Semanticate

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 			<h2 epub:type="title">Appendix</h2>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
 				<p>“Truth is stranger than fiction;” and whoever reads the narrative of Alfrado, will find the assertion verified.</p>
-				<p>About eight years ago I became acquainted with the author of this book, and I feel it a privilege to speak a few words in her behalf. Through the instrumentality of an itinerant colored lecturer, she was brought to W⁠⸺, <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:place">Mass.</abbr> This is an ancient town, where the mothers and daughters seek, not “wool and flax,” but <em>straw</em>⁠—working willingly with their hands! Here she was introduced to the family of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Walker, who kindly consented to receive her as an inmate of her household, and immediately succeeded in procuring work for her as a “straw sewer.” Being very ingenious, she soon acquired the art of making hats; but on account of former hard treatment, her constitution was greatly impaired, and she was subject to seasons of sickness. On this account <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W.</abbr> gave her a room joining her own chamber, where she could hear her faintest call. Never shall I forget the expression of her “black, but comely” face, as she came to me one day, exclaiming, “O, aunt J⁠⸺, I have at last found a <em>home</em>⁠—and not only a home, but a <em>mother</em>. My cup runneth over. What shall I render to the Lord for all his benefits?”</p>
+				<p>About eight years ago I became acquainted with the author of this book, and I feel it a privilege to speak a few words in her behalf. Through the instrumentality of an itinerant colored lecturer, she was brought to W⁠⸺, <abbr class="eoc" epub:type="z3998:place">Mass.</abbr> This is an ancient town, where the mothers and daughters seek, not “wool and flax,” but <em>straw</em>⁠—working willingly with their hands! Here she was introduced to the family of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Walker, who kindly consented to receive her as an inmate of her household, and immediately succeeded in procuring work for her as a “straw sewer.” Being very ingenious, she soon acquired the art of making hats; but on account of former hard treatment, her constitution was greatly impaired, and she was subject to seasons of sickness. On this account <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">W.</abbr> gave her a room joining her own chamber, where she could hear her faintest call. Never shall I forget the expression of her “black, but comely” face, as she came to me one day, exclaiming, “O, aunt J⁠⸺, I have at last found a <em>home</em>⁠—and not only a home, but a <em>mother</em>. My cup runneth over. What shall I render to the Lord for all his benefits?”</p>
 				<p>Months passed on, and she was <em>happy</em>⁠—truly happy. Her health began to improve under the genial sunshine in which she lived, and she even looked forward with <em>hope</em>⁠—joyful hope to the future. But, alas, “it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps.” One beautiful morning in the early spring of 1842, as she was taking her usual walk, she chanced to meet her old friend, the “lecturer,” who brought her to W⁠⸺, and with him was a fugitive slave. Young, well-formed and very handsome, he said he had been a <em>house</em>-servant, which seemed to account in some measure for his gentlemanly manners and pleasing address. The meeting was entirely accidental; but it was a sad occurrence for poor Alfrado, as her own sequel tells. Suffice it to say, an acquaintance and attachment was formed, which, in due time, resulted in marriage. In a few days she left W⁠⸺, and <em>all</em> her home comforts, and took up her abode in New Hampshire. For a while everything went on well, and she dreamed not of danger; but in an evil hour he left his young and trusting wife, and embarked for sea. She knew nothing of all this, and waited for his return. But she waited in vain. Days passed, weeks passed, and he came not; then her heart failed her. She felt herself deserted at a time, when, of all others, she most needed the care and soothing attentions of a devoted husband. For a time she tried to sustain <em>herself</em>, but this was impossible. She had friends, but they were mostly of that class who are poor in the things of earth, but “rich in faith.” The charity on which she depended failed at last, and there was nothing to save her from the “County House;” <em>go she must</em>. But her feelings on her way thither, and after her arrival, can be given better in her own language; and I trust it will be no breach of confidence if I here insert part of a letter she wrote her mother Walker, concerning the matter.</p>
 				<blockquote epub:type="z3998:letter">
 					<p>The evening before I left for my dreaded journey to the “house” which was to be my abode, I packed my trunk, carefully placing in it every little memento of affection received from <em>you</em> and my friends in W⁠⸺, among which was the portable inkstand, pens and paper. My beautiful little Bible was laid aside, as a place nearer my heart was reserved for that. I need not tell you I slept not a moment that night. My home, my peaceful, quiet home with you, was before me. I could see my dear little room, with its pleasant eastern window opening to the morning; but more than all, I beheld <em>you</em>, my mother, gliding softly in and kneeling by my bed to read, as no one but you <em>can</em> read, “The Lord is my shepherd⁠—I shall not want.” But I cannot go on, for tears blind me. For a description of the morning, and of the scant breakfast, I must wait until another time.</p>

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 			<p>Such was Mag’s experience; and disdaining to ask favor or friendship from a sneering world, she resolved to shut herself up in a hovel she had often passed in better days, and which she knew to be untenanted. She vowed to ask no favors of familiar faces; to die neglected and forgotten before she would be dependent on any. Removed from the village, she was seldom seen except as upon your introduction, gentle reader, with downcast visage, returning her work to her employer, and thus providing herself with the means of subsistence. In two years many hands craved the same avocation; foreigners who cheapened toil and clamored for a livelihood, competed with her, and she could not thus sustain herself. She was now above no drudgery. Occasionally old acquaintances called to be favored with help of some kind, which she was glad to bestow for the sake of the money it would bring her; but the association with them was such a painful reminder of bygones, she returned to her hut morose and revengeful, refusing all offers of a better home than she possessed. Thus she lived for years, hugging her wrongs, but making no effort to escape. She had never known plenty, scarcely competency; but the present was beyond comparison with those innocent years when the coronet of virtue was hers.</p>
 			<p>Every year her melancholy increased, her means diminished. At last no one seemed to notice her, save a kindhearted African, who often called to inquire after her health and to see if she needed any fuel, he having the responsibility of furnishing that article, and she in return mending or making garments.</p>
 			<p>“How much you earn dis week, Mag?” asked he one Saturday evening.</p>
-			<p>“Little enough, Jim. Two or three days without any dinner. I washed for the Reeds, and did a small job for <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Bellmont; that’s all. I shall starve soon, unless I can get more to do. Folks seem as afraid to come here as if they expected to get some awful disease. I don’t believe there is a person in the world but would be glad to have me dead and out of the way.”</p>
+			<p>“Little enough, Jim. Two or three days without any dinner. I washed for the Reeds, and did a small job for <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Bellmont; that’s all. I shall starve soon, unless I can get more to do. Folks seem as afraid to come here as if they expected to get some awful disease. I don’t believe there is a person in the world but would be glad to have me dead and out of the way.”</p>
 			<p>“No, no, Mag! don’t talk so. You shan’t starve so long as I have barrels to hoop. Peter Greene boards me cheap. I’ll help you, if nobody else will.”</p>
 			<p>A tear stood in Mag’s faded eye. “I’m glad,” she said, with a softer tone than before, “if there is <em>one</em> who isn’t glad to see me suffer. I b’lieve all Singleton wants to see me punished, and feel as if they could tell when I’ve been punished long enough. It’s a long day ahead they’ll set it, I reckon.”</p>
 			<p>After the usual supply of fuel was prepared, Jim returned home. Full of pity for Mag, he set about devising measures for her relief. “By golly!” said he to himself one day⁠—for he had become so absorbed in Mag’s interest that he had fallen into a habit of musing aloud⁠—“By golly! I wish she’d <em>marry</em> me.”</p>