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JavaScript Step by Step Step By Step Second Edition
Steve Suehring Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Steve Suehring
ISBN(s): 9780735645523, 0735645523
Edition: Second Edition
File Details: PDF, 6.07 MB
Year: 2010
Language: english
 JavaScript Step by Step,
Second Edition
Download from Wow! eBook <www.wowebook.com>

Steve Suehring
Published with the authorization of Microsoft Corporation by:
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Copyright © 2010 Steve Suehring

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Download from Wow! eBook <www.wowebook.com>
Contents at a Glance
Part I JavaWhat? The Where, Why, and How of JavaScript
1 JavaScript Is More Than You Might Think . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
2 Developing in JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
3 JavaScript Syntax and Statements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
4 Working with Variables and Data Types . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
5 Using Operators and Expressions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99

Part II Applying JavaScript

6 Controlling Flow with Conditionals and Loops . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
7 Working with Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
8 Objects in JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
9 The Browser Object Model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181

Part III Integrating JavaScript into Design

10 The Document Object Model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203
11 JavaScript Events and the Browser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223
12 Creating and Consuming Cookies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239
13 Working with Images in JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253
14 Using JavaScript with Web Forms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275
15 JavaScript and CSS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297
16 JavaScript Error Handling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313

Part IV AJAX and Server-Side Integration

17 JavaScript and XML . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
18 JavaScript Applications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341
19 A Touch of AJAX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 345
20 A Bit Deeper into AJAX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 367

v
vi Contents at a Glance

Part V jQuery
21 An Introduction to JavaScript Libraries and Frameworks . . . . . 383
22 An Introduction to jQuery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 387
23 jQuery Effects and Plug-Ins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 415
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii
Introducing JavaScript Step by Step, Second Edition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xix
Getting Help . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxii

Part I JavaWhat? The Where, Why, and How of JavaScript

1 JavaScript Is More Than You Might Think . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
A Brief History of JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Enter Internet Explorer 3.0 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
And Then Came ECMAScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
So Many Standards... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
The DOM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
What’s in a JavaScript Program? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
JavaScript Placement on Your Webpage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
What JavaScript Can Do . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
What JavaScript Can’t Do . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
JavaScript Can’t Be Forced on a Client . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
JavaScript Can’t Guarantee Data Security . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
JavaScript Can’t Cross Domains . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
JavaScript Doesn’t Do Servers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Tips for Using JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Where JavaScript Fits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Which Browsers Should the Site Support? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
What’s New in ECMAScript Version 5? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
New Array Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
New Controls on Object Properties . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
New JSON Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
Changes to the Date Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

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vii
viii Table of Contents

A New Strict Mode . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Browser Support . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

2 Developing in JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
JavaScript Development Options . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
Configuring Your Environment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Writing JavaScript with Visual Studio 2010 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Your First Web (and JavaScript) Project with Visual Studio 2010 . . . . . . 24
Using External JavaScript Files with Visual Studio 2010 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Writing JavaScript with Eclipse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Your First Web (and JavaScript) Project with Eclipse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Using External JavaScript Files with Eclipse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
Writing JavaScript Without an IDE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
Your First Web (and JavaScript) Project with Notepad . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
Using External JavaScript Files Without an IDE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
Debugging JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

3 JavaScript Syntax and Statements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49

A Bit of Housekeeping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Case Sensitivity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
White Space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
Comments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
Semicolons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
Line Breaks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
Placing JavaScript Correctly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
JavaScript Statements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
What’s in a Statement? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
The Two Types of JavaScript Statements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
Reserved Words in JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
A Quick Look at Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
JavaScript’s New Strict Mode . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
 Table of Contents ix

4 Working with Variables and Data Types . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

Data Types in JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
Working with Numbers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
Working with Strings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
Booleans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
Null . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
Undefined . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
Objects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
Arrays . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
Defining and Using Variables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
Declaring Variables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Variable Types . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Variable Scope . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
The Date Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
Using the RegExp Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
The Syntax of Regular Expressions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
References and Garbage Collection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
Learning About Type Conversions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
Number Conversions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
String Conversions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
Boolean Conversions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98

5 Using Operators and Expressions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99

Meet the Operators . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Additive Operators . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Multiplicative Operators . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
Bitwise Operators . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
Equality Operators . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Relational Operators . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
The in Operator . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
The instanceof Operator . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Unary Operators . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Incrementing and Decrementing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Converting to a Number with the Plus Sign . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Creating a Negative Number with the Minus Sign . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Negating with bitwise not and logical not . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
x Table of Contents

Using the delete Operator . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108

Returning Variable Types with the typeof Operator . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
The void Operator . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
Assignment Operators . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
The Comma Operator . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115

Part II Applying JavaScript

6 Controlling Flow with Conditionals and Loops . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
If (and How) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
Syntax for if Statements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
The prompt() Function in Internet Explorer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
Compound Conditions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124
Using else if and else Statements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126
Working with Ternary Conditionals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
Testing with switch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132
Looping with while . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
The while Statement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
The do...while Statement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
Using for Loops . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
The for Loop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
The for...in Loop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
The for each...in Loop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
Validating Forms with Conditionals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145

7 Working with Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147

What’s in a Function? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
Function Arguments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148
Variable Scoping Revisited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
Return Values . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
More on Calling Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
Anonymous/Unnamed Functions (Function Literals) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
Closures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
A Look at Dialog Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161
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8 Objects in JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

Object-Oriented Development . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
Objects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
Properties . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164
Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164
Classes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164
Creating Objects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
Adding Properties to Objects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168
Adding Methods to Objects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171
Finding Out More About Arrays . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171
The length Property . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172
Array Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172
Taking Advantage of Built-in Objects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
The Global Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180

9 The Browser Object Model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181

Introducing the Browser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
The Browser Hierarchy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
Events . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
A Sense of Self . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
Getting Information About the Screen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185
Using the navigator Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
The location Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191
The history Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199

Part III Integrating JavaScript into Design

10 The Document Object Model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203
The Document Object Model Defined . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203
DOM Level 0: The Legacy DOM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204
DOM Levels 1 and 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204
The DOM as a Tree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205
Working with Nodes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
Retrieving Elements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
Retrieving Elements by ID . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
Retrieving by Tag Name . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210
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HTML Collections . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212

Working with Siblings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212
Working with Attributes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213
Viewing Attributes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213
Setting Attributes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216
Creating Elements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217
Adding Text . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217
Adding an Element and Setting an ID . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219
Deleting Elements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221

11 JavaScript Events and the Browser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223

Understanding Window Events . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223
The Event Models . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223
A Generic Event Handler . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227
Detecting Visitor Information . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228
A Brief Look at the userAgent Property . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229
Feature Testing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 230
Keeping JavaScript Away from Older Browsers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231
Other navigator Properties and Methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232
Opening, Closing, and Resizing Windows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
Window Opening Best Practices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234
Opening Tabs: No JavaScript Necessary? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235
Resizing and Moving Windows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236
Timers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238

12 Creating and Consuming Cookies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239

Understanding Cookies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239
Creating Cookies with JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240
Looking at a Simple Cookie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
Setting a Cookie’s Expiration Date . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
Setting the Cookie Path . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245
Setting the Cookie Domain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246
Working with Secure Cookies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247
Reading Cookies with JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 248
Removing Cookies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 250
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251
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13 Working with Images in JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253

Working with Image Rollovers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253
A Simple Rollover . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253
Modern Rollovers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255
Preloading Images . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
Working with Slideshows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263
Creating a Slideshow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263
Moving Backward . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266
Working with Image Maps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 270
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 274

14 Using JavaScript with Web Forms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275

JavaScript and Web Forms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275
Download from Wow! eBook <www.wowebook.com>

Obtaining Form Data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 278

Working with Form Information . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279
Working with Select Boxes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279
Working with Check Boxes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284
Working with Radio Buttons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 287
Prevalidating Form Data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
Hacking JavaScript Validation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
Validating a Text Field . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295

15 JavaScript and CSS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297

What Is CSS? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297
Using Properties and Selectors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 298
Applying CSS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299
The Relationship Between JavaScript and CSS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 300
Setting Element Styles by ID . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 300
Setting Element Styles by Type . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 304
Setting CSS Classes with JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 306
Retrieving Element Styles with JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 307
Modifying Style Sheets with JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 308
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311
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16 JavaScript Error Handling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313

Introducing Two Ways to Handle Errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313
Using try/catch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313
And Finally... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 321
Using the onerror Event . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 322
Attaching onerror to the window Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 322
Ignoring Errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324
Attaching onerror to the image Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 327

Part IV AJAX and Server-Side Integration

17 JavaScript and XML . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
Using XML with JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
Looking at an Example XML Document . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
Loading an XML Document with JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332
Working with XML Data from Excel 2007 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339
A Preview of Things to Come . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 340
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 340

18 JavaScript Applications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341

Components of JavaScript Applications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341
The Big Three: Display, Behavior, Data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341
JavaScript and Web Interfaces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 342

19 A Touch of AJAX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 345

Introduction to AJAX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 345
The XMLHttpRequest Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346
Instantiating the XMLHttpRequest Object . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346
Sending an AJAX Request . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 348
Processing an AJAX Response . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 350
Processing XML Responses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 354
Working with JSON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355
Processing Headers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 356
Using the POST Method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 357
Case Study: Live Searching and Updating . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365
 Table of Contents xv

20 A Bit Deeper into AJAX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 367

Creating an HTML Table with XML and CSS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 367
Styling the Table with CSS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371
Changing Style Attributes with JavaScript . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371
Creating a Dynamic Drop-Down Box . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 374
Accepting Input from the User and AJAX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 379
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 380

Part V jQuery
21 An Introduction to JavaScript Libraries and Frameworks . . . . . 383
Understanding Programming Libraries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 383
Defining Your Own JavaScript Library . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 383
Looking at Popular JavaScript Libraries and Frameworks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 385
jQuery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 385
Yahoo! User Interface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 385
MooTools . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 386
Other Libraries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 386
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 386

22 An Introduction to jQuery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 387

jQuery Primer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 387
Using jQuery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 387
The Two jQuery Downloads . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 387
Including jQuery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 388
Basic jQuery Syntax . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 388
Connecting jQuery to the Load Event . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 389
Using Selectors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 391
Selecting Elements by ID . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 391
Selecting Elements by Class . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 391
Selecting Elements by Type . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 392
Selecting Elements by Hierarchy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 392
Selecting Elements by Position . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 393
Selecting Elements by Attribute . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 396
Selecting Form Elements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 397
More Selectors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 397
Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 397
Traversing the DOM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 398
Working with Attributes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 403
xvi Table of Contents

Changing Text and HTML . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 403

Inserting Elements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 404
Callback Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 404
Events . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 405
Binding and Unbinding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 405
Mouse Events and Hover . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 407
Many More Event Handlers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 408
AJAX and jQuery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 409
AJAX Errors and Timeouts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 412
Sending Data to the Server . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 412
Other Important Options . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 413
More jQuery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 413
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 414

23 jQuery Effects and Plug-Ins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 415

Core Features for Enhancing Usability . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 415
Native Effects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 415
jQuery UI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 420
Using jQuery UI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 420
Drag and Drop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 421
Accordion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 423
More jQuery UI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 427
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 428

Appendix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 429

Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 459

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Acknowledgements
Every time I write a book, I get mired in a futile attempt to thank everyone who has helped
make it possible. I originally thought that I should thank everyone and their respective fami-
lies in case I never wrote a book again. But now that I’ve written several books, some of them
twice, there seems to be less urgency to thank everyone. It’s not that people need to be
thanked less or that I did this all myself—far from it. But inevitably I always forget to thank
someone, and though they may not be offended (who cares, it’s just a technology book), I
still feel bad.

And yet as I sit here and write these acknowledgements, I still want to thank some people.
As always, this is in no particular order and the list is incomplete. Obviously, thank you to
Rebecca and Jakob and my family, who support the 16 to 20 hour days involved in getting a
book written in a short time. Thanks to Russell Jones at O’Reilly for his editing and encour-
agement throughout, and thanks to Neil Salkind at Studio B as well. Thanks to Chris Tuescher,
John Hein, Jeremy Guthrie, and Jim Leu, Andy Berkvam, Dan Noah, Justin Hoerter, and Mark
Little. All those individuals told me that when I thank them in a book they feel compelled to
buy a copy. (If it worked like that for everyone, I’d go get the phone book.) While I’m fishing
for people to thank, I should thank Jason, Kelly, John, and Jeff as well as the web team and all
my coworkers.

Thanks to brother Bob for helping me choose music to write by. Thanks as well to Jim Oliva
and John Eckendorf. More than one Saturday morning was spent listening to the radio while
writing, and it made working on a Saturday morning less painful. Thank you to Tim and Rob
at Partners, Pat Dunn, and Dave Marie as well. Thank you to Jeff Currier for putting a door on
my office.

Thank you also to the readers who sent feedback for the first edition of the book. That
helped in shaping some of the areas to highlight in this second edition.

After rereading these acknowledgements, I realize I should have just thanked everyone using
first names. That would give plausible deniability: “Yes, when I thanked John, I really meant
you and not the other one.” I think there was someone else that I promised to thank, too, but
I can’t recall who, but thank you, too.

xvii
Introducing JavaScript Step by Step,
Second Edition
Much has changed since the first edition of JavaScript Step by Step was written in 2007. The
underlying JavaScript specification received a major update; Microsoft released Windows
Internet Explorer 8—and now 9 (which is about to be released as I write this); JavaScript
development frameworks have matured and are now ubiquitous; and browsers other than
Internet Explorer and Firefox, such as Safari, Chrome, and mobile browsers, became much
more popular.

This second edition of JavaScript Step by Step builds on the foundation laid down by the first
edition. The underlying architecture of the JavaScript language is largely the same, but its use
has become pervasive, increasing hugely even in just the last three years. With that in mind,
the layout and coverage of the book have also remained largely the same, with two notable
exceptions: this edition places a much greater emphasis on JavaScript event handling, and it
includes an entirely new section covering JavaScript libraries. Specifically, the book focuses
on jQuery, which can help simplify JavaScript development, especially on large projects.

Throughout the book, you’ll find highlights and additions for the new features in the latest
version of JavaScript. Also, the examples used in the book received greater scrutiny, in mul-
tiple browsers, to reflect the reality of today's web landscape. Reader feedback from the first
edition is reflected in the content and was the impetus for adding jQuery and emphasizing
event handling.

The introduction to the first edition is still relevant and applicable, and so I’ve included it
here.

JavaScript is an integral language for web application development, regardless of whether

you’re adding interactivity to a web page or creating an entire application. Today’s web
wouldn’t be the same without JavaScript.

JavaScript is a standards-based language with a formal specification; however, as any web

developer will tell you, almost every web browser interprets that specification differently,
which makes web developers’ jobs more difficult. Fortunately, most web browsers are con-
verging in their support and interpretation of JavaScript’s core functions.

This book provides an introductory look at JavaScript, including some of its core functions
as well as newer features and paradigms, such as Asynchronous JavaScript and XML (AJAX).
Today’s web users rely on many different platforms and many different browsers to view
web content. This fact was central to development of every aspect of the book, so you’ll see
screenshots in multiple browsers and an emphasis on standards-based, rather than propri-
etary, JavaScript development.
xix
Other documents randomly have
different content
There are four different modes of payment prevalent among the
several labourers employed at the metropolitan dust-yards:—(1) by
the day; (2) by the piece or load; (3) by the lump; (4) by
perquisites.
1st. The foreman of the yard, where the master does not perform
this duty himself, is generally one of the regular dustmen picked out
by the master, for this purpose. He is paid, the sum of 2s. 6d. per
day, or 15s. per week. In large yards there are sometimes two and
even three yard-foremen at the same rate of wages. Their duty is
merely to superintend the work. They do not labour themselves, and
their exemption in this respect is considered, and indeed looked on
by themselves, as a sort of premium for good services.
 THE LONDON DUSTMAN.
Dust Hoi! Dust Hoi!
[From a Daguerreotype by Beard.]
2nd. The gangers or collectors are generally paid 8d. per load for
every load they bring into the yard. This is, of course, piece work,
for the more hours the men work the more loads will they be
enabled to bring, and the more pay will they receive. There are
some yards where the carters get only 6d. per load, as, for instance,
at Paddington. The Paddington men, however, are not considered
inferior workmen to the rest of their fellows, but merely to be worse
paid. In 1826, or 25 years ago, the carters had 1s. 6d. per load; but
at that time the contractors were able to get 1l. per chaldron for the
soil and “brieze” or cinders; then it began to fall in value, and
according to the decrease in the price of these commodities, so have
the wages of the dust-collectors been reduced. It will be at once
seen that the reduction in the wages of the dustmen bears no
proportion to the reduction in the price of soil and cinders, but it
must be borne in mind that whereas the contractors formerly paid
large sums for liberty to collect the dust, they now are paid large
sums to remove it. This in some measure helps to account for the
apparent disproportion, and tends, perhaps, to equalize the matter.
The gangers, therefore, have 4d. each, per load when best paid.
They consider from four to six loads a good day’s work, for where
the contract is large, extending over several parishes, they often
have to travel a long way for a load. It thus happens that while the
men employed by the Whitechapel contractor can, when doing their
utmost, manage to bring only four loads a day to the yard, which is
situated in a place called the “ruins” in Lower Shadwell, the men
employed by the Shadwell contractor can easily get eight or nine
loads in a day. Five loads are about an average day’s work, and this
gives them 1s. 8½d. per day each, or 10s. per week. In addition to
this, the men have their perquisites “in aid of wages.” The collectors
are in the habit of getting beer or money in lieu thereof, at nearly all
the houses from which they remove the dust, the public being thus
in a manner compelled to make up the rate of wages, which should
be paid by the employer, so that what is given to benefit the men
really goes to the master, who invariably reduces the wages to the
precise amount of the perquisites obtained. This is the main evil of
the “perquisite system of payment” (a system of which the mode of
paying waiters may be taken as the special type). As an instance of
the injurious effects of this mode of payment in connection with the
London dustmen, the collectors are forced, as it were, to extort from
the public that portion of their fair earnings of which their master
deprives them; hence, how can we wonder that they make it a rule
when they receive neither beer nor money from a house to make as
great a mess as possible the next time they come, scattering the
dust and cinders about in such a manner, that, sooner than have any
trouble with them, people mostly give them what they look for? One
of the most intelligent men with whom I have spoken, gave me the
following account of his perquisites for the last week, viz.: Monday,
5½d.; Tuesday, 6d.; Wednesday, 4½d.; Thursday, 7d.; Friday, 5½d.;
and Saturday, 5d. This he received in money, and was independent
of beer. He had on the same week drawn rather more than five loads
each day, to the yard, which made his gross earnings for the week,
wages and perquisites together, to be 14s. 0½d. which he considers
to be a fair average of his weekly earnings as connected with dust.
3rd. The loaders of the carts for shipment are the same persons as
those who collect the dust, but thus employed for the time being.
The pay for this work is by the “piece” also, 2d. per chaldron
between four persons being the usual rate, or ½d. per man. The
men so engaged have no perquisites. The barges into which they
shoot the soil or “brieze,” as the case may be, hold from 50 to 70
chaldrons, and they consider the loading of one of these barges a
good day’s work. The average cargo is about 60 chaldrons, which
gives them 2s. 6d. per day, or somewhat more than their average
earnings when collecting.
4th. The carriers of cinders to the cinder heap. I have mentioned
that, ranged round the sifters in the dust-yard, are a number of
baskets, into which are put the various things found among the dust,
some of these being the property of the master, and others the
perquisites of the hill man or woman, as the case may be. The
cinders and old bricks are the property of the master, and to remove
them to their proper heaps boys are employed by him at 1s. per day.
These boys are almost universally the children of dustmen and
sifters at work in the yard, and thus not only help to increase the
earnings of the family, but qualify themselves to become the
dustmen of a future day.
5th. The hill-man or hill-woman. The hill-man enters into an
agreement with the contractor to sift all the dust in the yard
throughout the year at so much per load and perquisites. The usual
sum per load is 6d., nor have I been able to ascertain that any of
these people undertake to do it at a less price. Such is the amount
paid by the contractor for Whitechapel. The perquisites of the hill-
man or hill-woman, are rags, bones, pieces of old metal, old tin or
iron vessels, old boots and shoes, and one-half of the money,
jewellery, or other valuables that may be found by the sifters.
The hill-man or hill-woman employs the following persons, and pays
them at the following rates.
1st. The sifters are paid 1s. per day when employed, but the
employment is not constant. The work cannot be pursued in wet
weather, and the services of the sifters are required only when a
large heap has accumulated, as they can sift much faster than the
dust can be collected. The employment is therefore precarious; the
payment has not, for the last 30 years at least, been more than 1s.
per day, but the perquisites were greater. They formerly were
allowed one-half of whatever was found; of late years, however, the
hill-man has gradually reduced the perquisites “first one thing and
then another,” until the only one they have now remaining is half of
whatever money or other valuable article may be found in the
process of sifting. These valuables the sifters often pocket, if able to
do so unperceived, but if discovered in the attempt, they are
immediately discharged.
2nd. “The fillers-in,” or shovellers of dust into the sieves of sifters,
are in general any poor fellows who may be straggling about in
search of employment. They are sometimes, however, the grown-up
boys of dustmen, not yet permanently engaged by the contractor.
These are paid 2s. per day for their labour, but they are considered
more as casualty men, though it often happens, if “hands” are
wanted, that they are regularly engaged by the contractors, and
become regular dustmen for the remainder of their lives.
3rd. The little fellows, the children of the dustmen, who follow their
mothers to the yard, and help them to pick rags, bones, &c., out of
the sieve and put them into the baskets, as soon as they are able to
carry a basket between two of them to the separate heaps, are paid
3d. or 4d. per day for this work by the hill-man.
The wages of the dustmen have been increased within the last
seven years from 6d. per load to 8d. among the large contractors—
the “small masters,” however, still continue to pay 6d. per load. This
increase in the rate of remuneration was owing to the men
complaining to the commissioners that they were not able to live
upon what they earned at 6d.; an enquiry was made into the truth
of the men’s assertion, and the result was that the commissioners
decided upon letting the contracts to such parties only as would
undertake to pay a fair price to their workmen. The contractors,
accordingly, increased the remuneration of the labourers; since then
the principal masters have paid 8d. per load to the collectors. It is
right I should add, that I could not hear—though I made special
enquiries on the subject—that the wages had been in any one
instance reduced since Free-trade has come into operation.
The usual hours of labour vary according to the mode of payment.
The “collectors,” or men out with the cart, being paid by the load,
work as long as the light lasts; the “fillers-in” and sifters, on the
other hand, being paid by the day, work the ordinary hours, viz.,
from six to six, with the regular intervals for meals.
The summer is the worst time for all hands, for then the dust
decreases in quantity; the collectors, however, make up for the
“slackness” at this period by nightwork, and, being paid by the
“piece” or load at the dust business, are not discharged when their
employment is less brisk.
It has been shown that the dustmen who perambulate the streets
usually collect five loads in a day; this, at 8d. per load, leaves them
about 1s. 8d. each, and so makes their weekly earnings amount to
about 10s. per week. Moreover, there are the “perquisites” from the
houses whence they remove the dust; and further, the dust-
collectors are frequently employed at the night-work, which is always
a distinct matter from the dust-collecting, &c., and paid for
independent of their regular weekly wages, so that, from all I can
gather, the average wages of the men appear to be rather more
than 15s. Some admitted to me, that in busy times they often
earned 25s. a week.
Then, again, dustwork, as with the weaving of silk, is a kind of
family work. The husband, wife, and children (unfortunately) all
work at it. The consequence is, that the earnings of the whole have
to be added together in order to arrive at a notion of the aggregate
gains.
The following may therefore be taken as a fair average of the
earnings of a dustman and his family when in full employment. The
elder boys when able to earn 1s. a day set up for themselves, and
do not allow their wages to go into the common purse.
£. s. d. £. s. d.
Man, 5 loads per day, or 30 loads per week, at 4d.
0 10 0
per load
Perquisites, or beer money 0 2 9½
Night-work for 2 nights a week 0 5 0
0 17 9½
Woman, or sifter, per week, at 1s. per day 0 6 0
Perquisites, say 3d. a day 0 1 6
0 7 6
Child, 3d. per day, carrying rags, bones, &c. —— 0 1 6
Total 1 6 9½
These are the earnings, it should be borne in mind, of a family in full
employment. Perhaps it may be fairly said that the earnings of the
single men are, on an average, 15s. a week, and 1l. for the family
men all the year round.
Now, when we remember that the wages of many agricultural
labourers are but 8s. a week, and the earnings of many
needlewomen not 6d. a day, it must be confessed that the
remuneration of the dustmen, and even of the dustwomen, is
comparatively high. This certainly is not due to what Adam Smith, in
his chapter on the Difference of Wages, terms the “disagreeableness
of the employment.” “The wages of labour,” he says, “vary with the
ease or hardship, the cleanliness or dirtiness, the honourableness or
dishonourableness, of the employment.” It will be seen—when we
come to treat of the nightmen—that the most offensive, and perhaps
the least honourable, of all trades, is far from ranking among the
best paid, as it should, if the above principle held good. That the
disagreeableness of the occupation may in a measure tend to
decrease the competition among the labourers, there cannot be the
least doubt, but that it will consequently induce, as political economy
would have us believe, a larger amount of wages to accrue to each
of the labourers, is certainly another of the many assertions of that
science which must be pronounced “not proven.” For the dustmen
are paid, if anything, less, and certainly not more, than the usual
rate of payment to the London labourers; and if the earnings rank
high, as times go, it is because all the members of the family, from
the very earliest age, are able to work at the business, and so add to
the general gains.
The dustmen are, generally speaking, an hereditary race; when
children they are reared in the dust-yard, and are habituated to the
work gradually as they grow up, after which, almost as a natural
consequence, they follow the business for the remainder of their
lives. These may be said to be born-and-bred dustmen. The
numbers of the regular men are, however, from time to time
recruited from the ranks of the many ill-paid labourers with which
London abounds. When hands are wanted for any special occasion
an employer has only to go to any of the dock-gates, to find at all
times hundreds of starving wretches anxiously watching for the
chance of getting something to do, even at the rate of 4d. per hour.
As the operation of emptying a dust-bin requires only the ability to
handle a shovel, which every labouring man can manage, all
workmen, however unskilled, can at once engage in the occupation;
and it often happens that the men thus casually employed remain at
the calling for the remainder of their lives. There are no houses of
call whence the men are taken on when wanting work. There are
certainly public-houses, which are denominated houses of call, in the
neighbourhood of every dust-yard, but these are merely the drinking
shops of the men, whither they resort of an evening after the labour
of the day is accomplished, and whence they are furnished in the
course of the afternoon with beer; but such houses cannot be said
to constitute the dustman’s “labour-market,” as in the tailoring and
other trades, they being never resorted to as hiring-places, but
rather used by the men only when hired. If a master have not
enough “hands” he usually inquires among his men, who mostly
know some who—owing, perhaps, to the failure of their previous
master in getting his usual contract—are only casually employed at
other places. Such men are immediately engaged in preference to
others; but if these cannot be found, the contractors at once have
recourse to the system already stated.
The manner in which the dust is collected is very simple. The “filler”
and the “carrier” perambulate the streets with a heavily-built high
box cart, which is mostly coated with a thick crust of filth, and drawn
by a clumsy-looking horse. These men used, before the passing of
the late Street Act, to ring a dull-sounding bell so as to give notice to
housekeepers of their approach, but now they merely cry, in a
hoarse unmusical voice, “Dust oy-eh!” Two men accompany the cart,
which is furnished with a short ladder and two shovels and baskets.
These baskets one of the men fills from the dust-bin, and then helps
them alternately, as fast as they are filled, upon the shoulder of the
other man, who carries them one by one to the cart, which is placed
immediately alongside the pavement in front of the house where
they are at work. The carrier mounts up the side of the cart by
means of the ladder, discharges into it the contents of the basket on
his shoulder, and then returns below for the other basket which his
mate has filled for him in the interim. This process is pursued till all
is cleared away, and repeated at different houses till the cart is fully
loaded; then the men make the best of their way to the dust-yard,
where they shoot the contents of the cart on to the heap, and again
proceed on their regular rounds.
The dustmen, in their appearance, very much resemble the
waggoners of the coal-merchants. They generally wear knee-
breeches, with ancle boots or gaiters, short dirty smockfrocks or
coarse gray jackets, and fantail hats. In one particular, however, they
are at first sight distinguishable from the coal-merchants’ men, for
the latter are invariably black from coal dust, while the dustmen, on
the contrary, are gray with ashes.
In their personal appearance the dustmen are mostly tall stalwart
fellows; there is nothing sickly-looking about them, and yet a
considerable part of their time is passed in the yards and in the
midst of effluvia most offensive, and, if we believe “zymotic
theorists,” as unhealthy to those unaccustomed to them;
nevertheless, the children, who may be said to be reared in the yard
and to have inhaled the stench of the dust-heap with their first
breath, are healthy and strong. It is said, moreover, that during the
plague in London the dustmen were the persons who carted away
the dead, and it remains a tradition among the class to the present
day, that not one of them died of the plague, even during its
greatest ravages. In Paris, too, it is well known, that, during the
cholera of 1849, the quarter of Belleville, where the night-soil and
refuse of the city is deposited, escaped the freest from the
pestilence; and in London the dustmen boast that, during both the
recent visitations of the cholera, they were altogether exempt from
the disease. “Look at that fellow, sir!” said one of the dust-
contractors to me, pointing to his son, who was a stout red-cheeked
young man of about twenty. “Do you see anything ailing about him?
Well, he has been in the yard since he was born. There stands my
house just at the gate, so you see he hadn’t far to travel, and when
quite a child he used to play and root away here among the dust all
his time. I don’t think he ever had a day’s illness in his life. The
people about the yard are all used to the smell and don’t complain
about it. It’s all stuff and nonsense, all this talk about dust-yards
being unhealthy. I’ve never done anything else all my days and I
don’t think I look very ill. I shouldn’t wonder now but what I’d be set
down as being fresh from the sea-side by those very fellows that
write all this trash about a matter that they don’t know just that
about;” and he snapped his fingers contemptuously in the air, and,
thrusting both hands into his breeches pockets, strutted about,
apparently satisfied that he had the best of the argument. He was,
in fact, a stout, jolly, red-faced man. Indeed, the dustmen, as a
class, appear to be healthy, strong men, and extraordinary instances
of longevity are common among them. I heard of one dustman who
lived to be 115 years; another, named Wood, died at 100; and the
well-known Richard Tyrrell died only a short time back at the
advanced age of 97. The misfortune is, that we have no large series
of facts on this subject, so that the longevity and health of the
dustmen might be compared with those of other classes.
In almost all their habits the Dustmen are similar to the
Costermongers, with the exception that they seem to want their
cunning and natural quickness, and that they have little or no
predilection for gaming. Costermongers, however, are essentially
traders, and all trade is a species of gambling—the risking of a
certain sum of money to obtain more; hence spring, perhaps, the
gambling propensities of low traders, such as costers, and Jew
clothes-men; and hence, too, that natural sharpness which
characterizes the same classes. The dustmen, on the contrary, have
regular employment and something like regular wages, and
therefore rest content with what they can earn in their usual way of
business.
Very few of them understand cards, and I could not learn that they
ever play at “pitch and toss.” I remarked, however, a number of
parallel lines such as are used for playing “shove halfpenny,” on a
deal table in the tap-room frequented by them. The great
amusement of their evenings seems to be, to smoke as many pipes
of tobacco and drink as many pots of beer as possible.
I believe it will be found that all persons in the habit of driving
horses, such as cabmen, ’busmen, stage-coach drivers, &c., are
peculiarly partial to intoxicating drinks. The cause of this I leave
others to determine, merely observing that there would seem to be
two reasons for it: the first is, their frequent stopping at public-
houses to water or change their horses, so that the idea of drinking
is repeatedly suggested to their minds even if the practice be not
expected of them; while the second reason is, that being out
continually in the wet, they resort to stimulating liquors as a
preventive to “colds” until at length a habit of drinking is formed.
Moreover, from the mere fact of passing continually through the air,
they are enabled to drink a greater quantity with comparative
impunity. Be the cause, however, what it may, the dustmen spend a
large proportion of their earnings in drink. There is always some
public-house in the neighbourhood of the dust-yard, where they
obtain credit from one week to another, and here they may be found
every night from the moment their work is done, drinking, and
smoking their long pipes—their principal amusement consisting in
“chaffing” each other. This “chaffing” consists of a species of
scurrilous jokes supposed to be given and taken in good part, and
the noise and uproar occasioned thereby increases as the night
advances, and as the men get heated with liquor. Sometimes the
joking ends in a general quarrel; the next morning, however, they
are all as good friends as ever, and mutually agree in laying the
blame on the “cussed drink.”
One-half, at least, of the dustmen’s earnings, is, I am assured,
expended in drink, both man and woman assisting in squandering
their money in this way. They usually live in rooms for which they
pay from 1s. 6d. to 2s. per week rent, three or four dust-men and
their wives frequently lodging in the same house. These rooms are
cheerless-looking, and almost unfurnished—and are always situate in
some low street or lane not far from the dust-yard. The men have
rarely any clothes but those in which they work. For their breakfast
the dustmen on their rounds mostly go to some cheap coffee-house,
where they get a pint or half-pint of coffee, taking their bread with
them as a matter of economy. Their midday meal is taken in the
public-house, and is almost always bread and cheese and beer, or
else a saveloy or a piece of fat pork or bacon, and at night they
mostly “wind up” by deep potations at their favourite house of call.
There are many dustmen now advanced in years born and reared at
the East-end of London, who have never in the whole course of their
lives been as far west as Temple-bar, who know nothing whatever of
the affairs of the country, and who have never attended a place of
worship. As an instance of the extreme ignorance of these people, I
may mention that I was furnished by one of the contractors with the
address of a dustman whom his master considered to be one of the
most intelligent men in his employ. Being desirous of hearing his
statement from his own lips I sent for the man, and after some
conversation with him was proceeding to note down what he said,
when the moment I opened my note-book and took the pencil in my
hand, he started up, exclaiming,—“No, no! I’ll have none of that
there work—I’m not such a b—— fool as you takes me to be—I
doesn’t understand it, I tells you, and I’ll not have it, now that’s
plain;”—and so saying he ran out of the room, and descended the
entire flight of stairs in two jumps. I followed him to explain, but
unfortunately the pencil was still in one hand and the book in the
other, and immediately I made my appearance at the door he took
to his heels, again with three others who seemed to be waiting for
him there. One of the most difficult points in my labours is to make
such men as these comprehend the object or use of my
investigations.
Among 20 men whom I met in one yard, there were only five who
could read, and only two out of that five could write, even
imperfectly. These two are looked up to by their companions as
prodigies of learning and are listened to as oracles, on all occasions,
being believed to understand every subject thoroughly. It need
hardly be added, however, that their acquirements are of the most
meagre character.
The dustmen are very partial to a song, and always prefer one of the
doggrel street ballads, with what they call a “jolly chorus” in which,
during their festivities, they all join with stentorian voices. At the
conclusion there is usually a loud stamping of feet and rattling of
quart pots on the table, expressive of their approbation.
The dustmen never frequent the twopenny hops, but sometimes
make up a party for the “theaytre.” They generally go in a body with
their wives, if married, and their “gals,” if single. They are always to
be found in the gallery, and greatly enjoy the melodramas performed
at the second-class minor theatres, especially if there be plenty of
murdering scenes in them. The Garrick, previous to its being burnt,
was a favourite resort of the East-end dustmen. Since that period
they have patronized the Pavilion and the City of London.
The politics of the dustmen are on a par with their literary
attainments—they cannot be said to have any. I cannot say that they
are Chartists, for they have no very clear knowledge of what “the
charter” requires. They certainly have a confused notion that it is
something against the Government, and that the enactment of it
would make them all right; but as to the nature of the benefits
which it would confer upon them, or in what manner it would be
likely to operate upon their interest, they have not, as a body, the
slightest idea. They have a deep-rooted antipathy to the police, the
magistrates, and all connected with the administration of justice,
looking upon them as their natural enemies. They associate with
none but themselves; and in the public-houses where they resort
there is a room set apart for the special use of the “dusties,” as they
are called, where no others are allowed to intrude, except
introduced by one of themselves, or at the special desire of the
majority of the party, and on such occasions the stranger is treated
with great respect and consideration.
As to the morals of these people, it may easily be supposed that
they are not of an over-strict character. One of the contractors said
to me, “I’d just trust one of them as far as I could fling a bull by the
tail; but then,” he added, with a callousness that proved the laxity of
discipline among the men was due more to his neglect of his duty to
them than from any special perversity on their parts, “that’s none of
my business; they do my work, and that’s all I want with them, and
all I care about. You see they’re not like other people, they’re reared
to it. Their fathers before them were dustmen, and when lads they
go into the yard as sifters, and when they grow up they take to the
shovel, and go out with the carts. They learn all they know in the
dust-yards, and you may judge from that what their learning is likely
to be. If they find anything among the dust you may be sure that
neither you nor I will ever hear anything about it; ignorant as they
are, they know a little too much for that. They know, as well as here
and there one, where the dolly-shop is; but, as I said before, that’s
none of my business. Let every one look out for themselves, as I do,
and then they need not care for any one.” [With such masters
professing such principles—though it should be stated that the
sentiments expressed on this occasion are but similar to what I hear
from the lower class of traders every day—how can it be expected
that these poor fellows can be above the level of the mere beasts of
burden that they use.] “As to their women,” continued the master, “I
don’t trouble my head about such things. I believe the dustmen are
as good to them as other men; and I’m sure their wives would be as
good as other women, if they only had the chance of the best. But
you see they’re all such fellows for drink that they spend most of
their money that way, and then starve the poor women, and knock
them about at a shocking rate, so that they have the life of dogs, or
worse. I don’t wonder at anything they do. Yes, they’re all married,
as far as I know; that is, they live together as man and wife, though
they’re not very particular, certainly, about the ceremony. The fact is,
a regular dustman don’t understand much about such matters, and,
I believe, don’t care much, either.”
From all I could learn on this subject, it would appear that, for one
dustman that is married, 20 live with women, but remain constant to
them; indeed, both men and women abide faithfully by each other,
and for this reason—the woman earns nearly half as much as the
man. If the men and women were careful and prudent, they might, I
am assured, live well and comfortable; but by far the greater portion
of the earnings of both go to the publican, for I am informed, on
competent authority, that a dustman will not think of sitting down
for a spree without his woman. The children, as soon as they are
able to go into the yard, help their mothers in picking out the rags,
bones, &c., from the sieve, and in putting them in the basket. They
are never sent to school, and as soon as they are sufficiently strong
are mostly employed in some capacity or other by the contractor,
and in due time become dustmen themselves. Some of the children,
in the neighbourhood of the river, are mud-larks, and others are
bone-grubbers and rag-gatherers, on a small scale; neglected and
thrown on their own resources at an early age, without any but the
most depraved to guide them, it is no wonder to find that many of
them turn thieves. To this state of the case there are, however, some
few exceptions.
Some of the dustmen are prudent well-behaved men and have
decent homes; many of this class have been agricultural labourers,
who by distress, or from some other cause, have found their way to
London. This was the case with one whom I talked with: he had
been a labourer in Essex, employed by a farmer named Izzod, whom
he spoke of as being a kind good man. Mr. Izzod had a large farm on
the Earl of Mornington’s estate, and after he had sunk his capital in
the improvement of the land, and was about to reap the fruits of his
labour and his money, the farmer was ejected at a moment’s notice,
beggared and broken-hearted. This occurred near Roydon, in Essex.
The labourer, finding it difficult to obtain work in the country, came
to London, and, discovering a cousin of his engaged in a dust-yard,
got employed through him at the same place, where he remains to
the present day. This man was well clothed, he had good strong lace
boots, gray worsted stockings, a stout pair of corduroy breeches, a
short smockfrock and fantail. He has kept himself aloof, I am told,
from the drunkenness and dissipation of the dustmen. He says that
many of the new hands that get to dustwork are mechanics or
people who have been “better off,” and that these get thinking about
what they have been, till to drown their care they take to drinking,
and often become, in the course of a year or so, worse than the “old
hands” who have been reared to the business and have “nothing at
all to think about.”
Among the dustmen there is no “Society” nor “Benefit Club,”
specially devoted to the class—no provident institution whence they
can obtain “relief” in the event of sickness or accident. The
consequence is that, when ill or injured, they are obliged to obtain
letters of admission to some of the hospitals, and there remain till
cured. In cases of total incapacity for labour, their invariable refuge
is the workhouse; indeed they look forward (whenever they foresee
at all) to this asylum as their resting-place in old age, with the
greatest equanimity, and talk of it as “the house” par excellence, or
as “the big house,” “the great house,” or “the old house.” There are,
however, scattered about in every part of London numerous benefit
clubs made up of working-men of every description, such as Old
Friends, Odd Fellows, Foresters, and Birmingham societies, and with
some one or other of these the better class of dustmen are
connected. The general rule, however, is, that the men engaged in
this trade belong to no benefit club whatever, and that in the season
of their adversity they are utterly unprovided for, and consequently
become burdens to the parishes wherein they happen to reside.
I visited a large dust-yard at the east end of London, for the purpose
of getting a statement from one of the men. My informant was, at
the time of my visit, shovelling the sifted soil from one of the lesser
heaps, and, by a great effort of strength and activity, pitching each
shovel-full to the top of a lofty mound, somewhat resembling a
pyramid. Opposite to him stood a little woman, stoutly made, and
with her arms bare above the elbow; she was his partner in the
work, and was pitching shovel-full for shovel-full with him to the
summit of the heap. She wore an old soiled cotton gown, open in
front, and tucked up behind in the fashion of the last century. She
had clouts of old rags tied round her ancles to prevent the dust from
getting into her shoes, a sort of coarse towel fastened in front for an
apron, and a red handkerchief bound tightly round her head. In this
trim she worked away, and not only kept pace with the man, but
often threw two shovels for his one, although he was a tall, powerful
fellow. She smiled when she saw me noticing her, and seemed to
continue her work with greater assiduity. I learned that she was
deaf, and spoke so indistinctly that no stranger could understand
her. She had also a defect in her sight, which latter circumstance had
compelled her to abandon the sifting, as she could not well
distinguish the various articles found in the dust-heap. The poor
creature had therefore taken to the shovel, and now works with it
every day, doing the labour of the strongest men.
From the man above referred to I obtained the following statement:
—“Father vos a dustie;—vos at it all his life, and grandfather afore
him for I can’t tell how long. Father vos allus a rum ’un;—sich a
beggar for lush. Vhy I’m blowed if he vouldn’t lush as much as half-
a-dozen on ’em can lush now; somehow the dusties hasn’t got the
stuff in ’em as they used to have. A few year ago the fellers ’u’d
think nothink o’ lushin avay for five or six days without niver going
anigh their home. I niver vos at a school in all my life; I don’t know
what it’s good for. It may be wery well for the likes o’ you, but I
doesn’t know it ’u’d do a dustie any good. You see, ven I’m not out
with the cart, I digs here all day; and p’raps I’m up all night, and
digs avay agen the next day. Vot does I care for reading, or anythink
of that there kind, ven I gets home arter my vork? I tell you vot I
likes, though! vhy, I jist likes two or three pipes o’ baccer, and a pot
or two of good heavy and a song, and then I tumbles in with my
Sall, and I’m as happy as here and there von. That there Sall of
mine’s a stunner—a riglar stunner. There ain’t never a voman can sift
a heap quickerer nor my Sall. Sometimes she yarns as much as I
does; the only thing is, she’s sitch a beggar for lush, that there Sall
of mine, and then she kicks up sitch jolly rows, you niver see the like
in your life. That there’s the only fault, as I know on, in Sall; but,
barring that, she’s a hout-and-houter, and worth a half-a-dozen of t’
other sifters—pick ’em out vare you likes. No, we ain’t married
’zactly, though it’s all one for all that. I sticks to Sall, and Sall sticks
to I, and there’s an end on’t:—vot is it to any von? I rec’lects a-
picking the rags and things out of mother’s sieve, when I were a
young ’un, and a putting ’em all in the heap jist as it might be there.
I vos allus in a dust-yard. I don’t think I could do no how in no other
place. You see I vouldn’t be ’appy like; I only knows how to vork at
the dust ’cause I’m used to it, and so vos father afore me, and I’ll
stick to it as long as I can. I yarns about half-a-bull [2s. 6d.] a day,
take one day with another. Sall sometimes yarns as much, and ven I
goes out at night I yarns a bob or two more, and so I gits along
pretty tidy; sometimes yarnin more and sometimes yarnin less. I
niver vos sick as I knows on; I’ve been queerish of a morning a good
many times, but I doesn’t call that sickness; it’s only the lush and
nothink more. The smells nothink at all, ven you gits used to it. Lor’
bless you! you’d think nothink on it in a veek’s time,—no, no more
nor I do. There’s tventy on us vorks here—riglar. I don’t think there’s
von on ’em ’cept Scratchey Jack can read, but he can do it stunning;
he’s out vith the cart now, but he’s the chap as can patter to you as
long as he likes.”
Concerning the capital and income of the London dust business, the
following estimate may be given as to the amount of property
invested in and accruing to the trade.
It has been computed that there are 90 contractors, large and small;
of these upwards of two-thirds, or about 35, may be said to be in a
considerable way of business, possessing many carts and horses, as
well as employing a large body of people; some yards have as many
as 150 hands connected with them. The remaining 55 masters are
composed of “small men,” some of whom are known as “running
dustmen,” that is to say, persons who collect the dust without any
sanction from the parish; but the number belonging to this class has
considerably diminished since the great deterioration in the price of
“brieze.” Assuming, then, that the great and little master dustmen
employ on an average between six and seven carts each, we have
the following statement as to the

Capital of the London Dust Trade.

 600 Carts, at 20l. each £12,000
600 Horses, at 25l. each 15,000
600 Sets of harness, at 2l. per set 1,200
600 Ladders, at 5s. each 150
1200Baskets, at 2s. each 120
1200Shovels, at 2s. each 120
Being a total capital of £28,590
If, therefore, we assert that the capital of this trade is between
25,000l. and 30,000l. in value, we shall not be far wrong either way.
Of the annual income of the same trade, it is almost impossible to
arrive at any positive results; but, in the absence of all authentic
information on the subject, we may make the subjoined conjecture.

Income of the London Dust Trade.

Sum paid to contractors for the removal of dust from the
£35,200
176 metropolitan parishes, at 200l. each parish
Sum obtained for 900,000 loads of dust, at 2s. 6d. per
112,500
load
£147,700
Thus it would appear that the total income of the dust trade may be
taken at between 145,000l. and 150,000l. per annum.
Against this we have to set the yearly out-goings of the business,
which may be roughly estimated as follows:—

Expenditure of the London Dust Trade.

Wages of 1800 labourers, at 10s. a week each (including
£46,800
sifters and carriers)
Keep of 600 horses, at 10s. a week each 15,600
Wear and tear of stock in trade 4000
Rent for 90 yards, at 100l. a year each (large and small) 9000
 £75,400
The above estimates give us the following aggregate results:—
Total yearly incomings of the London dust trade £147,700
Total yearly out-goings 75,400
Total yearly profit £72,300
Hence it would appear that the profits of the dust-contractors are
very nearly at the rate of 100l. per cent. on their expenditure. I do
not think I have over estimated the incomings, or under estimated
the out-goings; at least I have striven to avoid doing so, in order
that no injustice might be done to the members of the trade.
This aggregate profit, when divided among the 90 contractors, will
make the clear gains of each master dustman amount to about 800l.
per annum: of course some derive considerably more than this
amount, and some considerably less.

Of the London Sewerage and Scavengery.

The subject I have now to treat—principally as regards street-labour,
but generally in its sanitary, social, and economical bearings—may
really be termed vast. It is of the cleansing of a capital city, with its
thousands of miles of streets and roads on the surface, and its
thousands of miles of sewers and drains under the surface of the
earth. And first let me deal with the subject in a historical point of
view.
Public scavengery or street-cleansing, from the earliest periods of
our history, since municipal authority regulated the internal economy
of our cities, has been an object of some attention. In the records of
all our civic corporations may be found bye-laws, or some equivalent
measure, to enforce the cleansing of the streets. But these
regulations were little enforced. It was ordered that the streets
should be swept, but often enough men were not employed by the
authorities to sweep them; until after the great fire of London, and
in many parts for years after that, the tradesman’s apprentice swept
the dirt from the front of his master’s house, and left it in the street,
to be removed at the leisure of the scavenger. This was in the
streets most famous for the wealth and commercial energy of the
inhabitants. The streets inhabited by the poor, until about the
beginning of the present century, were rarely swept at all. The
unevenness of the pavement, the accumulation of wet and mud in
rainy weather, the want of foot-paths, and sometimes even of grates
and kennels, made Cowper, in one of his letters, describe a
perambulation of some of these streets as “going by water.”
Even this state of things was, however, an improvement. In the
accounts of the London street-broils and fights, from the reign of
Henry III., more especially during the war of the Roses, down to the
civil war which terminated in the beheading of Charles I., mention is
more or less made of the combatants having availed themselves of
the shelter of the rubbish in the streets. These mounds of rubbish
were then kinds of street-barricades, opposing the progress of
passengers, like the piles of overturned omnibuses and other
vehicles of the modern French street-combatants. There is no doubt
that in the older times these mounds were composed, first, of the
earth dug out for the foundation of some building, or the sinking of
some well, or (later on) the formation of some drain; for these works
were often long in hand, not only from the interruptions of civil strife
and from want of funds, but from indifference, owing to the long
delay in their completion, and were often altogether abandoned.
After dusk the streets of the capital of England could not be
traversed without lanterns or torches. This was the case until the
last 40 or 50 years in nearly all the smaller towns of England, but
there the darkness was the principal obstacle; in the inferior parts of
“Old London,” however, there were the additional inconveniences of
broken limbs and robbery.
It would be easy to adduce instances from the olden writers in proof
of all the above statements, but it seems idle to cite proofs of what
is known to all.
The care of the streets, however, as regards the removal of the dirt,
or, as the weather might be, the dust and mud, seems never to have
been much of a national consideration. It was left to the
corporations and the parishes. Each of these had its own especial
arrangements for the collection and removal of dirt in its own
streets; and as each parochial or municipal system generally differed
in some respect or other, taken as a whole, there was no one
general mode or system adopted. To all this the street-management
of our own days, in the respect of scavengery, and, as I shall show,
of sewerage, presents a decided improvement. This improvement in
street-management is not attributable to any public agitation—to
any public, and, far less, national manifestation of feeling. It was
debated sometimes in courts of Common Council, in ward and
parochial meetings, but the public generally seem to have taken no
express interest in the matter. The improvement seems to have
established itself gradually from the improved tastes and habits of
the people.
Although generally left to the local powers, the subject of street-
cleansing and management, however, has not been entirely
overlooked by Parliament. Among parliamentary enactments is the
measure best known as “Michael Angelo Taylor’s Act,” passed early
in the present century, which requires all householders every
morning to remove from the front of their premises any snow which
may have fallen during the night, &c., &c.; the late Police Acts also
embrace subordinately the subject of street-management.
On the other hand the sewers have long been the object of national
care. “The daily great damages and losses which have happened in
many and divers parts of this realm” (I give the spirit of the
preamble of several Acts of Parliament), “as well by the reason of
the outrageous flowings, surges, and course of the river in and upon
the marsh grounds and other low places, heretofore through public
wisdom won and made profitable for the great commonwealth of
this realm, as also by occasion of land waters and other outrageous
springs in and upon meadows, pastures, and other low grounds
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