Essex

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.Fogonthe Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships† And hard byTemple Bar, in Lincoln's Inn Hall, atthevery heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

—Dickens, CharlesJohn Huffam

England has greater countiesö Their peace to hers is small; Low hills, rich fields, calm rivers, In Essex seek them all.

—Cripps, Arthur S(hearly)