Ah the halcyon days of yore: rising with the yellow tinged mists of dawn; buxom servant girls scurrying around igniting logs in the fireplace and pouring your daily bath; cracking open lead-lined windows to empty a chamber pot into the street below; listening for the clang clang of the Town Crier's bell as he bellows breaking news into the brisk morning air. And hear ye, hear ye, what was the Town Crier's news in such bygone times? The result of a skirmish between hussars and dragoons in some previously unknown village in a far off country. A new tariff charged on the importation of Chinese silk. Silver buckles on shoes for men are out of fashion this season. Old Mother Whartie found guilty of witchcraft at the Impville assizes. Egbert Stringwiddler has composed a new minuet that is all the rage at court. All the news that's fit to cry, followed by a rapid regurgitation of sponsored classified ads for the local weaver, costermonger, butcher, baker, and candlestick maker.
I often wonder if there was a special Sunday morning Town Crier, more of a murmurer than a crier, operating on a much lazier schedule and delivering his news with a laconic, low-key drawl befitting the day of rest. Perhaps, after quietly relaying his weekend updates, such a Sunday Town Murmurer even linger around the nearest well telling a few comic stories before he left. But there were certainly Pied Town Criers, used and abused by the town's elders, who took their revenge by leading citizens astray with hypnotic chants of divisive fake news and mindless celebrity gossip. In fact, they are still with us today, although they wear suits and ties instead of a mottled tunic and matching leggings.
