My Hair Stands On End At The

Fog Everywhere. Fog Up The River Where It Flows Among Green Airs 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.... 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.

A Moment, And Its Glory Was No More. The Sun Went Down Beneath The Long Dark Lines Of Hill And Cloud Which Piled Up In The West An Airy City, Wall Heaped On Wall, And Battlement On Battlement; The Light Was All Withdrawn; The Shining Church Turned Cold And Dark; The Stream Forgot To Smile; The Birds Were Silent; And The Gloom Of Winter Dwelt On Everything.

"the Twins No Longer Derive Their Sustenance From Nature's Founts - In Short," Said Mr. Micawber, In One Of His Bursts Of Confidence, "they Are Weaned..."

The Wide Stare Stared Itself Out For One While; The Sun Went Down In A Red, Green, Golden Glory; The Stars Came Out In The Heavens, And The Fire-flies Mimicked Them In The Lower Air, As Men May Feebly Imitate The Goodness Of A Better Order Of Beings; The Long Dusty Roads And The Interminable Plains Were In Repose-and So Deep A Hush Was On The Sea, That It Scarcely Whispered Of The Time When It Shall Give Up Its Dead.

A Demd, Damp, Moist, Unpleasant Body!