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><?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> ><fo:root xmlns:xs="http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema" > xmlns:fo="http://www.w3.org/1999/XSL/Format" > xmlns:xlink="http://www.w3.org/1999/xlink" > xmlns:zr="http://www.intersystems.com/zenreports" > xmlns:svg="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg"> > <fo:layout-master-set> > <fo:simple-page-master master-name="main" margin-right="0in" margin-left="0in" margin-top="1.0in" > margin-bottom="1.0in" > reference-orientation="0" > page-width="20in" > page-height="11in"> > <fo:region-body margin-bottom="0" margin-top="0" margin-left="0" margin-right="0" > column-count="2" > column-gap="5%"/> > <fo:region-before extent="0.0pt" reference-orientation="0" display-align="inherit"/> > <fo:region-after extent="0.0pt" reference-orientation="0" display-align="after"/> > <fo:region-start extent="0.0pt" reference-orientation="0" display-align="inherit"/> > <fo:region-end extent="0.0pt" reference-orientation="0" display-align="after"/> > </fo:simple-page-master> > </fo:layout-master-set> > <fo:page-sequence master-reference="main"> > <fo:title>Sales Report</fo:title> > <fo:flow flow-name="xsl-region-body"> > <fo:block> > <fo:block> >The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles DickensThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: A Tale of Two Cities A Story of the French RevolutionAuthor: Charles DickensRelease Date: January, 1994 [EBook #98]Posting Date: November 28, 2009[This file last updated: January 23, 2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TALE OF TWO CITIES ***Produced by Judith BossA TALE OF TWO CITIESA STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTIONBy Charles DickensCONTENTS Book the First--Recalled to Life Chapter I The Period Chapter II The Mail Chapter III The Night Shadows Chapter IV The Preparation Chapter V The Wine-shop Chapter VI The Shoemaker Book the Second--the Golden Thread Chapter I Five Years Later Chapter II A Sight Chapter III A Disappointment Chapter IV Congratulatory Chapter V The Jackal Chapter VI Hundreds of People Chapter VII Monseigneur in Town Chapter VIII Monseigneur in the Country Chapter IX The Gorgon's Head Chapter X Two Promises Chapter XI A Companion Picture Chapter XII The Fellow of Delicacy Chapter XIII The Fellow of no Delicacy Chapter XIV The Honest Tradesman Chapter XV Knitting Chapter XVI Still Knitting Chapter XVII One Night Chapter XVIII Nine Days Chapter XIX An Opinion Chapter XX A Plea Chapter XXI Echoing Footsteps Chapter XXII The Sea Still Rises Chapter XXIII Fire Rises Chapter XXIV Drawn to the Loadstone Rock Book the Third--the Track of a Storm Chapter I In Secret Chapter II The Grindstone Chapter III The Shadow Chapter IV Calm in Storm Chapter V The Wood-sawyer Chapter VI Triumph Chapter VII A Knock at the Door Chapter VIII A Hand at Cards Chapter IX The Game Made Chapter X The Substance of the Shadow Chapter XI Dusk Chapter XII Darkness Chapter XIII Fifty-two Chapter XIV The Knitting Done Chapter XV The Footsteps Die Out For EverBook the First--Recalled to LifeI. The PeriodIt was the best of times,it was the worst of times,it was the age of wisdom,it was the age of foolishness,it was the epoch of belief,it was the epoch of incredulity,it was the season of Light,it was the season of Darkness,it was the spring of hope,it was the winter of despair,we had everything before us,we had nothing before us,we were all going direct to Heaven,we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some ofits noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or forevil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on thethrone of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen witha fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearerthan 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-twentiethblessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards hadheralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements weremade for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-laneghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out itsmessages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturallydeficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in theearthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strangeto relate, have proved more important to the human race than anycommunications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lanebrood.France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than hersister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness downhill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of herChristian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humaneachievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tonguetorn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had notkneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monkswhich passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixtyyards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France andNorway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn intoboards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife init, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhousesof some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there weresheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered withrustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, whichthe Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils ofthe Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they workunceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went aboutwith muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicionthat they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection tojustify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, andhighway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removingtheir furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwaymanin the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised andchallenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of"the Captain," gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; themail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, andthen got shot dead himself by the other four, "in consequence of thefailure of his ammunition:" after which the mail was robbed in peace;that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to standand deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled theillustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in Londongaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the lawfired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords atCourt drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to searchfor contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and themusketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrencesmuch out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busyand ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringingup long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker onSaturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in thehand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door ofWestminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy ofsixpence.All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and closeupon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and thefair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rightswith a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundredand seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of smallcreatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along theroads that lay before them.II. The MailIt was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered upShooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relishfor walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that thehorses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing thecoach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it backto Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, incombination, had read that article of war which forbade a purposeotherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animalsare endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned totheir duty.With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way throughthe thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they werefalling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver restedthem and brought them to a stand, with a wary "Wo-ho! so-ho-then!" thenear leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like anunusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up thehill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as anervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in itsforlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and findingnone. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through theair in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as thewaves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut outeverything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamedinto it, as if they had made it all.Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by theside of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over theears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, fromanything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each washidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as fromthe eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellerswere very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody onthe road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in"the Captain's" pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stablenon-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guardof the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, onethousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, ashe stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where aloaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,deposited on a substratum of cutlass.The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspectedthe passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, theyall suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing butthe horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience havetaken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for thejourney."Wo-ho!" said the coachman. "So, then! One more pull and you're at thetop and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you toit!--Joe!""Halloa!" the guard replied."What o'clock do you make it, Joe?""Ten minutes, good, past eleven.""My blood!" ejaculated the vexed coachman, "and not atop of Shooter'syet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!"The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,made a decided scramble for i ></fo:block> > </fo:block> > <fo:block id="%ZENLastPage"/> > </fo:flow> > </fo:page-sequence> ></fo:root> View Attachment As Raw

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