Semanticate

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 			<p>Steamboats passed up and down every hour or so. Those belonging to the little Cairo line and the little Memphis line always stopped; the big Orleans liners stopped for hails only, or to land passengers or freight; and this was the case also with the great flotilla of “transients.” These latter came out of a dozen rivers⁠—the Illinois, the Missouri, the Upper Mississippi, the Ohio, the Monongahela, the Tennessee, the Red River, the White River, and so on; and were bound every whither and stocked with every imaginable comfort or necessity which the Mississippi’s communities could want, from the frosty Falls of <abbr>St.</abbr> Anthony down through nine climates to torrid New Orleans.</p>
 			<p>Dawson’s Landing was a slaveholding town, with a rich slave-worked grain and pork country back of it. The town was sleepy and comfortable and contented. It was fifty years old, and was growing slowly⁠—very slowly, in fact, but still it was growing.</p>
 			<p>The chief citizen was York Leicester Driscoll, about forty years old, judge of the county court. He was very proud of his old Virginian ancestry, and in his hospitalities and his rather formal and stately manners he kept up its traditions. He was fine and just and generous. To be a gentleman⁠—a gentleman without stain or blemish⁠—was his only religion, and to it he was always faithful. He was respected, esteemed and beloved by all the community. He was well off, and was gradually adding to his store. He and his wife were very nearly happy, but not quite, for they had no children. The longing for the treasure of a child had grown stronger and stronger as the years slipped away, but the blessing never came⁠—and was never to come.</p>
-			<p>With this pair lived the Judge’s widowed sister, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Rachel Pratt, and she also was childless⁠—childless, and sorrowful for that reason, and not to be comforted. The women were good and commonplace people, and did their duty and had their reward in clear consciences and the community’s approbation. They were Presbyterians, the Judge was a freethinker.</p>
+			<p>With this pair lived the Judge’s widowed sister, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Rachel Pratt, and she also was childless⁠—childless, and sorrowful for that reason, and not to be comforted. The women were good and commonplace people, and did their duty and had their reward in clear consciences and the community’s approbation. They were Presbyterians, the Judge was a freethinker.</p>
 			<p>Pembroke Howard, lawyer and bachelor, aged about forty, was another old Virginian grandee with proved descent from the First Families. He was a fine, brave, majestic creature, a gentleman according to the nicest requirements of the Virginia rule, a devoted Presbyterian, an authority on the “code,” and a man always courteously ready to stand up before you in the field if any act or word of his had seemed doubtful or suspicious to you, and explain it with any weapon you might prefer from bradawls to artillery. He was very popular with the people, and was the Judge’s dearest friend.</p>
 			<p>Then there was Colonel Cecil Burleigh Essex, another <abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">F.F.V.</abbr> of formidable caliber⁠—however, with him we have no concern.</p>
 			<p>Percy Northumberland Driscoll, brother to the Judge, and younger than he by five years, was a married man, and had had children around his hearthstone; but they were attacked in detail by measles, croup and scarlet fever, and this had given the doctor a chance with his effective antediluvian methods; so the cradles were empty. He was a prosperous man, with a good head for speculations, and his fortune was growing. On the 1st of February, 1830, two boy babes were born in his house: one to him, the other to one of his slave girls, Roxana by name. Roxana was twenty years old. She was up and around the same day, with her hands full, for she was tending both babies.</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Percy Driscoll died within the week. Roxy remained in charge of the children. She had her own way, for <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Driscoll soon absorbed himself in his speculations and left her to her own devices.</p>
-			<p>In that same month of February, Dawson’s Landing gained a new citizen. This was <abbr>Mr.</abbr> David Wilson, a young fellow of Scotch parentage. He had wandered to this remote region from his birthplace in the interior of the State of New York, to seek his fortune. He was twenty-five years old, college-bred, and had finished a post-college course in an Eastern law school a couple of years before.</p>
+			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Percy Driscoll died within the week. Roxy remained in charge of the children. She had her own way, for <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Driscoll soon absorbed himself in his speculations and left her to her own devices.</p>
+			<p>In that same month of February, Dawson’s Landing gained a new citizen. This was <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> David Wilson, a young fellow of Scotch parentage. He had wandered to this remote region from his birthplace in the interior of the State of New York, to seek his fortune. He was twenty-five years old, college-bred, and had finished a post-college course in an Eastern law school a couple of years before.</p>
 			<p>He was a homely, freckled, sandy-haired young fellow, with an intelligent blue eye that had frankness and comradeship in it and a covert twinkle of a pleasant sort. But for an unfortunate remark of his, he would no doubt have entered at once upon a successful career at Dawson’s Landing. But he made his fatal remark the first day he spent in the village, and it “gaged” him. He had just made the acquaintance of a group of citizens when an invisible dog began to yelp and snarl and howl and make himself very comprehensively disagreeable, whereupon young Wilson said, much as one who is thinking aloud⁠—</p>
 			<p>“I wish I owned half of that dog.”</p>
 			<p>“Why?” somebody asked.</p>
@@ -48,7 +48,7 @@
 			<p>“That’s what he is,” said <abbr>No.</abbr> 4, “he’s a labrick⁠—just a Simon-pure labrick, if ever there was one.”</p>
 			<p>“Yes, sir, he’s a dam fool, that’s the way I put him up,” said <abbr>No.</abbr> 5. “Anybody can think different that wants to, but those are my sentiments.”</p>
 			<p>“I’m with you, gentlemen,” said <abbr>No.</abbr> 6. “Perfect jackass⁠—yes, and it ain’t going too far to say he is a pudd’nhead. If he ain’t a pudd’nhead, I ain’t no judge, that’s all.”</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Wilson stood elected. The incident was told all over the town, and gravely discussed by everybody. Within a week he had lost his first name; Pudd’nhead took its place. In time he came to be liked, and well liked too; but by that time the nickname had got well stuck on, and it stayed. That first day’s verdict made him a fool, and he was not able to get it set aside, or even modified. The nickname soon ceased to carry any harsh or unfriendly feeling with it, but it held its place, and was to continue to hold its place for twenty long years.</p>
+			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Wilson stood elected. The incident was told all over the town, and gravely discussed by everybody. Within a week he had lost his first name; Pudd’nhead took its place. In time he came to be liked, and well liked too; but by that time the nickname had got well stuck on, and it stayed. That first day’s verdict made him a fool, and he was not able to get it set aside, or even modified. The nickname soon ceased to carry any harsh or unfriendly feeling with it, but it held its place, and was to continue to hold its place for twenty long years.</p>
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 			<p>“I think it is too delicate a matter to⁠—to⁠—I believe I would rather write it or whisper it to you, and let you decide for yourself whether you want it talked out or not.”</p>
 			<p>“That will answer,” said Luigi; “write it.”</p>
 			<p>Wilson wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to Luigi, who read it to himself and said to Tom⁠—</p>
-			<p>“Unfold your slip and read it, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Driscoll.”</p>
+			<p>“Unfold your slip and read it, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Driscoll.”</p>
 			<p>Tom read:</p>
 			<blockquote>
 				<p>“It was prophesied that I would kill a man. It came true before the year was out.”</p>

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 			<p>“Why, Tom had him up before Judge Robinson for assault and battery.”</p>
 			<p>The old man shrank suddenly together like one who has received a death-stroke. Howard sprang for him as he sank forward in a swoon, and took him in his arms, and bedded him on his back in the boat. He sprinkled water in his face, and said to the startled visitor⁠—</p>
 			<p>“Go, now⁠—don’t let him come to and find you here. You see what an effect your heedless speech has had; you ought to have been more considerate than to blurt out such a cruel piece of slander as that.”</p>
-			<p>“I’m right down sorry I did it now, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Howard, and I wouldn’t have done it if I had thought: but it ain’t slander; it’s perfectly true, just as I told him.”</p>
+			<p>“I’m right down sorry I did it now, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Howard, and I wouldn’t have done it if I had thought: but it ain’t slander; it’s perfectly true, just as I told him.”</p>
 			<p>He rowed away. Presently the old Judge came out of his faint and looked up piteously into the sympathetic face that was bent over him.</p>
 			<p>“Say it ain’t true, Pembroke; tell me it ain’t true!” he said in a weak voice.</p>
 			<p>There was nothing weak in the deep organ-tones that responded⁠—</p>

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 			<p>“You are sure you missed nothing else?”</p>
 			<p>“Well, nothing of consequence. I missed a small plain gold ring worth two or three dollars, but that will turn up. I’ll look again.”</p>
 			<p>“In my opinion you’ll not find it. There’s been a raid, I tell you. Come <em>in</em>!”</p>
-			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Justice Robinson entered, followed by Buckstone and the town-constable, Jim Blake. They sat down, and after some wandering and aimless weather-conversation Wilson said⁠—</p>
+			<p><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Justice Robinson entered, followed by Buckstone and the town-constable, Jim Blake. They sat down, and after some wandering and aimless weather-conversation Wilson said⁠—</p>
 			<p>“By the way, we’ve just added another to the list of thefts, maybe two. Judge Driscoll’s old silver watch is gone, and Tom here has missed a gold ring.”</p>
 			<p>“Well, it is a bad business,” said the Justice, “and gets worse the further it goes. The Hankses, the Dobsons, the Pilligrews, the Ortons, the Grangers, the Hales, the Fullers, the Holcombs, in fact everybody that lives around about Patsy Cooper’s has been robbed of little things like trinkets and teaspoons and suchlike small valuables that are easily carried off. It’s perfectly plain that the thief took advantage of the reception at Patsy Cooper’s when all the neighbors were in her house and all their niggers hanging around her fence for a look at the show, to raid the vacant houses undisturbed. Patsy is miserable about it; miserable on account of the neighbors, and particularly miserable on account of her foreigners, of course; so miserable on their account that she hasn’t any room to worry about her own little losses.”</p>
 			<p>“It’s the same old raider,” said Wilson. “I suppose there isn’t any doubt about that.”</p>

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 			<p>“Monday noon! Was he on my track?”</p>
 			<p>“He⁠—well, he thought he was. That is, he hoped he was. This is the bill you saw.” He took it out of his pocket.</p>
 			<p>“Read it to me!”</p>
-			<p>She was panting with excitement, and there was a dusky glow in her eyes that Tom could not translate with certainty, but there seemed to be something threatening about it. The handbill had the usual rude woodcut of a turbaned Negro woman running, with the customary bundle on a stick over her shoulder, and the heading in bold type, “<b>$100 Reward.</b>” Tom read the bill aloud⁠—at least the part that described Roxana and named the master and his <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis address and the address of the Fourth-street agency; but he left out the item that applicants for the reward might also apply to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Thomas Driscoll.</p>
+			<p>She was panting with excitement, and there was a dusky glow in her eyes that Tom could not translate with certainty, but there seemed to be something threatening about it. The handbill had the usual rude woodcut of a turbaned Negro woman running, with the customary bundle on a stick over her shoulder, and the heading in bold type, “<b>$100 Reward.</b>” Tom read the bill aloud⁠—at least the part that described Roxana and named the master and his <abbr>St.</abbr> Louis address and the address of the Fourth-street agency; but he left out the item that applicants for the reward might also apply to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Thomas Driscoll.</p>
 			<p>“Gimme de bill!”</p>
 			<p>Tom had folded it and was putting it in his pocket. He felt a chilly streak creeping down his back, but said as carelessly as he could⁠—</p>
 			<p>“The bill? Why, it isn’t any use to you, you can’t read it. What do you want with it?”</p>
@@ -95,7 +95,7 @@
 			<p>“You done it. Gwine out to cle’r yo’ brain! In de fust place you ain’t got none to cle’r, en in de second place yo’ ornery eye tole on you. You’s de low-downest hound dat ever⁠—but I done tole you dat befo’. Now den, dis is Friday. You kin fix it up wid dat man, en tell him you’s gwine away to git de res’ o’ de money, en dat you’ll be back wid it nex’ Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday. You understan’?”</p>
 			<p>Tom answered sullenly⁠—</p>
 			<p>“Yes.”</p>
-			<p>“En when you gits de new bill o’ sale dat sells me to my own self, take en send it in de mail to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Pudd’nhead Wilson, en write on de back dat he’s to keep it tell I come. You understan’?”</p>
+			<p>“En when you gits de new bill o’ sale dat sells me to my own self, take en send it in de mail to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Pudd’nhead Wilson, en write on de back dat he’s to keep it tell I come. You understan’?”</p>
 			<p>“Yes.”</p>
 			<p>“Dat’s all den. Take yo’ umbreller, en put on yo’ hat.”</p>
 			<p>“Why?”</p>