A Tale of Two Cities

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.

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A Tale of Two Cities