noon
What palpable obscure ? What smoke and reek , as if the whole steaming world were revolving on its axis , as a spit ? It is a Newfoundland Fog ; and we are yet crossing the Grand Banks , wrapt in a mist , that no London in the Novemberest November ever equaled . The chronometer pronounced it noon ; but do you call this midnight or midday ? So dense is the fog , that though we have a fair wind , we shorten sail for fear of accidents ; and not only that , but here am I , poor Wellingborough , mounted aloft on a sort of belfry , the top of the `` Sampson-Post , '' a lofty tower of timber , so called ; and tolling the ship 's bell , as if for a funeral . This is intended to proclaim our approach , and warn all strangers from our track . Dreary sound !