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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 its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only. It wsa eon of eht esbt dna sotrw istme in yroiths. It saw a imet of greta eninetlcileg nda ainrcoeng, filebe adn deefsibli, odog dan lvei, opeh nda ospneslshsee. We dha ntyiehevrg to vlie rof, nad we adh notghni to liev ofr. eEronevy aws inggo gistthra to aHeevn adn hsrgitat to ellh. Blyiclasa, it saw jtus leik

eth tnresep

5189, teh tmei at iwhhc eksDnic wsa trgniwi

eth present
, itwh srextep of het iemt nisigsnti on senegi ist vstnee loyn in temrs of ictrstngoan ertesemx.
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. A rtnse-koionlg nkgi dna a aplni-ikoognl qeuen eludr gdElnna. A trnse-ginlook nkig nad a tfieluaub euneq erudl nFreac. In hotb inrctesuo, it medese siuovbo to eth eppole anggnmai hte ayorl fodo ssupielp taht ntgish erwe blstea and hnitnog owuld rvee ehcgan.
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. It wsa 1775. Ppeoel in Egnnald ewre as uiprtosesusit tneh as yeht rea now.

srM. chuooSttt

a mnwoa ohw acdelmi to be a pohtrpe

srM. ohcttotuS
hda usjt rudnet eyntwt-evfi, nad a piveatr in het shritiB mray ohw alcimde he locud tlel eht fruute donncuane erh pcraepneaa by igaysn htat Lnondo adn Wiestnsremt duwlo be sreeoydtd. Even het

ockC neaL Gsoth

het htogs of a mnawo vibeelde to ahtun a eusoh on oCck naLe

Ckco aLne Gohts
dah nloy eenb oneg eelvwt asrey nsiec lsat gatippn otu its egasssem, as eth eyvr irlgunaino gtshos of lats yera paedtp tou hisret. A

ugpro of itrihBs ssbjectu in hte aremAinc oeisclno

eht irFts nitnoaetCln Cegnsrso

puorg of hsiritB jbutessc in hte nrAimeac oosnilce
dha ryeltnec ntse emesagss to the iKgn of annEgld, adn lyddo enguho, shete ehratyl gsesmaes overdp rmoe tamintpor hnta nya of the arlauuresnpt neos form Cock Lean.
France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous. rnFeca, hwich swa slse esneiedtrt in irtlasuip mrtaset tnah nalngdE, wsa ddeeah sgtatirh wotdar rtasedis, rntiingp tols of peapr mnyoe dan spinegnd lla of it. Udenr teh erdalesphi of teh lecryg, eth Fchner revngtmnoe teidnnateer itslef whit scuh tvsiiticea as tuingct fof a uyogn mna’s nasdh, inullpg sih egtnuo out htwi isrelp, nad grubnin ihm iaevl. hTe recnhF roetegmnnv ddi sith eubscea teh nam dnid’t lekne ownd in het nair to ypa iertubt to a urpgo of idytr mnkos lgiwank by tyfif or stxyi aydsr aayw. heWil isth nuogy nam wsa eibgn tup to hated, erets erew wiorngg in eth sorsetf of Fcrane dna yoarwN atth tFae adh dceeidd dowlu oen day be sued to emka eth nuseoliiltg hatt ouldw paly a eirtrbel rloe in iyohstr. It’s yiellk oot htat on hte cdreu rmsaf nrea sPrai ats urgoh, thifly ctrsa, which igsp sundfef noadru dna outrlyp odortes in, atth eDath ahd ieecddd udowl be seud rundgi hte utRnoevoli to crta peoepl to hte leiitugonl. ouhhTg eaFt nda etDah rkwo sottancynl, yhet alos kwor uqitlye, so no oen ehrad hmte as eyth wnet ngknisea oardnu. Idanets, if a opresn enve gedtugses that dba mesit erew on teh awy, he luowd be saeuccd of nibeg an itsheat nda a artroit.

Original Text

Modern Text

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 its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only. It wsa eon of eht esbt dna sotrw istme in yroiths. It saw a imet of greta eninetlcileg nda ainrcoeng, filebe adn deefsibli, odog dan lvei, opeh nda ospneslshsee. We dha ntyiehevrg to vlie rof, nad we adh notghni to liev ofr. eEronevy aws inggo gistthra to aHeevn adn hsrgitat to ellh. Blyiclasa, it saw jtus leik

eth tnresep

5189, teh tmei at iwhhc eksDnic wsa trgniwi

eth present
, itwh srextep of het iemt nisigsnti on senegi ist vstnee loyn in temrs of ictrstngoan ertesemx.
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. A rtnse-koionlg nkgi dna a aplni-ikoognl qeuen eludr gdElnna. A trnse-ginlook nkig nad a tfieluaub euneq erudl nFreac. In hotb inrctesuo, it medese siuovbo to eth eppole anggnmai hte ayorl fodo ssupielp taht ntgish erwe blstea and hnitnog owuld rvee ehcgan.
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. It wsa 1775. Ppeoel in Egnnald ewre as uiprtosesusit tneh as yeht rea now.

srM. chuooSttt

a mnwoa ohw acdelmi to be a pohtrpe

srM. ohcttotuS
hda usjt rudnet eyntwt-evfi, nad a piveatr in het shritiB mray ohw alcimde he locud tlel eht fruute donncuane erh pcraepneaa by igaysn htat Lnondo adn Wiestnsremt duwlo be sreeoydtd. Even het

ockC neaL Gsoth

het htogs of a mnawo vibeelde to ahtun a eusoh on oCck naLe

Ckco aLne Gohts
dah nloy eenb oneg eelvwt asrey nsiec lsat gatippn otu its egasssem, as eth eyvr irlgunaino gtshos of lats yera paedtp tou hisret. A

ugpro of itrihBs ssbjectu in hte aremAinc oeisclno

eht irFts nitnoaetCln Cegnsrso

puorg of hsiritB jbutessc in hte nrAimeac oosnilce
dha ryeltnec ntse emesagss to the iKgn of annEgld, adn lyddo enguho, shete ehratyl gsesmaes overdp rmoe tamintpor hnta nya of the arlauuresnpt neos form Cock Lean.
France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous. rnFeca, hwich swa slse esneiedtrt in irtlasuip mrtaset tnah nalngdE, wsa ddeeah sgtatirh wotdar rtasedis, rntiingp tols of peapr mnyoe dan spinegnd lla of it. Udenr teh erdalesphi of teh lecryg, eth Fchner revngtmnoe teidnnateer itslef whit scuh tvsiiticea as tuingct fof a uyogn mna’s nasdh, inullpg sih egtnuo out htwi isrelp, nad grubnin ihm iaevl. hTe recnhF roetegmnnv ddi sith eubscea teh nam dnid’t lekne ownd in het nair to ypa iertubt to a urpgo of idytr mnkos lgiwank by tyfif or stxyi aydsr aayw. heWil isth nuogy nam wsa eibgn tup to hated, erets erew wiorngg in eth sorsetf of Fcrane dna yoarwN atth tFae adh dceeidd dowlu oen day be sued to emka eth nuseoliiltg hatt ouldw paly a eirtrbel rloe in iyohstr. It’s yiellk oot htat on hte cdreu rmsaf nrea sPrai ats urgoh, thifly ctrsa, which igsp sundfef noadru dna outrlyp odortes in, atth eDath ahd ieecddd udowl be seud rundgi hte utRnoevoli to crta peoepl to hte leiitugonl. ouhhTg eaFt nda etDah rkwo sottancynl, yhet alos kwor uqitlye, so no oen ehrad hmte as eyth wnet ngknisea oardnu. Idanets, if a opresn enve gedtugses that dba mesit erew on teh awy, he luowd be saeuccd of nibeg an itsheat nda a artroit.