An economist describes just just how a commercial Revolution-era English training is not as bad though it sounds bad) as it sounds (even.
A man at the fair in Casterbridge spouts off, saying after a few too many rum-soaked basins of furmity
“For my component, we don’t understand why men who ‘ve got wives and want that is don’t, shouldn’t get trip of ‘em since these gipsy fellows do their old horses. Why shouldn’t they place ‘em up and offer ‘em at auction to males who will be looking for such articles? Hey? Why, begad, I’d sell mine this full moment if anyone would purchase her!”
This will be followed closely by the inciting incident that commences Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge. Into the work of fiction, that is an remote aberration, a lapse in judgment due to striking the rum-laced furmity—a near general of oatmeal, since unappetizing as that noises. Continue reading