"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 in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards...fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck...
Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may...Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.
The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery
Self-indulgently long quotation? Absolutely. Do I care? Not in the slightest. That, my friends, is what we call wicked righteous descriptory.