Semanticate

src/epub/text/chapter-1.xhtml

@@ -44,13 +44,13 @@
 			<p>“Richard,” repeated Iden. And Amaryllis, noting how handsome her father’s intellectual face looked, wandered in her mind from the flower as he talked, and marvelled how he could be so rough sometimes, and why he talked like the labourers, and wore a ragged coat⁠—he who was so full of wisdom in his other moods, and spoke, and thought, and indeed acted as a perfect gentleman.</p>
 			<p>“Richard’s favourite flower,” he went on. “He brought the daffodils down from Luckett’s; every one in the garden came from there. He was always reading poetry, and writing, and sketching, and yet he was such a capital man of business; no one could understand that. He built the mill, and saved heaps of money; he bought back the old place at Luckett’s, which belonged to us before Queen Elizabeth’s days; indeed, he very nearly made up the fortunes Nicholas and the rest of them got rid of. He was, indeed, a man. And now it is all going again⁠—faster than he made it. He used to take you on his knee and say you would walk well, because you had a good ankle.”</p>
 			<p>Amaryllis blushed and smoothed her dress with her hands, as if that would lengthen the skirt and hide the ankles which Richard, the great-uncle, had admired when she was a child, being a man, but which her feminine acquaintances told her were heavy.</p>
-			<p>“Here, put on your hat and scarf; how foolish of you to go out in this wind without them!” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Iden, coming out. She thrust them into Amaryllis’ unwilling hands, and retired indoors again immediately.</p>
+			<p>“Here, put on your hat and scarf; how foolish of you to go out in this wind without them!” said <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Iden, coming out. She thrust them into Amaryllis’ unwilling hands, and retired indoors again immediately.</p>
 			<p>“He was the only one of all the family,” continued her father, “who could make money; all the rest could do nothing but spend it. For ten generations he was the only moneymaker and saver, and yet he was as free and liberal as possible. Very curious, wasn’t it?⁠—only one in ten generations⁠—difficult to understand why none of the others⁠—why⁠—” He paused, thinking.</p>
 			<p>Amaryllis, too, was silent, thinking⁠—thinking how easily her papa could make money, great heaps of money. She was sure he could if he tried, instead of planting potatoes.</p>
 			<p>“If only another Richard would rise up like him!” said Iden.</p>
 			<p>This was a very unreasonable wish, for, having had one genius in the family, and that, too, in the memory of man, they could not expect another. Even vast empires rarely produce more than one great man in all the course of their history. There was but one Caesar in the thousand years of Rome; Greece never had one as a nation, unless we except Themistocles, or unless we accept Alexander, who was a Macedonian; Persia had a Cyrus; there was a Tamerlane somewhere, but few people know anything of the empire he overshadows with his name; France has had two mighty warriors, Charlemagne and Napoleon⁠—unfortunate France! As for ourselves, fortunate islanders! we have never had a great man so immensely great as to overtop the whole, like Charlemagne in his day. Fortunate for us, indeed, that it has been so. But the best example to the point is the case of the immense empire of Russia, which has had one Peter the Great, and one only. Great-uncle Richard was the Peter the Great of his family, whose work had been slowly undone by his successors.</p>
 			<p>“I wonder whether any of us will ever turn out like Richard,” continued Iden. “No one could deny him long; he had a way of persuading and convincing people, and always got his own will in the end. Wonderful man!” he pondered, returning towards his work.</p>
-			<p>Suddenly the side door opened, and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Iden just peered out, and cried, “Put your hat and scarf on directly.”</p>
+			<p>Suddenly the side door opened, and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Iden just peered out, and cried, “Put your hat and scarf on directly.”</p>
 			<p>Amaryllis put the hat on, and wound the scarf very loosely about her neck. She accompanied her father to the potato patch, hoping that he would go on talking, but he was quickly absorbed in the potatoes. She watched him stooping till his back was an arch; in fact, he had stooped so much that now he could not stand upright, though still in the prime of life; if he stood up and stretched himself, still his back was bowed at the shoulders. He worked so hard⁠—ever since she could remember she had seen him working like this; he was up in the morning while it was yet dark tending the cattle; sometimes he was up all night with them, wind or weather made no difference. Other people stopped indoors if it rained much, but it made no difference to her father, nor did the deep snow or the sharp frosts. Always at work, and he could talk so cleverly, too, and knew everything, and yet they were so short of money. How could this be?</p>
 			<p>What a fallacy it is that hard work is the making of money; I could show you plenty of men who have worked the whole of their lives as hard as ever could possibly be, and who are still as far off independence as when they began. In fact, that is the rule; the winning of independence is rarely the result of work, else nine out of ten would be well-to-do.</p>
 		</section>

src/epub/text/chapter-10.xhtml

@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="chapter-10" epub:type="chapter">
 			<h2 epub:type="title ordinal z3998:roman">X</h2>
-			<p>When <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Iden threw his lardy-cake descent in Iden’s face she alluded to Grandfather Iden’s being a baker and miller, and noted for the manufacture of these articles. A lardy, or larded, cake is a thing, I suppose, unknown to most of this generation; they were the principal confectionery familiar to country folk when Grandfather Iden was at the top of his business activity, seventy years since, in the Waterloo era.</p>
+			<p>When <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Iden threw his lardy-cake descent in Iden’s face she alluded to Grandfather Iden’s being a baker and miller, and noted for the manufacture of these articles. A lardy, or larded, cake is a thing, I suppose, unknown to most of this generation; they were the principal confectionery familiar to country folk when Grandfather Iden was at the top of his business activity, seventy years since, in the Waterloo era.</p>
 			<p>A lardy-cake is an oblong, flat cake, crossed with lines, and rounded at the corners, made of dough, lard, sugar, and spice. Our ancestors liked something to gnaw at, and did not go in for lightness in their pastry; they liked something to stick to their teeth, and after that to their ribs. The lardy-cake eminently fulfilled these conditions; they put a trifle of sugar and spice in it, to set it going as it were, and the rest depended on the strength of the digestion. But if a ploughboy could get a new, warm lardy-cake, fresh from the oven, he thought himself blessed.</p>
 			<p>Grandfather Iden had long since ceased any serious business, but he still made a few of these renowned cakes for his amusement, and sold a good few at times to the carters’ lads who came in to market.</p>
 			<p>Amaryllis knew the path perfectly, but if she had not, the tom-tomming of drums and blowing of brass, audible two miles away, would have guided her safely to the fair. The noise became prodigious as she approached⁠—the ceaseless tom-tom, the beating of drums and gongs outside the show vans, the shouting of the showmen, the roar of a great crowd, the booing of cattle, the baaing of sheep, the neighing of horses⁠—altogether the “rucket” was tremendous.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-12.xhtml

@@ -15,14 +15,14 @@
 			<p>If suppleness could only be maintained there is no reason why it should not continue to work for a much longer period, for a hundred and fifty, two hundred years⁠—as long as you fancy. But nothing has yet been devised to keep up the suppleness.</p>
 			<p>Grandfather Iden found the elixir of life in roast pork. The jokers of Woolhorton⁠—there are always jokers, very clever they think themselves⁠—considered the reason it suited him so well was because of the pig-like obstinacy of his disposition.</p>
 			<p>Anything more contrary to common sense than for an old man of ninety to feed on pork it would be hard to discover⁠—so his friends said.</p>
-			<p>“Pork,” said the physician, had down from London to see him on one occasion, “pork is the first on the list of indigestible articles of food. It takes from six to eight hours for the gastric apparatus to reduce its fibres. The stomach becomes overloaded⁠—acidity is the result; nightmares, pains, and innumerable ills are the consequence. The very worst thing <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Iden could eat.”</p>
+			<p>“Pork,” said the physician, had down from London to see him on one occasion, “pork is the first on the list of indigestible articles of food. It takes from six to eight hours for the gastric apparatus to reduce its fibres. The stomach becomes overloaded⁠—acidity is the result; nightmares, pains, and innumerable ills are the consequence. The very worst thing <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Iden could eat.”</p>
 			<p>“Hum,” growled the family doctor, a native of Woolhorton, when he heard of this. “Hum!” low in his throat, like an irate bulldog. If in the least excited, like most other country folk, he used the provincial pronunciation. “Hum! A’ have lived twenty years on pork. Let’n yet it!”</p>
 			<p>Grandfather Iden intended to eat it, and did eat it six days out of seven, not, of course, roast pork every dinner; sometimes boiled pork; sometimes he baked it himself in the great oven. Now and then he varied it with pig-meat⁠—good old country meat, let me tell you, pig-meat⁠—such as sparerib, griskin, blade-bone, and that mysterious morsel, the “mouse.” The chine he always sent over for Iden junior, who was a chine eater⁠—a true Homeric diner⁠—and to make it even, Iden junior sent in the best apples for sauce from his favourite russet trees. It was about the only amenity that survived between father and son.</p>
 			<p>The pig-meat used to be delicious in the old house at home, before we all went astray along the different paths of life; fresh from the pigs fed and killed on the premises, nutty, and juicy to the palate. Much of it is best done on a gridiron⁠—here’s heresy! A gridiron is flat blasphemy to the modern school of scientific cookery. Scientific fiddlestick! Nothing like a gridiron to set your lips watering.</p>
 			<p>But the “mouse,”⁠—what was the “mouse?” The London butchers can’t tell me. It was a titbit. I suppose it still exists in pigs; but London folk are so ignorant.</p>
 			<p>Grandfather Iden ate pig in every shape and form, that is, he mumbled the juice out of it, and never complained of indigestion.</p>
 			<p>He was up at five o’clock every morning of his life, pottering about the great oven with his baker’s man. In summer if it was fine he went out at six for a walk in the Pines⁠—the promenade of Woolhorton.</p>
-			<p>“If you wants to get well,” old <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Butler used to say, “you go for a walk in the marning afore the aair have been braathed auver.”</p>
+			<p>“If you wants to get well,” old <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Dr.</abbr> Butler used to say, “you go for a walk in the marning afore the aair have been braathed auver.”</p>
 			<p>Before the air has been breathed over⁠—inspired and re-inspired by human crowds, while it retains the sweetness of the morning, like water fresh from the spring; that was when it possessed its value, according to bluff, gruff, rule-of-thumb old Butler. Depend upon it, there is something in his dictum, too.</p>
 			<p>Amaryllis hesitated at the thought of the pork, for he often had it underdone, so the old gentleman dismissed her in his most gracious manner to dine with the rest.</p>
 			<p>She went down the corridor and took the seat placed for her. There was a posy of primroses beside her napkin⁠—posies of primroses all round the table.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-14.xhtml

@@ -20,7 +20,7 @@
 			<p>Xerxes offered a reward to anyone who could invent him a fresh pleasure⁠—the multitude of the Derby Day and Brighton beach should do the same. But indeed they do, for an immense fortune would certainly be the reward of such a discoverer. One gets tired of pitching sticks at coconuts all one’s time.</p>
 			<p>However, at Woolhorton nobody but the very rawest and crudest folk cared for the shows, all they did care was to alternately stand stock still and then shove. First they shoved as far as the “Lion” and had some beer, then they shoved back to the “Lamb” and had some beer, then they stood stock still in the street and blocked those who were shoving. Several thousand people were thus happily occupied, and the Lion and the Lamb laid down together peacefully that day.</p>
 			<p>Amaryllis and old Iden had in like manner to shove, for there was no other way to get through, no one thought of moving, or giving any passage, if you wanted to progress you must shoulder them aside. As Grandfather Iden could not shove very hard they were frequently compelled to wait till the groups opened, and thus it happened that Amaryllis found herself once face to face with Jack Duck.</p>
-			<p>He kind of sniggered in a foolish way at Amaryllis, and touched his hat to Iden. “You ain’t a been over to Coombe lately, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Iden,” he said.</p>
+			<p>He kind of sniggered in a foolish way at Amaryllis, and touched his hat to Iden. “You ain’t a been over to Coombe lately, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Iden,” he said.</p>
 			<p>“No,” replied the old man sharply, and went on.</p>
 			<p>Jack could hardly have struck a note more discordant to Amaryllis. The father had not been to visit his son for more than a year⁠—she did not want unpleasant memories stirred up.</p>
 			<p>Again in another group a sturdy labourer touched his hat and asked her if her father was at fair, as he was looking out for a job. Old Iden started and grunted like a snorting horse.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-15.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section id="chapter-15" epub:type="chapter">
 			<h2 epub:type="title ordinal z3998:roman">XV</h2>
 			<p>Within there was a gravel path, and glimpses between trees of wide pleasure-grounds. Amaryllis hesitated, and looked back; Iden drew her forward, not noticing her evident disinclination to proceed. If he had, he would have put it down to awe, instead of which it was dislike.</p>
-			<p>For she guessed they were entering the lawns in front of the <abbr>Hon.</abbr> Raleigh Pamment’s mansion. He was the largest owner of town and country; the streets, the marketplace, the open spaces, in which the fair was being held, belonged to him; so did most of the farms and hamlets out of which the people had come. The Pamments were Tories; very important Tories indeed.</p>
+			<p>For she guessed they were entering the lawns in front of the <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Hon.</abbr> Raleigh Pamment’s mansion. He was the largest owner of town and country; the streets, the marketplace, the open spaces, in which the fair was being held, belonged to him; so did most of the farms and hamlets out of which the people had come. The Pamments were Tories; very important Tories indeed.</p>
 			<p>The Idens, in their little way, were Tories, too, right to the centre of the cerebellum; the Flammas were hot Republicans. Now Amaryllis, being a girl, naturally loved her father most, yet she was a wilful and rebellious revolutionist. Amaryllis, who would not be a Flamma, had imbibed all the Flamma hatred of authority from her mother.</p>
 			<p>To her the Pamments were the incarnation of everything detestable, of oppression, obstruction, and medieval darkness. She knew nothing of politics; at sixteen you do not need to know to feel vehemently, you feel vehemently without knowing. Still, she had heard a good deal about the Pamments.</p>
 			<p>She resented being brought there to admire the pleasure grounds and mansion, and to kowtow to the grandeur of these medieval tyrants.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-16.xhtml

@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="title ordinal z3998:roman">XVI</h2>
 			<p>The man he had seen at the window was young Raleigh Pamment, the son and heir.</p>
 			<p>He had been sitting in an easy chair, one leg over the arm, busy with a memorandum book, a stump of pencil, and a disordered heap of telegrams, letters, and newspapers.</p>
-			<p>Everybody writes to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gladstone, a sort of human lion’s mouth for postcards, but Raleigh junior had not got to manage the House of Commons, the revenue, the nation, the Turks, South Africa, the Nile, Ganges, Indus, Afghanistan, sugar, shipping, and Homer.</p>
+			<p>Everybody writes to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Gladstone, a sort of human lion’s mouth for postcards, but Raleigh junior had not got to manage the House of Commons, the revenue, the nation, the Turks, South Africa, the Nile, Ganges, Indus, Afghanistan, sugar, shipping, and Homer.</p>
 			<p>Yet Raleigh junior had an occasional table beside him, from which the letters, telegrams, newspapers, and scraps of paper had overflowed on to the floor. In a company’s offices it would have taken sixteen clerks to answer that correspondence; this idle young aristocrat answered it himself, entered it in his day book, “totted” it up, and balanced the⁠—the residue.</p>
 			<p>Nothing at all businesslike, either, about him⁠—nothing in the least like those gentlemen who consider that to go in to the “office” every morning is the sum total of life. A most unbusinesslike young fellow.</p>
 			<p>A clay pipe in his mouth, a jar of tobacco on another chair beside him, a glass of whiskey for a paperweight on his telegrams. An idle, lounging, “bad lot;” late hours, tobacco, whiskey, and ballet-dancers writ very large indeed on his broad face. In short, a young “gent” of the latter half of the nineteenth century.</p>