Ah the halcyon days of yore. Waking at sunrise with buxom servant girls scurry around your bedroom. They set a pleasant fire in the grate, pour your daily bath of heated well water, then crack open lead-lined windows to empty your steaming chamber pot into the street below. And, hark, there's 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 is 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, hear ye, hear ye, followed by a rapid regurgitation of sponsored classified ads for the local weaver, costermonger, butcher, baker, and candlestick maker.
I sometimes wonder if there was a special 'Sunday morning' edition of the Town Crier back then. More of a Town Murmurer than a Crier, who announced his news in the cobbled streets with two hushed hand claps, more suited to the Sabbath than his traditional resonant bell. Perhaps, after quietly relaying his weekend updates, such a Sunday Town Murmurer would even linger at the corner, telling a few comic stories before moving on to other neighborhoods.
There were certainly Pied Town Crier Pipers, however. Of that I have no doubt. After being used and abused by the town's elders, these Pied Town Crier Pipers took their revenge by leading citizens astray with hypnotic chants of divisive fake news, mindless celebrity gossip, and endless stats from international sporting events. In fact, the Pied Town Crier Pipers are still with us today, although they are now wear the garb of professional journalists instead of a mottled tunics with matching leggings and floppy hats.
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