Charles Dickens

Fog is ewerywhere.Fog is up the river,where it flows among green aits and meadows;fog is down the river,where it rollls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great and dirty city.Fog is on the Essex marshes and fog is on the Kentish heights.Fog is creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs,fog is lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships;fog is dropping on the gunwales of barges and small boats.Fog is in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners,wheezing by the firesidess of their wards.Fog is in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper who is down in his close cabin ;fog is cruelly pinhcing the toes and the fngers of his shivering little apprentice boy on deck.People having chance on the bridges is peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog ,which is all around them as if they were up in a balloon and were hanging in the misty clouds.