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Updated: August 3, 2024
An old paltry book, say you, sold by the hawking pedlars and balladmongers, entitled The Blason of Colours. Who made it? Whoever it was, he was wise in that he did not set his name to it. But, besides, I know not what I should rather admire in him, his presumption or his sottishness.
It was a relief to enter the quiet ward and close the door behind her. The camp-followers: the traders and pedlars, the balladmongers, and the mountebanks, the ghoulish sightseers! War brought out all that was worst in them. But the givers of their blood, the lads who suffered, who had made the sacrifice: war had taught them chivalry, manhood.
Then came the gracious Princess of Pleasure and her daughter Folly, leading her subjects players of dice, cards and back-gammon, conjurers, bards, minstrels, storytellers, drunkards, bawds, balladmongers and pedlars with their trinkets in countless number, to be at length instruments of punishment to the damned fools.
The rich stayed at home, the poor died, and the unfortunate third estate of gipsies, balladmongers, tinkers, tumblers, and thieves had no chance of displaying their dexterity. In fact, they starved. Ever since the 1st of December Jean Francois had been unable to make a silver penny either by his song or his sleight of hand. This year he had nothing to keep it with.
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