In reply to C.'s inquiry (Vol. ii., p. 89.) as to a comic story about
one _Sir Gammer Vans_, I have pleasure in communicating what little
information I have on the subject. Some years ago, when I was quite a
boy, the story was told me by an Irish clergyman, since deceased. He
spoke of it as an old Irish tradition, but did not give his authority
for saying so. The story, as he gave it, contained no allusion to an
"aunt" or "mother." I do not know whether it will be worthy of
publication: but here it is, and you can make what use of it you like:--
"Last Sunday morning at six o'clock in the evening, as I was
sailing over the tops of the mountains in my little boat, I met
two men on horseback riding on one mare: so I asked them 'Could
they tell me whether the little old woman was dead yet, who was
hanged last Saturday week for drowning herself in a shower of
feathers?' They said they could not positively inform me, but if
I went to Sir Gammar Vans he could tell me all about it. 'But
how am I to know the house?' said I. 'Ho, 'tis easy enough,'
said they, 'for it's a brick house, built entirely of flints,
standing alone by itself in the middle of sixty or seventy
others just like it.' 'Oh, nothing in the world is easier,' said
I. 'Nothing _can_ be easier,' said they: so I went on my way.
Now this Sir G. Vans was a giant, and bottlemaker. And as all
giants, who _are_ bottlemakers, usually pop out of a little
thumb bottle from behind the door, so did Sir G. Vans. 'How d'ye
do?' says he. 'Very well, thank you,' says I. 'Have some
breakfast with me?' 'With all my heart,' says I. So he gave me a
slice of beer, and a cup of cold veal; and there was a little
dog under the table that picked up all the crumbs. 'Hang him,'
says I. 'No, don't hang him,' says he; 'for he killed a hare
yesterday. And if you don't believe me, I'll show you the hare
alive in a basket.' So he took me into his garden to show me the
curiosities. In one corner there was a fox hatching eagle's
eggs; in another there was an iron apple tree, entirely covered
with pears and lead; in the third there was the hare which the
dog killed yesterday alive in the basket; and in the fourth
there were twenty-four _hipper switches_ threshing tobacco, and
at the sight of me they threshed so hard that they drove the
plug through the wall, and through a little dog that was passing
by on the other side. I, hearing the dog howl, jumped over the
wall; and turned it as neatly inside out as possible, when it
ran away as if it had not an hour to live. Then he took me into
the park to show me his deer: and I remembered that I had a
warrant in my pocket to shoot venison for his majesty's dinner.
So I set fire to my bow, poised my arrow, and shot amongst them.
I broke seventeen ribs on one side, and twenty-one and a half on
the other: but my arrow passed clean through without ever
touching it, and the worst was I lost my arrow; however, I found
it again in the hollow of a tree. I felt it: it felt clammy. I
smelt it; it smelt honey. 'Oh, ho!' said I, 'here's a bee's
nest,' when out sprung a covey of partridges. I shot at them;
some say I killed eighteen, but I am sure I killed thirty-six,
besides a dead salmon which was flying over the bridge, of which
I made the best apple pie I ever tasted."
Such is the story: I can answer for its general accuracy. I am quite at
sea as to the meaning and orthography of "hipper switches,"--having
heard, not seen, the story.