Excerpt from Head of the Lower School

There is a part of that same county where you see the gleaming silver of the Wash - so fatal to King John of unpleasing memory - and the green marshlands are drained by wide dykes, and stakes stand bunched at intervals along the low-lying shore to break the fury of the sea, at the great high tides of spring and autumn, and the river that meanders through the Deeps, as these marsh ¿ats are called, has no banks when the tide is full, but seems as though its waters brimmed, and only kept themselves from slop ping over by an amazing steadiness of hand in which you are not Wise to place implicit trust.

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