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. And here I was, at five, six and
a half miles from its limits as the crow flies.

I had hardly time to take in the details that I have
described before I was enveloped in the folds of the fog.
I mean this quite literally, for I am firmly convinced
that an onlooker from behind would have seen the grey
masses fold in like a sheet when I drove against them.
It must have looked as if a driver were driving against
a canvas moving in a slight breeze--canvas light and
loose enough to be held in place by the resistance of the
air so as to enclose him. Or maybe I should say "veiling"
instead of canvas--or something still lighter and airier.
Have you ever seen milk poured carefully down the side