'A Tradition of Eighteen Hundred and Four' by Thomas Hardy

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The widely discussed possibility of an invasion of England through a Channel tunnel has more than once recalled old Solomon Selby's story to my mind.

The occasion on which I numbered myself among his audience was one evening when he was sitting in the yawning chimney-corner of the inn-kitchen, with some others who had gathered there, and I entered for shelter from the rain. Withdrawing the stem of his pipe from the dental notch in which it habitually rested, he leaned back in the recess behind him and smiled into the fire. The smile was neither mirthful nor sad, not precisely humorous nor altogether thoughtful. We who knew him recognized it in a moment: it was his narrative smile. Breaking off our few desultory remarks we drew up closer, and he thus began :—

'My father, as you mid know, was a shepherd all his life, and lived out by the Cove four miles yonder, where I was born and lived likewise, till I moved here shortly a fore I was married. The cottage that first knew me stood on the top of the down, near the sea; there was no house within a mile and a half of it; it was built o' purpose for the farm-shepherd, and had no other use. They tell me that it is now pulled down, but that you can see where it stood by the mounds of earth and a few broken bricks that are still lying about. It was a bleak and dreary place in winter-time, but in summer it was well enough, though the garden never came to much, because we could not get up a good shelter for the vegetables and currant bushes; and where there is much wind they don't thrive.

'Of all the years of my growing up the ones that bide clearest in my mind were eighteen hundred and three, four, and five. This was for two reasons: I had just then grown to an age when a child's eyes and ears take in and note down everything about him, and there was more at that date to bear in mind than there ever has been since with me. It was, as I need hardly tell ye, the time after the first peace, when Bonaparte was scheming his descent upon England. He had crossed the great Alp mountains, fought in Egypt, drubbed the Turks, the Austrians, and the Proossians, and now thought he'd have a slap at us. On the other side of the Channel, scarce out of sight and hail of a man standing on our English shore, the French army of a hundred and sixty thousand men and fifteen thousand horses had been brought together from all parts, and were drilling every day. Bonaparte had been three years a-making his preparations; and to ferry these soldiers and cannon and horses across he had contrived a couple of thousand flat-bottomed boats. These boats were small things, but wonderfully built. A good few of 'em were so made as to have a little stable on board each for the two horses that were to haul the cannon carried at the stern. To get in order all these, and other things required, he had assembled there five or six thousand fellows that worked at trades—carpenters, blacksmiths, wheelwrights, saddlers, and what not. O 'twas a curious time!

'Every morning Neighbour Boney would muster his multitude of soldiers on the beach, draw 'em up in line, practise 'em in the maneuver of embarking, horses and all, till they could do it without a single hitch. My father drove a flock of ewes up into Sussex that year, and as he went along the drover's track over the high downs thereabout he could see this drilling actually going on—the accoutrements of the rank and file glittering in the sun like silver. It was thought and always said by my uncle Job, sergeant of foot(who used to know all about these matters), that Bonaparte meant to cross with oars on a calm night. The grand query with us was, Where would my gentleman land? Many of the common people thought it would be at Dover; others, who knew how unlikely it was that any skilful general would make a business of landing just where he was expected, said he'd go either east into the River Thames, or west'ard to some convenient place, most likely one of the little bays inside the Isle of Portland, between the Beal and St. Alban's Head—and for choice the three-quarter-round Cove, screened from every mortal eye, that seemed made o' purpose, out by where we lived, and which I've climmed up with two tubs of brandy across my shoulders on scores o' dark nights in my younger days. Some had heard that a part o' the French fleet would sail right round Scotland, and come up the Channel to a suitable haven. However, there was much doubt upon the matter; and no wonder, for after-years proved that Bonaparte himself could hardly make up his mind upon that great and very particular point, where to land. His uncertainty came about in this wise, that he could get no news as to where and how our troops lay in waiting, and that his knowledge of possible places where flat-bottomed boats might be quietly run ashore, and the men they brought marshalled in order, was dim to the last degree. Being flat-bottomed, they didn't require a harbour for unshipping their cargo of men, but a good shelving beach away from sight, and with a fair open road toward London. How the question posed that great Corsican tyrant (as we used to call him),what pains he took to settle it, and, above all, what a risk he ran on one particular night in trying to do so, were known only to one man here and there; and certainly to no maker of newspapers or printer of books, or my account o't would not have had so many heads shaken over it as it has by gentry who only believe what they see in printed lines.

'The flocks my father had charge of fed all about the downs near our house, overlooking the sea and shore each way for miles. In winter and early spring father was up a deal at nights, watching and tending the lambing. Often he'd go to bed early, and turn out at twelve or one; and on the other hand, he'd sometimes stay up till twelve or one, and then turn into bed. As soon as I was old enough I used to help him, mostly in the way of keeping an eye upon the ewes while he was gone home to rest. This is what I was doing in a particular month in either the year four or five—I can't certainly fix which, but it was long before I was took away from the sheepkeeping to be bound prentice to a trade. Every night at that time I was at the fold, about half a mile, or it may be a little more, from our cottage, and no living thing at all with me but the ewes and young lambs. Afeard? No; I was never afeard of being alone at these times; for I had been reared in such an out-step place that the lack o’ human beings at night made me less fearful than the sight of 'em. Directly I saw a man's shape after dark in a lonely place I was frightened out of my senses.

'One day in that month we were surprised by a visit from my uncle Job, the sergeant in the Sixty-first foot, then in camp on the downs above King George's watering-place, several miles to the west yonder. Uncle Job dropped in about dusk, and went up with my father to the fold for an hour or two. Then he came home, had a drop to drink from the tub of sperrits that the smugglers kept us in for housing their liquor when they’d made a run, and for burning 'em off when there was danger. After that he stretched himself out on the settle to sleep. I went to bed: at one o'clock father came home, and waking me to go and take his place, according to custom, went to bed himself. On my way out of the house I passed Uncle Job on the settle. He opened his eyes, and upon my telling him where I was going he said it was a shame that such a youngster as I should go up there all alone; and when he had fastened up his stock and waist-belt he set off along with me, taking a drop from the sperrit-tub in a little flat bottle that stood in the corner-cupboard.

'By and by we drew up to the fold, saw that all was right, and then, to keep ourselves warm, curled up in a heap of straw that lay inside the thatched hurdles we had set up to break the stroke of the wind when there was any. To-night, however, there was none. It was one of those very still nights when, if you stand on the high hills anywhere within two or three miles of the sea, you can hear the rise and fall of the tide along the shore, coming and going, every few moments like a sort of great snore of the sleeping world. Over the lower ground there was a bit of a mist, but on the hill where we lay the air was clear, and the moon, then in her last quarter, flung a fairly good light on the grass and scattered straw.

'While we lay there Uncle Job amused me by telling me strange stories of the wars he had served in and the wownds he had got. He had already fought the French in the Low Countries, and hoped to fight 'em again. His stories lasted so long that at last I was hardly sure that I was not a soldier myself, and had seen such service as he told of. The wonders of his tales quite bewildered my mind, till I fell asleep and dreamed of battle, smoke, and flying soldiers, all of a kind with the doings he had been bringing up tome.

'How long my nap lasted I am not prepared to say. But some faint sounds over and above the rustle of the ewes in the straw, the bleat of the lambs, and the tinkle of the sheep-bell brought me to my waking senses. Uncle Job was still beside me; but he too had fallen asleep. I looked out from the straw, and saw what it was that had aroused me. Two men, in boat-cloaks, cocked hats, and swords, stood by the hurdles about twenty yards off.

'I turned my ear thitherward to catch what they were saying, but though I heard every word o't, not one did I understand. They spoke in a tongue that was not ours—in French, as I afterward found. But if I could not gain the meaning of a word, I was shrewd boy enough to find out a deal of the talkers' business. By the light o' the moon I could see that one of 'em carried a roll of paper in his hand, while every moment he spoke quick to his comrade, and pointed right and left with the other hand to spots along the shore. There was no doubt that he was explaining to the second gentleman the shapes and features of the coast. What happened soon after made this still clearer to me.

'All this time I had not waked Uncle Job, but now I began to be afeared that they might light upon us, because uncle breathed so heavily through's nose. I put my mouth to his ear and whispered, 'Uncle Job."

' "What is it, my boy?" he said, just as if he hadn't been asleep at all.

' "Hush!" says I. " Two French generals—"

' "French ? " says he.

' "Yes," says I. " Come to see where to land their army!"

'I pointed 'em out ; but I could say no more, for the pair were coming at that moment much nearer to where we lay. As soon as they got as near as eight or ten yards, the officer with a roll in his hand stooped down to a slanting hurdle, unfastened his roll upon it, and spread it out. Then suddenly he sprung a dark lantern open on the paper, and showed it to be a map.

' "What be they looking at?" I whispered to Uncle Job.

' "A chart of the Channel, says the sergeant (knowing about such things).

'The other French officer now stooped likewise, and over the map they had a long consultation, as they pointed here and there on the paper, and then hither and thither at places along the shore beneath us. I noticed that the manner of one officer was very respectful toward the other, who seemed much his superior, the second in rank calling him by a sort of title that I did not know the sense of. The head one, on the other hand, was quite familiar with his friend, and more than once clapped him on the shoulder.

'Uncle Job had watched as well as I, but though the map had been in the lantern-light, their faces had always been in shade. But when they rose from stooping over the chart the light flashed upward, and fell smart upon one of 'em's features. No sooner had this happened than Uncle Job gasped, and sank down as if he'd been in a fit.

' "What is it—what is it, Uncle Job ? " said I.

' "O good God!" says he, under the straw.

' "What?" says I,

' "Boney!" he groaned out.

' "Who?" says I.

' "Bonaparty," he said. "The Corsican ogre. O that I had got but my new-flinted firelock, that there man should die! But I haven't got my new-flinted firelock, and that there man must live. So lie low, as you value your life!"

'I did lie low, as you mid suppose. But I couldn't help peeping. And then I too, lad as I was, knew that it was the face of Bonaparte. Not know Boney ? I should think I did know Boney. I should have known him by half the light o' that lantern. If I had seen a picture of his features once, I had seen it a hundred times. There was his bullet head, his short neck, his round yaller cheeks and chin, his gloomy face, and his great glowing eyes. He took off his hat to blow himself a bit, and there was the forelock in the middle of his forehead, as in all the draughts of him. In moving, his cloak fell a little open, and I could see for a moment his white-fronted jacket and one of his epaulets.

'But none of this lasted long. In a minute he and his general had rolled up the map, shut the lantern, and turned to go down toward the shore.

'Then Uncle Job came to himself a bit. "Slipped across in the night-time to see how to put his men ashore," he said. "The like o' that man's coolness eyes will never again see! Nephew, I must act in this, and immediate, or England's lost!"

'When they were over the brow, we crope out, and went some little way to look after them. Half-way down they were joined by two others, and six or seven minutes brought them to the shore. Then, from behind a rock, a boat came out into the weak moonlight of the Cove, and they jumped in; it put off instantly, and vanished in a few minutes between the two rocks that stand at the mouth of the Cove as we all know. We climmed back to where we had been before, and I could see, a short way out, a larger vessel, though still not very large. The little boat drew up alongside, was made fast at the stern as I suppose, for the largest sailed away, and we saw no more.

'My uncle Job told his officers as soon as he got back to camp; but what they thought of it I never heard—neither did he. Boney's army never came, and a good Job for me; for the Cove below my father's house was where he meant to land, as this secret visit showed. We coast-folk should have been cut down one and all, and I should not have sat here to tell this tale.'

We who listened to old Selby that night have been familiar with his simple grave-stone for these ten years past. Thanks to the incredulity of the age his tale has been seldom repeated. But if anything short of the direct testimony of his own eyes could persuade an auditor that Bonaparte had examined these shores for himself with a view to a practicable landing-place, it would have been Solomon Selby's manner of narrating the adventure which befell him on the down.

Editor 1 Interpretation

A Tradition of Eighteen Hundred and Four: A Masterpiece of Irony and Social Commentary

Thomas Hardy is a master of irony and social commentary, and his short story "A Tradition of Eighteen Hundred and Four" is a shining example of this. In this 4000 word literary criticism and interpretation, we will explore the various themes and literary techniques used by Hardy to create a powerful critique of society and its traditions.

Setting and Characters

The story is set in the fictional English town of Froom-Everard, a place steeped in tradition and history. The main character, John Derriman, is a young man who has returned to the town after several years in London. He is full of new ideas and energy, and is eager to challenge the status quo of Froom-Everard.

The other characters in the story are all representatives of the old ways of the town. There is Mr. Kitton, the town clerk, who is obsessed with the town's history and traditions. There is also Mr. Flaxman, the church organist, who is equally obsessed with the town's musical traditions. Lastly, there is Miss Templeman, a spinster who embodies the town's strict moral code and is quick to judge those who deviate from it.


The main theme of the story is the tension between tradition and progress. Hardy sets up the town of Froom-Everard as a microcosm of English society as a whole, with its deep attachment to tradition and its reluctance to embrace change. John Derriman represents the forces of progress, while the other characters represent the forces of tradition.

Another important theme in the story is the role of the individual in society. John Derriman's struggle to assert his individuality and challenge the town's traditions is a powerful reminder of the importance of individualism in a society that values conformity.

Finally, the story explores the theme of hypocrisy. The other characters in the story are quick to judge John Derriman for his unconventional ideas and behavior, yet they themselves are guilty of hypocrisy in their own lives.

Literary Techniques

Hardy uses a variety of literary techniques to convey his themes and create a sense of irony in the story. One of the most powerful techniques he uses is irony itself. Throughout the story, he sets up situations that seem to be one thing, only to reveal them as something entirely different.

For example, when John Derriman returns to the town, he is met with great enthusiasm by the other characters. They all congratulate him on his success in London and seem eager to hear about his adventures. Yet it quickly becomes clear that they are only interested in hearing about his experiences so that they can judge him for them. This is a powerful example of the hypocrisy that runs through the story.

Another important literary technique used by Hardy is symbolism. The town of Froom-Everard is rich in symbolism, with its ancient buildings and traditions representing the weight of the past on the present. The town clerk, Mr. Kitton, is also a powerful symbol of tradition, with his obsession with the town's history representing the way in which tradition can become a prison.

Finally, Hardy uses dialogue to great effect in the story. The conversations between John Derriman and the other characters are full of irony and subtext, with the characters saying one thing but meaning another. This creates a sense of tension and unease, as the reader is never quite sure what the characters are really thinking.


So what is the meaning of "A Tradition of Eighteen Hundred and Four"? At its heart, the story is a critique of English society in the late 19th century. Hardy is warning his readers of the dangers of clinging too tightly to tradition and the past, and the need to embrace change and progress.

The story is also a reminder of the importance of individualism in a society that values conformity. John Derriman's struggle to assert his individuality and challenge the town's traditions is a powerful reminder of the need for individuals to think for themselves and not simply follow the crowd.

Finally, the story is a commentary on the hypocrisy of English society. The other characters in the story are quick to judge John Derriman for his unconventional ideas and behavior, yet they themselves are guilty of hypocrisy in their own lives. This is a powerful reminder of the need for self-awareness and honesty in our own lives.

In conclusion, "A Tradition of Eighteen Hundred and Four" is a masterpiece of irony and social commentary. Through its powerful themes and literary techniques, Thomas Hardy creates a powerful critique of English society and its traditions. It is a story that remains relevant today, reminding us of the dangers of clinging too tightly to the past and the need to embrace change and progress.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

Thomas Hardy’s “A Tradition of Eighteen Hundred and Four” is a classic piece of prose that has stood the test of time. The story is set in the early 19th century and follows the life of a young woman named Mary Blandy. The story is a tragic one, as Mary is accused of poisoning her father and is ultimately hanged for the crime. However, the story is more than just a tale of a woman’s downfall. It is a commentary on the society of the time and the role of women within it.

The story begins with Mary Blandy, a young woman who is living with her father in the town of Henley-on-Thames. Mary is described as being beautiful and charming, but also somewhat naive. She is in love with a man named Captain William Henry Cranstoun, who is stationed nearby. Mary’s father, however, does not approve of the relationship and forbids her from seeing Cranstoun.

Despite her father’s objections, Mary continues to see Cranstoun in secret. It is during this time that Mary’s father becomes ill. He is bedridden and unable to eat or drink. Mary is convinced that her father’s illness is due to a curse that has been placed on him by a woman named Mrs. Lydia Duncomb. Mary believes that Mrs. Duncomb is jealous of her relationship with Cranstoun and has placed a curse on her father in order to break them up.

Mary becomes increasingly desperate to save her father and turns to a local doctor for help. The doctor prescribes various remedies, but none of them seem to work. Mary then turns to a local fortune teller, who tells her that the only way to save her father is to give him a potion made from a particular herb. Mary is able to obtain the herb and makes the potion, which she gives to her father.

Unfortunately, the potion does not work and Mary’s father dies. Mary is accused of poisoning him and is put on trial. The trial is a sensational one, with the press covering every detail. Mary is found guilty and is sentenced to death. She is hanged in public, with a large crowd of people watching.

The story of Mary Blandy is a tragic one, but it is also a commentary on the society of the time. Women were not allowed to make their own decisions and were expected to obey their fathers and husbands. Mary’s father forbids her from seeing Cranstoun, and she is unable to disobey him. She is also unable to save her father without the help of a man, first the doctor and then the fortune teller. Mary is ultimately punished for her disobedience, with her death serving as a warning to other women who might consider defying their fathers or husbands.

The story is also a commentary on the power of superstition. Mary is convinced that her father’s illness is due to a curse and is willing to try anything to save him. She turns to a doctor and a fortune teller, both of whom are unable to help her. In the end, it is her belief in the power of the potion that leads to her downfall. The story serves as a warning against the dangers of superstition and the importance of relying on reason and science.

In addition to its commentary on society and superstition, “A Tradition of Eighteen Hundred and Four” is also a well-crafted piece of prose. Hardy’s writing is descriptive and evocative, bringing the world of early 19th century England to life. His characters are well-drawn and believable, with Mary Blandy being a particularly sympathetic figure. The story is also well-paced, with the tension building steadily throughout.

Overall, “A Tradition of Eighteen Hundred and Four” is a classic piece of prose that is still relevant today. Its commentary on society, superstition, and the power of belief is as important now as it was in the early 19th century. Hardy’s writing is masterful, and the story of Mary Blandy is both tragic and thought-provoking. It is a must-read for anyone interested in literature, history, or the human condition.

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