Charles Dickens

Fog is everywhere.It is up the river where it flows among green aits and meadows.It is down the river where rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great and dirty city.It is on the Essex marshes,It is on the Kentish heights.It is creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs;fog is lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships;It is dropping on the gunwales of barges and small boats.It is in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners,wheezing by the fire sides of their wards;it's in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of wrathful skipper,who is down in his close cabin;it is cruelly pinching the toes and fingers his shivering little apprentice boy on deck.People having chance on the bridges are 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.