There it stood like a wall. Not a
breath seemed to be stirring. The fog, from a distance,
appeared to rise like a cliff, quite smoothly, and it
blotted out the world beyond. When I approached it, I
saw that its face was not so smooth as it had appeared
from half a mile back; nor was it motionless. In fact,
it was rolling south and west like a wave of great
viscosity. Though my senses failed to perceive the
slightest breath of a breeze, the fog was brewing and
whirling, and huge spheres seemed to be forming in it,
and to roll forward, slowly, and sometimes to recede, as
if they had encountered an obstacle and rebounded clumsily.
I had seen a tidal wave, fifty or more feet high, sweep
up the "bore" of a river at the head of the Bay of Fundy.
I was reminded of the sight; but here everything seemed
to proceed in a strangely, weirdly leisurely way. There
was none of that rush, of that hurry about this fog that
characterizes water. Besides there seemed to be no end
to the wave above; it reached up as far as your eye could
see--now bulging in, now out, but always advancing. It
was not so slow however, as for the moment I judged it
to be; for I was later on told that it reached the town
at about six o'clock.
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