content: import React from 'react';
  
  /* eslint-disable react/jsx-one-expression-per-line */
  function TaleOfTwoCities() {
    return (
      <article id="tale-of-two-cities" className="book-snippet">
        <div className="book-info">
          <h1 className="book-title">A Tale of Two Cities</h1>
          <p className="subtitle">A Story of the French Revolution</p>
          <p className="attribution">
            <span className="author">Charles Dickens</span>
          </p>
        </div>
  
        <hr />
  
        <h2 className="story-info">
          <span className="story-number">Book the First</span>
          <span className="story-title">Recalled to Life</span>
        </h2>
  
        <div className="chapter">
          <h3 className="chapter-info">
            <span className="chapter-number">I</span>
            <span className="chapter-title">The Period</span>
          </h3>
  
          <p className="emphasis">
            It was the best of times,<br />it was the worst of times,<br /> it was the
            age of wisdom,<br /> it was the age of foolishness,<br /> it was the epoch
            of belief,<br /> it was the epoch of incredulity,<br /> it was the season
            of Light,<br /> it was the season of Darkness,<br /> it was the spring of
            hope,<br /> it was the winter of despair,
          </p>
  
          <p>
            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&mdash; 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.
          </p>
  
          <p>
            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.
          </p>
  
          <p>
            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.
          </p>
  
          <p>
            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.
          </p>
  
          <p>
            In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to
            justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and
            highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night; families
            were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing their
            furniture to upholsterers&rsquo; warehouses for security; the highwayman in the
            dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and
            challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of
            &ldquo;the Captain,&rdquo; gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the mail
            was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and then got
            shot dead himself by the other four, &ldquo;in consequence of the failure of his
            ammunition:&rdquo; after which the mail was robbed in peace; that magnificent
            potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand and deliver on
            Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the illustrious creature
            in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London gaols fought battles with
            their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law fired blunderbusses in among
            them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball; thieves snipped off diamond
            crosses from the necks of noble lords at Court drawing-rooms; musketeers
            went into St. Giles&rsquo;s, to search for contraband goods, and the mob fired
            on the musketeers, and the musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought
            any of these occurrences much out of the common way. In the midst of them,
            the hangman, ever busy and ever worse than useless, was in constant
            requisition; now, stringing up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now,
            hanging a housebreaker on Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now,
            burning people in the hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning
            pamphlets at the door of Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an
            atrocious murderer, and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a
            farmer&rsquo;s boy of sixpence.
          </p>
  
          <p>
            All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon
            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 the fair faces, trod
            with stir enough, and carried their divine rights with a high hand. Thus
            did the year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five conduct their
            Greatnesses, and myriads of small creatures&mdash;the creatures of this
            chronicle among the rest&mdash;along the roads that lay before them.
          </p>
  
        </div>
      </article>
    );
  }
  
  export default TaleOfTwoCities;
  