There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a
fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer than
crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that
things in general were settled for ever.

It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period, as
at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth
blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had
heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were made
for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost
had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages,
as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in
originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the earthly order of
events had lately come to the English Crown and People, from a congress of
British subjects in America: which, strange to relate, have proved more
important to the human race than any communications yet received through
any of the chickens of the Cock-lane brood.


A TALE OF TWO CITIES

A story of the french revolution

By Charles Dickens

