Correct semantics, add CSS for formatting

This commit is contained in:
vr8ce 2019-11-16 16:38:48 -06:00
parent 3d98b98a92
commit b31bd3d465
4 changed files with 38 additions and 28 deletions

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@ -26,6 +26,15 @@ td:last-child{
text-align: right;
}
#the-proem blockquote p{
font-variant: all-small-caps;
text-align: center;
}
#the-rose-of-dixie blockquote p{
text-align: center;
}
[epub|type~="epigraph"]{
font-style: italic;
hyphens: none;

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@ -7,18 +7,18 @@
</head>
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
<section id="the-proem" epub:type="preface">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Proem</h2>
<h3>
<b>by the carpenter</b>
</h3>
<h2 epub:type="title">
<span>The Proem</span>
<span epub:type="subtitle">By the Carpenter</span>
</h2>
<p>They will tell you in Anchuria, that President Miraflores, of that volatile republic, died by his own hand in the coast town of Coralio; that he had reached thus far in flight from the inconveniences of an imminent revolution; and that one hundred thousand dollars, government funds, which he carried with him in an American leather valise as a souvenir of his tempestuous administration, was never afterward recovered.</p>
<p>For a <i>real</i>, a boy will show you his grave. It is back of the town near a little bridge that spans a mangrove swamp. A plain slab of wood stands at its head. Someone has burned upon the headstone with a hot iron this inscription:</p>
<p>For a <i xml:lang="es">real</i>, a boy will show you his grave. It is back of the town near a little bridge that spans a mangrove swamp. A plain slab of wood stands at its head. Someone has burned upon the headstone with a hot iron this inscription:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>RAMON ANGEL DE LAS CRUZES</p>
<p>Y MIRAFLORES</p>
<p>PRESIDENTE DE LA REPUBLICA</p>
<p>DE ANCHURIA</p>
<p>QUE SEA SU JUEZ DIOS</p>
<p>Ramon Angel de las Cruzes</p>
<p>Y miraflores</p>
<p>Presidente de la Republica</p>
<p>de Anchuria</p>
<p>Que Sea su Juez Dios</p>
</blockquote>
<p>It is characteristic of this buoyant people that they pursue no man beyond the grave. “Let God be his judge!”—Even with the hundred thousand unfound, though greatly coveted, the hue and cry went no further than that.</p>
<p>To the stranger or the guest the people of Coralio will relate the story of the tragic end of their former president; how he strove to escape from the country with the public funds and also with Doña Isabel Guilbert, the young American opera singer; and how, being apprehended by members of the opposing political party in Coralio, he shot himself through the head rather than give up the funds, and, in consequence, the Señorita Guilbert. They will relate further that Doña Isabel, her adventurous bark of fortune shoaled by the simultaneous loss of her distinguished admirer and the souvenir hundred thousand, dropped anchor on this stagnant coast, awaiting a rising tide.</p>

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@ -131,11 +131,15 @@
<p>Colonel Telfair and the magazine promoter shook hands.</p>
<p>Returning a fortnight later, Thacker dropped off a very rocky Pullman at Toombs City. He found the January number of the magazine made up and the forms closed.</p>
<p>The vacant space that had been yawning for type was filled by an article that was headed thus:</p>
<p>second message to congress</p>
<p>Written for</p>
<h3>THE ROSE OF DIXIE</h3>
<p>BY A Member of the Well-known <b>BULLOCH FAMILY, OF GEORGIA</b></p>
<p>T. Roosevelt</p>
<blockquote>
<p><b>Second Message to Congress</b></p>
<p>Written for</p>
<p>THE ROSE OF DIXIE</p>
<p><b>BY</b></p>
<p>A Member of the Well-known</p>
<p>BULLOCH FAMILY, OF GEORGIA</p>
<p>T. Roosevelt</p>
</blockquote>
</section>
</body>
</html>

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@ -23,20 +23,17 @@
<p>The Republic Insurance Company.</p>
</footer>
</blockquote>
<h3><i>The Vitagraphoscope</i> (Moving Pictures)</h3>
<h3>
<i>The Last Sausage</i>
<h3 epub:type="title">
<span>The Vitagraphoscope</span>
<span epub:type="subtitle">(Moving Pictures)</span>
</h3>
<p>SCENE<i>An Artists Studio.</i> The artist, a young man of prepossessing appearance, sits in a dejected attitude, amid a litter of sketches, with his head resting upon his hand. An oil stove stands on a pine box in the centre of the studio. The artist rises, tightens his waist belt to another hole, and lights the stove. He goes to a tin bread box, half-hidden by a screen, takes out a solitary link of sausage, turns the box upside-down to show that there is no more, and chucks the sausage into a frying-pan, which he sets upon the stove. The flame of the stove goes out, showing that there is no more oil. The artist, in evident despair, seizes the sausage, in a sudden access of rage, and hurls it violently from him. At the same time a door opens, and a man who enters receives the sausage forcibly against his nose. He seems to cry out; and is observed to make a dance step or two, vigorously. The newcomer is a ruddy-faced, active, keen-looking man, apparently of Irish ancestry. Next he is observed to laugh immoderately; he kicks over the stove; he claps the artist (who is vainly striving to grasp his hand) vehemently upon the back. Then he goes through a pantomime which to the sufficiently intelligent spectator reveals that he has acquired large sums of money by trading pot-metal hatchets and razors to the Indians of the Cordillera Mountains for gold dust. He draws a roll of money as large as a small loaf of bread from his pocket, and waves it above his head, while at the same time he makes pantomime of drinking from a glass. The artist hurriedly secures his hat, and the two leave the studio together.</p>
<h3>
<i>The Writing on the Sands</i>
</h3>
<p>SCENE<i>The Beach at Nice.</i> A woman, beautiful, still young, exquisitely clothed, complacent, poised, reclines near the water, idly scrawling letters in the sand with the staff of her silken parasol. The beauty of her face is audacious; her languid pose is one that you feel to be impermanent—you wait, expectant, for her to spring or glide or crawl, like a panther that has unaccountably become stock-still. She idly scrawls in the sand; and the word that she always writes is “Isabel.” A man sits a few yards away. You can see that they are companions, even if no longer comrades. His face is dark and smooth, and almost inscrutable—but not quite. The two speak little together. The man also scratches on the sand with his cane. And the word that he writes is “Anchuria.” And then he looks out where the Mediterranean and the sky intermingle, with death in his gaze.</p>
<h3>
<i>The Wilderness and Thou</i>
</h3>
<p>SCENE<i>The Borders of a Gentlemans Estate in a Tropical Land.</i> An old Indian, with a mahogany-coloured face, is trimming the grass on a grave by a mangrove swamp. Presently he rises to his feet and walks slowly toward a grove that is shaded by the gathering, brief twilight. In the edge of the grove stand a man who is stalwart, with a kind and courteous air, and a woman of a serene and clear-cut loveliness. When the old Indian comes up to them the man drops money in his hand. The grave-tender, with the stolid pride of his race, takes it as his due, and goes his way. The two in the edge of the grove turn back along the dim pathway, and walk close, close—for, after all, what is the world at its best but a little round field of the moving pictures with two walking together in it?</p>
<h3>CURTAIN</h3>
<h4 epub:type="title">The Last Sausage</h4>
<p><b>Scene</b>⁠—<i>An Artists Studio.</i> The artist, a young man of prepossessing appearance, sits in a dejected attitude, amid a litter of sketches, with his head resting upon his hand. An oil stove stands on a pine box in the centre of the studio. The artist rises, tightens his waist belt to another hole, and lights the stove. He goes to a tin bread box, half-hidden by a screen, takes out a solitary link of sausage, turns the box upside-down to show that there is no more, and chucks the sausage into a frying-pan, which he sets upon the stove. The flame of the stove goes out, showing that there is no more oil. The artist, in evident despair, seizes the sausage, in a sudden access of rage, and hurls it violently from him. At the same time a door opens, and a man who enters receives the sausage forcibly against his nose. He seems to cry out; and is observed to make a dance step or two, vigorously. The newcomer is a ruddy-faced, active, keen-looking man, apparently of Irish ancestry. Next he is observed to laugh immoderately; he kicks over the stove; he claps the artist (who is vainly striving to grasp his hand) vehemently upon the back. Then he goes through a pantomime which to the sufficiently intelligent spectator reveals that he has acquired large sums of money by trading pot-metal hatchets and razors to the Indians of the Cordillera Mountains for gold dust. He draws a roll of money as large as a small loaf of bread from his pocket, and waves it above his head, while at the same time he makes pantomime of drinking from a glass. The artist hurriedly secures his hat, and the two leave the studio together.</p>
<h4 epub:type="title">The Writing on the Sands</h4>
<p><b>Scene</b>⁠—<i>The Beach at Nice.</i> A woman, beautiful, still young, exquisitely clothed, complacent, poised, reclines near the water, idly scrawling letters in the sand with the staff of her silken parasol. The beauty of her face is audacious; her languid pose is one that you feel to be impermanent—you wait, expectant, for her to spring or glide or crawl, like a panther that has unaccountably become stock-still. She idly scrawls in the sand; and the word that she always writes is “Isabel.” A man sits a few yards away. You can see that they are companions, even if no longer comrades. His face is dark and smooth, and almost inscrutable—but not quite. The two speak little together. The man also scratches on the sand with his cane. And the word that he writes is “Anchuria.” And then he looks out where the Mediterranean and the sky intermingle, with death in his gaze.</p>
<h4 epub:type="title">The Wilderness and Thou</h4>
<p><b>Scene</b>⁠—<i>The Borders of a Gentlemans Estate in a Tropical Land.</i> An old Indian, with a mahogany-coloured face, is trimming the grass on a grave by a mangrove swamp. Presently he rises to his feet and walks slowly toward a grove that is shaded by the gathering, brief twilight. In the edge of the grove stand a man who is stalwart, with a kind and courteous air, and a woman of a serene and clear-cut loveliness. When the old Indian comes up to them the man drops money in his hand. The grave-tender, with the stolid pride of his race, takes it as his due, and goes his way. The two in the edge of the grove turn back along the dim pathway, and walk close, close—for, after all, what is the world at its best but a little round field of the moving pictures with two walking together in it?</p>
<h4>Curtain</h4>
</section>
</body>
</html>