Charles Dickens

Fog is everywhere. Fog is up the river, where it flows among the green aits and meadows; fog is down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog is on the Essex marches, 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 the 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 firesides of their wards; fog is in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog is cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. People on the river have the chance of peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of the fog, with fog all around them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.