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TEI-L  October 2007

TEI-L October 2007

Subject:

tei2tei.xsl

From:

Lynn Lobash <[log in to unmask]>

Reply-To:

Lynn Lobash <[log in to unmask]>

Date:

Mon, 29 Oct 2007 14:04:41 -0400

Content-Type:

text/plain

Parts/Attachments:

Parts/Attachments

text/plain (369 lines)

I am trying to convert some files using tei2tei.xsl. Some of the files
convert just fine while others produce the following message: Unexpected
characters in element end tag (expected "div1"). All the nesting looks fine
to me. I have included a snippet of the errant code below.

In summary:

<body>
<pb/>
<div0>
<head></head>
<p></p>
<head></head>
<div1 type="chaptFragment" n="prose">
several <p></p>
several <pb n="n"/>
<lb/> 
<h1></h1>
</div1>
</div0> error occurs right here.

start new section.
<pb/>
<div0>

any help much appreciated.
Lynn

full snippet below.

</div0>
<pb/>
<div0>
<head>
Behind The Scenes
.
</head>
<p>
</p>

<head>
CHAPTER 1.
<lb/>
Where I was Born.
</head>
<div1 type="chaptFragment" n="prose">
<p>
My life has been an eventful one. I was born a slave - was the child of slave
parents - therefore I came upon the earth free in God-like thought, but
fettered in action.
My birthplace was Dinwiddie Court-House, in Virginia. My recollections of
childhood are
distinct, perhaps for the reason that many stirring incidents are associated
with that period. I am
now on the shady side of forty, and as I sit alone in my room the brain is
busy, and a rapidly
moving panorama brings scene after before me, some
<pb n="18"/>
pleasant and others sad; and when I thus greet old familiar faces, I often
find myself wondering if I
am not living the past over again. The visions are so terribly distinct that
I almost imagine them to
be real. Hour after hour I sit while the scenes are being shifted; and as I
gaze upon the panorama
of the past, I realize how crowded with incidents my life has been. Every
day seems like a
romance within itself, and the years grow into ponderous volumes. As I
cannot condense, I must
omit many strange passages in my history. From such a wilderness of events
it is difficult to make
a selection, but as I am not writing altogether the history of myself, I
will confine my story to the
most important incidents which I believe influenced the moulding of my
character. As I glance
over the crowded sea of the past, these incidents stand forth prominently,
the guide-posts of
memory. I presume that I must have been four years old when I
<pb n="19"/>
first began to remember; at least, I cannot now recall anything occurring
previous to this period.
My master, Col.A.Burwell, was somewhat unsettled in his business affairs and
while I was yet an
infant he made several removals. While living at Hampton Sidney College,
Prince Edward County,
Va., Mrs. Burwell gave birth to a daughter, a sweet, black-eyed baby, my
earliest and fondest pet.
To take care of this baby was my first duty. True, I was but a child myself
- only four years
old -  but then I had been raised in a hardy school  -  had been taught to
rely upon
myself, and to prepare myself to render assistance to others. The lesson was
not a bitter one, for I
was too young to indulge in philosophy, and the precepts that I then
treasured and practised I
believe developed those principles of character which have enabled me to
triumph over so may
difficulties. Not withstanding all the wrongs that slavery heaped upon me, I
can bless it for one
thing - youth's
<pb n="20"/>
important lesson of self-reliance. The baby was named Elizabeth, and it was
pleasant to me to be
assigned a duty in connection with it, for the discharge of that duty
transferred me from the rude
cabin to the household of my master. My simple attire was a short dress and
a little white apron.
My old mistress encouraged me in rocking the cradle, by telling me that if I
would watch over the
baby well, keep the flies out of its face, and not let it cry, I should be
its little maid. This was a
golden promise, and I required no better inducement for the faithful
performance of my task. I
began to rock the cradle most industriously, when lo! out pitched little pet
on the floor. I instantly
cried out, "Oh! the baby is on the floor;" and, not knowing what to do, I
seized the fire-shovel in
my perplexity, and was trying to shovel up my tender charge, when my
mistress called to me to let
the child alone, and then ordered that I be taken out and lashed for my
carelessness.
</p>
<pb n="21"/>
<p>
The blows were not administered with a light hand, I assure you, and
doubtless the severity of
the lashing has made me remember the incident so well. This was the first
time I was punished in
this cruel way, but not the last. The black-eyed baby that I called my pet
grew into a self-willed
girl, and in after years was the cause of much trouble to me. I grew strong
and healthy, and,
notwithstanding. I knit socks and attended to various kinds of work, I was
repeatedly told, when
even fourteen years old, that I would never be worth my salt. When I was
eight, Mr. Burwell's,
Family consisted of six sons and four daughters, with a large family of
servants. My mother was
kind and forbearing; Mrs. Burwell a hard task-master; and as mother had so
much work to do in
making clothes, etc., for the family, besides the slaves, I determined to
render her all the
assistance in my power, and in rendering her such assistance my young
energies were taxed to the
utmost
<pb n="22"/>
I was my mother's only child, which made her love for me all the stronger. I
did not know much
of my father, for he was the slave of another man, and when Mr. Burwell
moved from Dinwiddie
he was separated from us, and only allowed to visit my mother twice a year -
during the
Easter holidays and Christmas. At last Mr. Burwell determined to reward my
mother, by making
an arrangement with the owner of my father, by which the separation of my
parents could be
brought to an end. It was a bright day, indeed, for my mother when it was
announced that my
father was coming to live with us. The old weary look faded from her face,
and she worked as if
her heart was in every task. But the golden days did not last long. The
radiant dream faded all too
soon.
</p>
<p>
In the morning my father called me to him and kissed me, then held me out at
arms' length as
if he were regarding his child with pride. "She is growing into a large fine
girl," he remarked
<pb n="23"/>
to my mother. "I dun no which I like best, you or Lizzie, as both are so
dear to me." My mother's
name was Agnes, and my father delighted to call me his "Little Lizzie."while
yet my father and
mother were speaking hopefully, joyfully of the future, Mr. Burwell came to
the cabin, with a
letter in his hand. He was a kind master in some things, and as gently as
possible informed my
parents that they must part; for in two hours my father must join his master
at Dinwiddle, and go
with him to the west, where he had determined to make his future home. The
announcement fell
upon the little circle in that rude-log cabin like a thunderbolt. I can
remember the scene as if it
were but yesterday; - how my father cried out against the cruel separation;
his last kiss; his
wild straining of my mother to his bosom; the solemn prayer to heaven; the
tears and
sobs - the fearful anguish of broken hearts. The last kiss, the last goodby;
and he, my
father, was gone, gone forever.
<pb n="24"/>
The shadow eclipsed the sunshine, and love brought despair. The parting was
external. The cloud
had no silver lining, but I trust that it will be all silver in heaven. We
who are crushed to earth
with heavy chains, who travel a weary, rugged, thorny road, groping through
midnight darkness
on earth, earn our right to enjoy the sunshine in the great hereafter. At
the grave, at least, we
should be permitted to lay our burdens down, that a new world, a world of
brightness, may open
to us. The light that is denial us here should grow into a flood of
effulgence beyond the dark,
mysterious shadows of death. Deep as was the distress of my mother in
parting with my father,
her sorrow did not screen her from insult. My old mistress said to her:
"Stop your nonsense; there
is no necessity for you putting on airs. Your husband is not the only slave
that has been sold from
his family, and you are not the only one that has had to part. There are
plenty more men about
here, and if you want a
<pb n="25"/>
husband so badly, stop your crying and go and find another." To these
unfeeling words my mother
made no reply. She turned away in stoical silence, with a curl of that
loathing scorn upon her lips
which swelled in her heart.
</p>
<p>
My father and mother never met again in this world. They kept up a regular
correspondence
for years, and the most precious mementos of my existence are the faded old
letters that he wrote,
full of love, and always hoping that the future would bring brighter days.
In nearly every letter is a
message for me. "Tell my darling little Lizzie," he writes, "to be a good
girl, and to learn her
book. Kiss her for me, and tell her that I will come to see her some day."
Thus he wrote time and
again, but he never came. He lived in hope, but died without ever seeing his
wife and child.
</p>
<p>
I note a few extracts from one of my father's letters to my mother,
following copy
literally:
</p>
<pb n="26"/>
<p>
"Shelbyvile
, Sept. 6, 1833.
</p>
<p>
"Mrs. Agnes Hobbs.
</p>
<p>
"Dear Wife: My dear biloved wife I am more than glad to meet with opportunty
writee thes
few lines to you by my Mistress who ar now about starterng to virginia, and
sevl others of my old
friends are with her; in compeney Mrs. Ann Rus the wife of master Thos Rus
and Dan Woodiard
and his family and I am very sorry that I haven the chance to go with them
as I feels Determid to
see you If life last again. I am now here and out at this please so I am not
able to get of at this
time. I am write well and hearty and all the rest of masters family. I heard
this even by Mistress
that ar just from there all sends love to you and all my old friends. I am a
living in a town called
Shelbyville and I have wrote a great many letters since Ive beene here and
almost been reeady to
my selfe that its out of the question to write any more at tall: my dear
wife I dont field no whys
like giving out writing
<pb n="27"/>
to you as yet and I hope when you get this letter that you be Inncougege to
write me a letter. I am
well satisfied at my living at this place I am a making money for my own
benefit and I hope that
its to yours also If I live to see Next year I shall heve my own time from
master by giving him 100
and twenty Dollars a year and I think I shall be doing good bisness at that
and heve something
more thean all that. I hope with gods helpe that I may be abble to rejoys
with you on the earth and
In heaven lets meet when will I am determined to never stope praying, not in
this earth and I hope
to praise god In glory there weel meet to part no more forever. So my dear
wife I hope to meet
you In paradase to prase god for ever &amp;hellip; I want Elizabeth to be a
good girl and not to thinke
that because I am bound so fare that gods not abble to open the way &amp;hellip;
</p>
<p>
"
George Pleasant
,
<lb/>
"
<hi rend="italics">
Hobbs a servant of Grum.
</hi>
 "
</p>
<p>
The last letter that my mother received from my
<pb n="28"/>
father was dated Shelbyville, Tennessee, March 20, 1839. He writes in a
cheerful strain, and
hopes to see her soon. Alas! he looked forward to a meeting in vain. Year
after year the one great
hope swelled in his heart, but the hope was only realized beyond the dark
portals of the
grave.
</p>
<p>
When I was about seven years old I witnessed, for the first time, the sale
of a human being.
We were living at Prince Edward, in Virginia, and master had just purchased
his hogs for the
winter, for which he was unable to pay in full. To escape from his
embarrassment it was necessary
to sell one of the slaves. Little Joe, the son of the cook, was selected as
the victim. His mother
was ordered to dress him up in his Sunday clothes, and send him to the
house. He came in with a
bright face, was placed in the scales, and was sold, like the hogs, at so
much per pound. His
mother was kept in ignorance of the transaction, but her suspicions were
aroused. When her son
started for Petersburgh in the wagon, the truth began to dawn upon her
<pb n="29"/>
mind, and she pleaded piteously that her boy should not be taken from her;
but master quieted her
by telling her that he was simple going to town with the wagon, and would be
back in the
morning. Morning came, but little Joe did not return to his mother. Morning
after morning passed,
and the mother went down to the grave without ever seeing her child again.
One day she was
whipped for grieving for her lost boy. Colonel Burwell never liked to see
one of his slaves wear a
sorrowful face, and those who offended in this particular way were always
punished. Alas! the
sunny face of the slave is not always an indication of sunshine in the
heart. Colonel Burwell at one
time owned about seventy slaves, all of which were sold, and in a majority
of instances wives
were separated from husbands and children from their parents. Slavery in the
Border States forty
years ago was different from what it was twenty years ago. Time seemed to
soften the hearts of
master and
<pb n="30"/>
mistress, and to insure kinder and more humane treatment to bondsmen and
bondswomen. When I
was quite a child, an incident occurred which my mother afterward impressed
more strongly on
my mind. One of my uncles, a slave of Colonel Burwell, lost a pair of
ploughlines, and when the
loss was made known the master gave him a new pair, and told him that if he
did not take care of
them he would punish him severely. In a few weeks the second pair of lines
was stolen, and my
uncle hung himself rather than meet the displeasure of his master. My mother
went to the spring in
the morning for a pail of water, and on looking up into the willow tree
which shaded the bubbling
crystal stream, she discovered the lifeless form of her brother suspended
beneath one of the strong
branches. Rather than be punished the way Colonel Burwell punished his
servants, he took his
own life. Slavery had its dark side as well as its bright side.
</p>
</div1>
</div0> 

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