headlong from the direction of the shout. As to running toward it to
offer any assistance, as common in all other cases, it is thoroughly
understood that none can be afforded. An accident here is
immediate and beyond remedy. If the shouting be continued for
some time (for a man might be drowning in the river), that might
cause one or two of the boldest to return; but this would be a very
rare occurrence. It is by no means to be inferred that the men are
selfish and insensible to the perils of each other; on the contrary,
they have the greatest consideration for each other, as well as for
their employers, and think of the danger to the lives of others, and
of the property at stake at all times, and more especially in all the
more dangerous "houses." The proprietors of the various gunpowder
mills all display the same consideration for each other, and whenever
any improvement tending to lessen danger is discovered by one, it is
immediately communicated to all the others. The wages of the men
are good, and the hours very short; no artificial lights are ever used
in the works. They all wash themselves—black, white, yellow, and
bronze—and leave the mills at half-past three in the afternoon,
winter and summer.

After several unsuccessful attempts to effect an entrance into one of

the mysterious manufactories—attributable solely to the dangers of
utter destruction that momentarily hover over all works of this kind,
and not in the least from any want of courtesy in the proprietors—
we eventually obtained permission to inspect these mills owned by
the Messrs. Curtis, which are among the largest works of the kind in
Europe. It was a very wet day, but that circumstance was rather
favorable than otherwise, as our obliging companion, Mr. Ashbee,
the manager of the works, considerately informed us. After visiting
successively the mills where the charcoal, saltpetre, and brimstone,
are separately prepared, we plash our way over the wet path to the
"incorporation mill"—a sufficiently dangerous place. Having
exchanged our boots for India rubber over-shoes, we enter and find
the machinery—consisting of two ponderous, upright millstones,
rolling round like wagon-wheels, in a small circle. In the bed beneath
these huge rolling stones lies, not one, but the three terrible
ingredients of powdered charcoal, saltpetre, and sulphur, which are
thus incorporated. The bed upon which the stones roll is of iron;
from it the stones would inevitably strike sparks—and "there an end
of all"—if they came in contact in any part. But between the stones
and the iron bed lies the incorporating powder—forty pounds of it
giving a bed of intermediate powder, of two or three inches deep; so
that the explosive material is absolutely the only protection. So long
as the powder lies in this bed with no part of the iron left bare, all is
considered to be safe. To keep it within the bed, therefore—while
the rolling twist of the stones is continually displacing it, and rubbing
it outward and inward—several mechanical contrivances are
adopted, which act like guides, and scoops, and scrapers; and thus
restore, with regularity, the powder to its proper place, beneath the
stones. A water-wheel keeps this mill in action. No workmen remain
here; but the time required for the incorporating process being
known, the bed of powder is laid down, the mill set in motion, and
then shut up and left to itself—as it ought to be, in case of any little
oversight or "hitch" on the part of the guides, scoops, or scrapers.
The machinery of these mills, as may be readily credited, is always
kept in the finest order. "And yet," says Mr. Ashbee, in a whisper;
"and yet, five of them—just such mills as these—went off at
Faversham, the other day, one after the other. Nobody knew how."
This seasonable piece of information naturally increases the peculiar
interest we feel in the objects we are now examining, as they
proceed with their work.

The next house we visit, Mr. Ashbee assures us, is a very interesting
process. To be sure, it is one of the most dangerous; and what
makes this worse, is the fact that the process is of that kind which
requires the constant presence of the men. They can not set the
machinery to work, and leave it for a given time; they must always
remain on the spot. It is the "Corning House" sometimes called
"Graining," as it is the process which reduces the cakes and hard
knobs, into which the gunpowder has been forced by hydraulic
pressure, into grains—a very nice, and, it would appear, a sufficiently
alarming operation.

Ascending by a rising pathway, we pass over a mound covered with

a plantation of firs, and descending to a path by the river side, we
arrive at a structure of black timber, some five-and-twenty feet high,
set up in the shape of an acute angle. This is a "blast-wall," intended
to offer some resistance to a rush of air in case of an explosion near
at hand. There is also a similar blast-wall on the opposite side of the
river. Passing this structure, we arrive at a green embankment
thrown up as in fortified places, and behind and beneath this stands
the "Corning House."

It is a low-roofed, black edifice, like the rest, although, if possible,

with a still more dismal appearance. We know not what causes the
impression, but we could fancy it some place of torture, devoted to
the service of the darkest pagan superstitions, or those of the Holy
Inquisition. A little black vestibule, or out-house, stands on the side
nearest us. The whole structure is planted on the river's edge, to
which the platform in front extends. We enter the little vestibule,
and here we go through the ceremony of the over-shoes. We are
then permitted to advance upon the sacred platform, and we then
approach the entrance. If we have received a strange and
unaccountable impression of a place of torture, from the external
appearance and surrounding circumstances, this is considerably
borne out by the interior. The first thing that seems to justify this is
a dry, strangulated, shrieking cry which continues at intervals. We
discover that it is the cry of a wooden screw in torment, which in
some sort reconciles us. But the sound lingers, and the impression
too. The flooring is all covered with leather and hides, all perfectly
black with the dust of gunpowder, and on this occasion all perfectly
dry. We do not much like that: the wet sliding about was more
amusing; perhaps, also, a trifle safer.

The first object that seizes upon our attention is a black square
frame-work, apparently suspended from the ceiling. Its ugly
perpendicular beams, and equally uncouth horizontal limbs would be
just the thing to hang the dead bodies of tortured victims in. We can
not help following up our first impression. The men here, who stand
in silence looking intently at us, all wear black masks. On the left
there is reared a structure of black wood reaching to within two or
three feet of the roof. It is built up in several stages, descending like
broad steps. Each of these broad steps contains a sieve made of
closely woven wire, which becomes finer as the steps get lower and
lower. In this machine we noticed iron axles for the wheels, but our
attention was directed to the rollers, which were of zinc. Thus the
friction does not induce sparks, the action being also guarded
against external blows. At present the machine is not in motion; and
the men at work here observe their usual silence and depressing
gravity. We conjecture that the machine, when put in motion, shakes
and sifts the gunpowder in a slow and most cautious manner,
corresponding to the seriousness of the human workers, and with an
almost equal sense of the consequences of iron mistaking for once
the nature of copper and brass. "Put on the house!" says Mr.
Ashbee, in the calm voice always used here, and nodding at the
same time to the head corning-man. A rumbling sound is heard—the
wheels begin to turn—the black sieves bestir themselves, moving
from side to side; the wheels turn faster—the sieves shake and
shuffle faster. We trust there is no mistake. They all get faster still.
We do not wish them to put themselves to any inconvenience on our
account. The full speed is laid on! The wheels whirl and buzz—iron
teeth play into brass teeth—copper winks at iron—the black sieves
shake their infernal sides into fury—the whole machine seems bent
upon its own destruction—the destruction of us all! Now—one small
spark—and in an instant the whole of this house, with all in it, would
be instantly swept away! Nobody seems to think of this. And see!—
how the gunpowder rashes from side to side of the sieves, and
pours down from one stage to the other. We feel sure that all this
must be much faster than usual. We do not wish it. Why should
pride prevent our requesting that this horror should cease? We hear,
also, an extraordinary noise behind us. Turning hastily round, we see
the previously immovable black frame-work for the dead whirling
round and round in the air with frightful rapidity, while two men with
wooden shovels are shoveling up showers of gunpowder, as if to
smother and suffocate its madness. Nothing but shame—nothing but
shame and an anguish of self-command, prevents our instantly
darting out of the house—across the platform—and headlong into
the river.

What a house—what a workshop! It is quiet again. We have not

sprung into the river. But had we been alone here, under such
circumstances for the first time, we should have had no subsequent
respect for our own instincts and promptitude of action if we had
done any thing else. As it was, the thing is a sensation for life. We
find that the whirling frame-work also contains sieves—that the
invisible moving power is by a water-wheel under the flooring, which
acts by a crank. But we are very much obliged already—we have had
enough of "corning."

We take our departure over the platform—have our over-shoes taken

off—and finding that there is something more to see, we rally and
recover our breath, and are again on the path by the water's edge. A
man is coming down the river with a small covered barge, carrying
powder from one house to another. We remark that boating must be
one of the safest positions, not only as unconducive to explosion,
but even in case of its occurring elsewhere. Mr. Ashbee coincides in
this opinion, although, he adds, that some time ago, a man coming
down the river in a boat—just as that one is now doing—had his
right arm blown off. We see that, in truth, o position is safe. One
may be "blown off" any where, at any moment. Thus pleasantly
conversing as we walk, we arrive at the "Glazing-House."

The process of glazing consists in mixing black-lead with gunpowder

in large grains, and glazing, or giving it a fine glossy texture. For this
purpose four barrels containing the grains are ranged on an axle.
They are made to revolve during four hours, to render them smooth;
black-lead is then added, and they revolve four hours more. There is
iron in this machinery; but it works upon brass or copper wheels, so
that friction generates heat, but not fire. The process continues from
eight to twenty-four hours, according to the fineness of polish
required; and the revolution of the barrels sometimes causes the
heat of the gunpowder within to rise to one hundred and twenty
degrees—even to charring the wood of the interior of the barrels by
the heat and friction. We inquire what degree of heat they may be in
at the present moment? It is rather high, we learn; and the head-
glazer politely informs us that we may put our hand and arm into
the barrels and feel the heat. He opens it at the top for the purpose.
We take his word for it. However, as he inserts one hand and arm by
way of example, we feel in some sort called upon, for the honor of
"Household Words," to do the same. It is extremely hot, and a most
agreeable sensation. The faces of the men here, being all black from
the powder, and shining with the addition of the black lead, have the
appearance of grim masks of demons in a pantomime, or rather of
real demons in a mine. Their eyes look out upon us with a strange
intelligence. They know the figure they present. So do we. This,
added to their subdued voice, and whispering, and mute
gesticulation, and noiseless moving and creeping about, renders the
scene quite unique; and a little of it goes a great way.

Our time being now short—our hours, in fact, being "numbered"—

we move quickly on to the next house, some hundred yards distant.
It is the "Stoving-house." We approach the door. Mr. Ashbee is so
good as to say there is no need for us to enter, as the process may
be seen from the door-way. We are permitted to stand upon the little
platform outside, in our boots, dispensing with the over-shoes. This
house is heated by pipes. The powder is spread upon numerous
wooden trays, and slid into shelves on stands, or racks. The heat is
raised to one hundred and twenty-five degrees. We salute the head
stove-man, and depart. But turning round to give a "longing,
lingering look behind," we see a large mop protruded from the door-
way. Its round head seems to inspect the place where we stood in
our boots on the platform. It evidently discovers a few grains of
gravel or grit, and descends upon them immediately, to expurgate
the evil communication which may corrupt the good manners of the
house. A great watering-pot is next advanced, and then a stern head
—not unlike an old medallion we have seen of Diogenes—looks
round the door-post after us.

The furnace, with its tall chimney, by means of which the stove-
pipes of the house we have just visited, are heated, is at a
considerable distance, the pipes being carried under-ground to the
house.
We next go to look at the "Packing-house," where the powder is
placed in barrels, bags, tin cases, paper cases, canisters, &c. On
entering this place, a man runs swiftly before each of us, laying
down a mat for each foot to step upon as we advance, thus leaving
rows of mats in our wake, over which we are required to pass on
returning. We considered it a mark of great attention—a kind of
Oriental compliment.

The last of our visits is to a "Charge-House." There are several of

these, where the powder is kept in store. We approach it by a path
through a plantation. It lies deep among the trees—a most lonely,
dismal sarcophagus. It is roofed with water—that is, the roof is
composed of water-tanks, which are filled by the rain; and in dry
weather they are filled by means of a pump arranged for that
purpose. The platform at the entrance is of water—that is to say, it is
a broad wooden trough two inches deep, full of water, through
which we are required to walk. We do so, and with far more
satisfaction than some things we have done here to-day. We enter
the house alone; the others waiting outside. All silent and dusky as
an Egyptian tomb. The tubs of powder, dimly seen in the uncertain
light, are ranged along the walls, like mummies—all giving the
impression of a secret life within. But a secret life, how different!
"Ah! there's the rub." We retire with a mental obeisance, and a
respectful air—the influence remaining with us, so that we bow
slightly on rejoining our friends outside, who bow in return, looking
from us to the open door-way of the "house!"

With thoughtful brows, and not in any very high state of hilarity,
after the duties of the day—not to speak of being wet through to the
skin, for the second time—we move through the fir groves on our
way back. We notice a strange appearance in many trees, some of
which are curiously distorted, others with their heads cut off; and, in
some places, there are large and upright gaps in a plantation. Mr.
Ashbee, after deliberating inwardly a little while, informs us that a
very dreadful accident happened here last year. "Was there an
explosion?" we inquire. He says there was. "And a serious
one?"—"Yes."—"Any lives lost?"—"Yes."—"Two or three?"—"More
than that."—"Five or six?" He says more than that. He gradually
drops into the narrative, with a subdued tone of voice. There was an
explosion last year. Six different houses blew up. It began with a
"Separating House,"—a place for sizing, or sorting, the different
grains through sieves. Then the explosion went to a "Granulating-
House," one hundred yards off. How it was carried such distances,
except by a general combustion of the air, he can not imagine.
Thence, it went to a "Press House," where the powder lies in hard
cakes. Thence, it went in two ways—on one side to a "Composition
Mixing-House," and, on the other, to a "Glazing-House;" and thence
to another "Granulating-House." Each of these buildings were fully
one hundred yards from another; each was intercepted by
plantations of fir and forest trees as a protection; and the whole
took place within forty seconds. There was no tracing how it had
occurred.

This, then, accounts for the different gaps—some of them extending

fifty or sixty yards—in the plantations and groves? Mr. Ashbee nods a
grave assent. He adds, that one large tree was torn up by the roots,
and its trunk was found deposited at such a distance, that they
never could really ascertain where it came from. It was just found
lying there. An iron water-wheel, of thirty feet in circumference,
belonging to one of the mills, was blown to a distance of fifty yards
through the air, cutting through the heads of all the trees in its way,
and finally lodging between the upper boughs of a large tree, where
it stuck fast, like a boy's kite. The poor fellows who were killed—(our
informant here drops his voice to a whisper, and speaks in short
detached fragments; there is nobody near us, but he feels as a man
should feel in speaking of such things)—the poor fellows who were
killed were horribly mutilated—more than mutilated, some of them—
their different members distributed hither and thither, could not be
buried with their proper owners, to any certainty. One man escaped
out of a house, before it blew up, in time to run at least forty yards.
He was seen running, when suddenly he fell. But when he was
picked up, he was found to be quite dead. The concussion of the air
had killed him. One man coming down the river in a boat was
mutilated. Some men who were missing, were never found—blown
all to nothing. The place where some of the "houses" had stood, did
not retain so much as a piece of timber, or a brick. All had been
swept away, leaving nothing but the torn-up ground, a little rubbish,
and a black hash of bits of stick, to show the place where they had
been erected.

We turn our eyes once more toward the immense gaps in the fir
groves, gaps which here and there amount to wide intervals, in
which all the trees are reduced to about half their height, having
been cut away near the middle. Some trees, near at hand, we
observe to have been flayed of their bark all down one side; others
have strips of bark hanging dry and black. Several trees are
strangely distorted, and the entire trunk of one large fir has been
literally twisted like a corkscrew, from top to bottom, requiring an
amount of force scarcely to be estimated by any known means of
mechanical power. Amid all this quietness, how dreadful a visitation!
It is visible on all sides, and fills the scene with a solemn,
melancholy weight.

But we will linger here no longer. We take a parting glance around,

at the plantations of firs, some of them prematurely old, and shaking
their heads, while the air wafts by, as though conscious of their
defeated youth, and all its once-bright hopes. The dead leaves lie
thick beneath, in various sombre colors of decay, and through the
thin bare woods we see the gray light fading into the advancing
evening. Here, where the voice of man is never heard, we pause, to
listen to the sound of rustling boughs, and the sullen rush and
murmur of water-wheels and mill-streams; and, over all, the song of
a thrush, even while uttering blithe notes, gives a touching sadness
to this isolated scene of human labors—labors, the end of which, is a
destruction of numbers of our species, which may, or may not, be
necessary to the progress of civilization, and the liberty of mankind.
 AN INSANE PHILOSOPHER.

A visitor to the Hanwell Insane Asylum, in England, will have his

attention directed to one of the inmates who is at once the
"pet," the peer, the philosopher, and the poet of that vast
community. No one can long enjoy the privilege of his company
without perceiving that he has received a first-rate classical
education. His mind is remarkably clear-visioned, acute, severe,
logical, and accomplished. His manners usually display the
refinement, polish, and urbanity of a well-bred gentleman, though at
times, it is said, they are tinged with a degree of aristocratic pride,
austerity, and hauteur, especially when brought into contact with the
ignorant and vulgar. In conversation, though impeded by a slight
hesitation of utterance, he displays clearness and breadth of
intelligence in all his views, and pours forth freely from the treasures
of a well-stored memory abundance of information, anecdote, and
fact. His physiognomy and physical structure are well adapted to
enshrine a mind of such a calibre. In stature he is tall, rather slender,
but firmly knit. The muscular development of the frame denotes
considerable strength—a quality which he claims to possess in a pre-
eminent degree. He boasts, probably with considerable truth, of
having no equal, in this respect, in the asylum. His head, beautifully
formed, after a fine intellectual type, is partially bald—the few
surviving locks of hair that fringe its sides being nearly gray. The
keen, twinkling, gray eye; the prominent classic brow; the boldly-
chiseled aquiline nose; the thin cheeks, "sicklied o'er with the pale
cast of thought;" the sharp features, together with the small, firmly-
compressed mouth, plainly bespeak him a man of reflection, and
strong purpose. In age, he appears to have weathered about fifty
stormy winters. The term of his residence in this rendezvous of
afflicted strangers is somewhere about six years. His real name, his
early history, his human kindred, his former social status—in fact, all
the antecedents of his life, previous to his admission to the asylum—
are utterly unknown. On all these matters he preserves the silence
of a sphinx. No remarks, so far as we know, have ever escaped his
lips, calculated to afford any certain clew for the elucidation of the
mystery that enshrouds him. Surmise and conjecture have of course
been busy with their guesses as to his probable extraction; and the
organ of wonder has been sorely taxed in an effort to account for
the marvelous fact, that a gentleman of such apparent distinction, it
may be of noble birth and fortune, should have been lost to his
friends for a space of six years, and no earnest inquiries been made
to discover his fate. That he is of aristocratic descent, appears to be
the general impression among the officers and inmates of the
asylum—an impression justified by his elegant manners, his superior
attainments, his extensive acquaintance with noble families, and
many significant allusions found in his painted chamber, upon the
walls of which he has faithfully daguerreotyped the images, the
feelings, the recollections, and the cherished sentiments of his inner
man. The fictitious name by which he is known at present is that of
Mr. Chiswick—a name commemorative of the scene of that sad event
which has overshadowed the afternoon, and which threatens to
darken the evening, of his earthly existence. But the reader will be
anxious to learn under what strange conjunction of circumstances
this mysterious being—without father or mother, brothers or sisters,
kinsfolk or acquaintances, and without even a local habitation or a
name—obtained an introduction to this strange home. We will at
once state such facts as we have been able to collect.

On one Sabbath-day, about six years ago, a congregation had

gathered together, as was their wont, for the celebration of divine
worship, in the small country church of Turnham Green, near
Chiswick. The officiating clergyman and the worshiping assembly
had jointly gone through the liturgical services without the
occurrence of any unusual event. As soon as the robed minister had
ascended the sacred desk, and commenced his discourse, however,
the eyes of a portion of the audience were attracted toward a
gentleman occupying a somewhat conspicuous position in the
church, whose strange and restless movements, wild and excited air,
and occasional audible exclamations, indicated the presence of
either a fanatic or a lunatic. These symptoms continued to increase,
until, at length, as if irritated beyond endurance by some sentiment
that fell from the lips of the preacher, he gave way to a perfect
paroxysm of frenzy, under the influence of which he seized his hat,
and flung it at the head of the minister. Of course, the service was
suspended until the offender was expelled. It was soon discovered
that the unhappy author of this untoward disturbance was suffering
under a violent fit of mania. When borne from the church, no person
could recognize or identify him. He was a total stranger to all
residing in the neighborhood, so that no clew could be obtained that
would enable them to restore him to the custody and surveillance of
his friends. Under these circumstances, he was taken to the
adjoining work-house at Isleworth, where he was detained for some
weeks under medical care, during which period the most diligent
inquiries were instituted with the view of unraveling the mystery of
the stranger's kinship. But without avail. No one claimed him; and
even when pressed himself to impart some information on the
subject, he either could not or would not divulge the secret. Finding,
at length, that all efforts to identify the great Incognito were
ineffectual, he was removed to Hanwell, the asylum of the county to
which he had thus suddenly become chargeable, and where he has
ever since remained.

Mr. Chiswick is treated by the magistrates and officers with great

kindness and consideration. His employments are such as befit a
gentleman. No menial or laborious tasks are imposed upon him. He
is allowed, to a great extent, to consult his predilections, and these
are invariably of a tasteful and elegant description. His time is
divided chiefly between reading and painting, in which occupations
he is devotedly industrious. He is an early riser, and intersperses his
more sedentary pursuits with seasons of vigorous exercise. To this
practice, in conjunction with strictly temperate habits, he attributes
his excellent health and remarkable prowess. To a stranger, no signs
of mental aberration are discernible. His aspect is so calm and
collected, and his ideas are so lucidly expressed, that, if met with in
any other place besides an asylum, no one would suspect that he
had ever been smitten with a calamity so terrible. He would simply
be regarded as eccentric. So satisfied is he of his own perfect
saneness, and of his ability to secure self-maintenance by the
productions of his own genius, that confinement begins to be felt by
him as intolerably irksome and oppressive. The invisible fetters gall
his sensitive soul, and render him impatient of restraint. On our last
visit but one, he declared that he had abandoned all thoughts of
doing any thing more to his painted room; he aspired to higher
things than that. He was striving to cultivate his artistic talents, so
that by their exercise he might henceforth minister to his own
necessities. Who his connections, and what his antecedents were
should never be known—they were things that concerned no one;
his aim was to qualify himself, by self-reliant labor, to wrestle once
more with the world, and to wring from it the pittance of a humble
subsistence. As soon as he felt himself competent to hazard this
step, he intended to demand his immediate release; "and, should it
then be refused," said he, with the solemn and impressive emphasis
of a man thoroughly in earnest, "they will, on the next day, find me
a corpse." To the superintendent in the tailoring department, he
likewise remarked, a short time since, when giving instructions for a
new garment: "This is the last favor I shall ever ask of you. I intend
shortly to quit the asylum; for if they do not discharge me of their
own accord, in answer to my request, I will discharge myself."

On the occasion of our second visit to the asylum, we were received

by Mr. Chiswick with great courtesy, and were favored with a long
conversation on a variety of topics. Besides the exercise of his brush
and pencil, his genius manifests itself in other ways, some of them
being rather amusing and eccentric. Among these, is that of making
stockings, and other articles of apparel in a very original manner. His
mind, as we have remarked, is well replenished with anecdotes and
illustrations suitable to whatever topic may happen to be on hand.
On the present occasion, upon offering us a glass of wine, we
declined his hospitality, on the true plea that we had fasted since
eight o'clock in the morning, and it was then nearly five in the
afternoon. Upon this, he produced a piece of sweet bread, saying,
"Take that first, and then the wine will not hurt you. You remember
the anecdote of the bride? Soon after her marriage, her mother
inquired,'How does your husband treat you, my dear?' Oh, he loves
me very much, for he gives me two glasses of white wine every
morning before I am up.' 'My dear child,' said the mother, with an air
of alarm, 'he means to kill you. However, do not refuse the wine, but
take a piece of cake to bed with you at night, and when he is gone
for the wine in the morning, do you eat the cake, then the wine will
not hurt you,' The bride obeyed the mother's advice, and lived to a
good old age."

Having sat down by the fire in the ward with a number of the
patients, Mr. Chiswick took out his pocket-book to show us a letter
which he had received from some kind but unknown friend, who had
visited the asylum, and also that he might present to us a piece of
poetry, which had just been printed at the asylum press. In looking
for these, he accidentally dropped a greater part of the contents of
his pocket-book on the floor; and when one of the lunatics hastened
to scramble for some of the papers, Mr. Chiswick, quick as thought,
pulled off the officious patient's hat, and sent it flying to the other
end of the ward, bidding its owner to run after it. We offered to
assist in picking up the scattered papers, but he would not allow us
to touch them. "You act," we remarked, "on the principle of not
allowing others to do for you any thing that you can do yourself."
"Exactly so," said he, "and I will tell you a good anecdote about that.
There was once a bishop of Gibraltar, who hired a valet; but for
some time this valet had nothing to do: the bishop cleaned his own
boots, and performed many other menial tasks, which the servant
supposed that he had been engaged to do. At length he said—'Your
lordship, I should be glad to be informed what it is expected that I
should do. You clean your own boots, brush your own clothes, and
do a multitude of other things that I supposed would fall to my lot.'
'Well,' said the bishop, 'I have been accustomed to do this, and I can
do it very well; therefore, why should you do it? I act upon the
principle of never allowing others to do what I can do myself.
Therefore, do you go and study, and I will go on as usual. I have
already had opportunities to get knowledge, and you have not; and I
think that will be to do to you as I should wish you to do to me.'"
 BLEAK HOUSE.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.

CHAPTER I.—In Chancery.

L ondon. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor

sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As
much mud in the streets, as if the water had but newly retired from
the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a
Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine
lizard up Holborn hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots,
making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-
grown snow-flakes—gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the
death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses scarcely
better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one
another's umbrellas, in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing
their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other
foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke
(if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust
of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and
accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits
and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the
tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty)
city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog
creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the
yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on
the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats
of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their
wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the
wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the
toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance
people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of
fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and
hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as
the sun may, from the spongy fields, be seen to loom by
husbandman and plow-boy. Most of the shops lighted two hours
before their time—as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard
and unwilling look.

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the
muddy streets are muddiest, near that leaden-headed old
obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-
headed old corporation: Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in
Lincoln's Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High
Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

ever can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud and
mire too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering condition
which this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of hoary sinners,
holds, this day, in the sight of heaven and earth.

On such an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chancellor ought to be

sitting here—as here he is—with a foggy glory round his head, softly
fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large
advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an interminable
brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to the lantern in the
roof, where he can see nothing but fog. On such an afternoon, some
score of members of the High Court of Chancery bar ought to be—as
here they are—mistily engaged in one of the ten thousand stages of
an endless cause, tripping one another up on slippery precedents,
groping knee-deep in technicalities, running their goat-hair and
horse-hair warded heads against walls of words, and making a
pretense of equity with serious faces, as players might. On such an
afternoon, the various solicitors in the cause, some two or three of
whom have inherited it from their fathers, who made a fortune by it,
ought to be—as are they not?—ranged in a line, in a long matted
well (but you might look in vain for Truth at the bottom of it),
between the registrar's red table and the silk gowns, with bills,
cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits, issues,
references to masters, masters' reports, mountains of costly
nonsense, piled before them. Well may the court be dim, with
wasting candles here and there; well may the fog hang heavy in it,
as if it would never get out; well may the stained glass windows lose
their color, and admit no light of day into the place; well may the
uninitiated from the streets, who peep in through the glass panes in
the door, be deterred from entrance by its owlish aspect, and by the
drawl languidly echoing to the roof from the padded dais where the
Lord High Chancellor looks into the lantern that has no light in it,
and where the attendant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank! This is the
Court of Chancery; which has its decaying houses and its blighted
lands in every shire; which has its worn-out lunatic in every mad-
house, and its dead in every church-yard; which has its ruined suitor,
with his slipshod heels and threadbare dress, borrowing and begging
through the round of every man's acquaintance; which gives to
moneyed might the means abundantly of wearying out the right;
which so exhausts finances, patience, courage, hope; so overthrows
the brain and breaks the heart; that there is not an honorable man
among its practitioners who would not give—who does not often
give—the warning, "Suffer any wrong that can be done you, rather
than come here!"

Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor's court this murky

afternoon besides the Lord Chancellor, the counsel in the cause, two
or three counsel who are never in any cause, and the well of
solicitors before mentioned? There is the registrar below the Judge,
in wig and gown; and there are two or three maces, or petty-bags,
or privy-purses, or whatever they may be, in legal court suits. These
are all yawning; for no crumb of amusement ever falls from Jarndyce
and Jarndyce (the cause in hand) which was squeezed dry years upon
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