With Crowdero we are taken back upwards of two centuries in the history of the Violin; from times wherein it is held in the highest esteem and admiration, to days when it was regarded with contempt and ridicule. Crowdero (so called from _crowd_, a Fiddle) was the fictitious name for one Jackson, a milliner, who lived in the New Exchange, in the Strand. He had served with the Roundheads, and lost a leg, which brought him into reduced circumstances, until he was obliged to Fiddle from one alehouse to another for his existence. Hudibras-- "On stirrup-side, he gaz'd about Portending blood, like blazing star, The beacon of approaching war. . . . . . Ralpho rode on, with no less speed Than Hugo in the forest did; But far more in returning made, For now the foe he had survey'd Rang'd, as to him they did appear, With van, main battle, wings, and rear. I' th' head of all this warlike rabble, Crowdero marched, expert and able. Instead of trumpet and of drum, That makes the warrior's stomach come, Whose noise whets valour sharp, like beer By thunder turn'd to vinegar; (For if a trumpet sound, or drum beat, Who has not a month's mind to combat?) A squeaking engine he apply'd Unto his neck on north-east side,[1] Just where the hangman does dispose, To special friends, the knot or noose; For 'tis great grace, when statesmen straight Dispatch a friend, let others wait. His warped ear hung o'er the strings, Which was but souse to chitterlings;[2] For guts, some write, ere they are sodden, Are fit for music, or for pudding;[3] From whence men borrow ev'ry kind Of minstrelsy, by string or wind. His grisly beard was long and thick, With which he strung his Fiddle-stick; For he to horse-tail scorned to owe For what on his own chin did grow. . . . . . And now the field of death, the lists, Were enter'd by antagonists, And blood was ready to be broach'd, When Hudibras in haste approach'd With Squire and weapons, to attack 'em; But first thus from his horse bespoke 'em, 'What rage, O citizens! What fury Doth you to these dire actions hurry? . . . . . In name of King and Parliament I charge ye all--no more foment. . . . . . ... first surrender The Fiddler as the prime offender, Th' incendiary vile, that is chief Author and engineer of mischief; That makes division between friends For profane and malignant ends.[4] He and that engine of vile noise On which illegally he plays,[5] Shall (_dictum factum_) both be brought To condign punishment, as they ought.' . . . . . This said he clapped his hand on sword, To show he meant to keep his word.