Perhaps the most striking difference between [A Tale of Two Cities] and his other novels may seem to lie in the all but entire absence from it of any humour or attempt at humour; for neither the brutalities of that “honest tradesman” Jerry, nor the laconisms of Miss Pross, can well be called by that name.
The English, of all classes, value themselves on this trait, as distinguishing them from the French, who, in the popular belief, are more polite than true.
But thus too, when foul old Rome had to be swept from the Earth, and those Northmen, and other horrid sons of Nature, came in, 'swallowing formulas' as the French now do, foul old Rome screamed execratively her loudest[.]
Theſe all died in faith, not hauing received the promiſes, but hauing ſeene them a farre off, and were perſwaded of them, and embraced them, and confeſſed that they were ſtrangers and pilgrims on the earth.
