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Charles Dickens. A tale of Two cities. Chapter one, The period It 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 of its noisiest authorities insisted on it being received for good or for evil. In the superior relative degree of comparison, only 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 forever. It was the Year of Our Lord, 1775 spirituals revelations were conceded to England at that favored period. As at this Mrs South, Caught had recently attained her five and 20th blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the lifeguards had heralded the supply of appearance by announcing that arrangements were made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the **** Lane Ghost had been laid only around a dozen of years after wrapping out its messages as the spirits of this very year last past, supernaturally deficient in originality, wrapped out, there's 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 **** Lane brood.