Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows;
fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the
waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog
on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog
lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping
on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of
ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in
the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his
close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little
'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets
into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a
balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.