let them compare marriage to a bag of snakes
and eels (stuff!), to a lottery (pshaw!), to a
birdcage—those who are in wishing to get out,
and those who are out wishing to get in
(rubbish!), we despise such bitter churls (out
on them). They know well enough (a pest on
'em!) the sour wretches, that every pair of us
has deserved the blessed flitch, and that no one
of us ever repented his marriage within the
year at least, let them say so who will. It was
a goodly ceremony, and impressed on the
Essex maidens those fine lines of the ex-shrew,
Katherine:

"Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance commits his body
To painful labour, both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe,
And craves no other tribute at thy hands,
But love, fair looks, and true obedience,
Too little payment for so great a debt."

The last flitch given away was in 1860.

At Colchester-on-the-Colne the crow is bound
to descend for two reasons: first, for the sake
of its old and immortal monarch, King Cole;
secondly, for the sake of the touching story of
the two Cavalier friends, who were here shot by
Fairfax for defending the city stoutly against
the Parliament. This Essex town, situated on
the eminence above the river, was an old British
post, appreciated by the Romans, and moulded
by their strong hands into Camalodunum
(temp. Claudius). Here it is supposed
Cunobelin and his sons, Guiderius and Arviragus
(Caractacus), reigned. (Shakespeare has
endeared these names to us by culling them
from early British history, Bede or Gildas, and
making them the sons of his Cymbeline.) This
town, where the Romans built temples and
theatres, and established a mint, was one of
their favourite colonies, and was often fought
for, especially in 62, when the fierce Boadicea
chased the Romans from the town, and slew
the entire ninth legion.

It was not till the third century that the real
King Cole shone forth; but alas! he had no
fiddlers three, and therefore never called for
them. He was really a most respectable
potentate, fond of oysters, and naturally much
respected by the natives. Like a true British
sailor, he rebelled from the Romans, resolving
that Britons never, never, NEVER should be
slaves, and was instantly besieged in Colchester
by Constantius Chlorus, a vigilant Roman
general.

The siege lasted for three years, and
promised to be as long as that of Troy, when
one day of truce the susceptible Roman
happened to see Helena, old King Cole's beautiful
golden-haired daughter, on the ramparts, and,
exclaiming "Dea certe!" proposed immediate
peace, so that he might marry Helena. King
Cole joined hands on that bargain with the
gallant officer, and the result was Constantino
the Great, who was born at Colchester, and
who deserves a statue there if ever man did.
In 306 he was proclaimed emperor at York.

Those tormenting vermin of England, the
Danes, when not foraging up the Blackwater,
were fond of investigating the Colne, and there
either opening oysters, or breaking open houses.
They grew fond of the place, stuck close to the
oysters, and made the place a stronghold, a
fortified port, and a centre of departure for
murder and plunder. But hard times came for
them in 921, when Edward the Elder stormed
the town, put the wild Danes to the sword, and
repeopled the place with stolid, honest West
Saxons.

When grave men sat down to prepare the
Doomsday Book, Colchester was still a thriving
town. In 1218 (Henry the Third) Louis the
Dauphin took the town on the Colne. In
Edward the Third's reign Colchester sent five
ships and a hundred and seventy seamen to
the royal fleet, raised for the blockade of Calais,
when our great king took the key of France,
and his noble-hearted wife begged the lives of
the six burgesses, as history has immortalised.

Then Colchester went on very quietly, feeding
on her "weaver's beef" (sprats), till Lady
Jane Grey's friends tried to seize the throne;
when the Colchester men stood out for gloomy
Queen Mary, who, after her accession,
complimented them by visiting the town. In
Elizabeth's time the persecuted Flemings began to
gather in the place to such an extent, that the
jealous bailiffs and aldermen grew alarmed,
and issued a command that no stranger should
be permitted to reside within the precincts of
Colchester, without their special consent.

But the crowning legend of the town, in the
crow's eye, is the touching story of the death
of those brave gentlemen, Sir Charles Lucas
and Sir George Lisle, who, under Goring, Earl
of Norwich, held Colchester, in 1648, against
Fairfax and the Parliament. The deaths of
these gallant, though mistaken, Cavalier officers
happened thus: Cromwell had just smashed up
the Scotch army of the Duke of Hamilton in
the North. The Prince was with his fleet in
the Downs, the poor King a prisoner in
Carisbrook, the Earl of Holland had been taken near
Kingston in an affair of cavalry, in wliich
young Villiers was struck down, and Goring
and Lord Capel, with the Kentish and Essex
Royalist troops were shut up in Colchester.
The Cavaliers there, having eaten nearly all
their horses, and despairing of relief from the
tardy Scotch army, sent to Fairfax to propose
terms.

Fairfax would dismiss the common soldiers,
but would grant no conditions to the officers
and gentlemen. A day or two was spent in
deliberation. The fiercer sort were for a brisk
sally at all hazards, but they had too few horses,
and those that were left were weak for want of
sufficient food. Some were for dashing open a
port, and for dying sword in hand; but that was
only to be butchered without chance of revenge,
so at last the calmer counsel prevailed. They
all surrendered, threw open the gates, and were
at once led to the Town Hall, locked in and
guarded. Presently a Puritan officer entered
the room, and demanded a list of the prisoners'