hy;
When hard words, jealousies, and fears
Set folks together by the ears,
And made them fight, like mad or drunk.

. . . . .

Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling,
And out he rode a-colonelling."

The absurdities into which the genius of Cervantes hurried Don Quixote
and Sancho served to moderate the extravagances of knight-errantry.
The adventures of Hudibras and Ralpho, undertaken to extinguish the
sports and pastimes of the people, aided greatly in staying the hand
of fanaticism, which had suppressed all stage plays and interludes as
"condemned by ancient heathens, and by no means to be tolerated among
professors of the Christian religion."

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