is the ubiquitous Macormac-an itinerant showman who attends, I should say, all the fairs and races in Ulster-and that his daughter is, as usual, beside him, maltreating an old mortar-board to the tune of "The Tail o' my Cow." She is really a clever dancer, and the delighted spectators frequently testify their approbation by such zealous exclamations as "Hooh!-go it, my darling!" "Bravo, my honey!" which both performers acknowledge by benign smiles and renewed exertions.

When the jig is finished, and the cap begins to go round, a few of the spendthrifts disappear mysteriously, and those solitary prodigals who are invariably to be seen standing a little apart from such gatherings, pretending to look unconcerned, are to be observed looking another way—of course, in expectation of a friend.

In our rambles we occasionally meet with persons who seem to experience considerable difficulty in maintaining their equilibrium, and who seem, indeed, in doubt whether to lie down, stand up, lean up, or move on.

One of these worthies, immediately after our leaving the scene just described, stops us with

"Hi! a say, misther-(hic)-am sayin' wud it be makin' too free fur to ax ye fur(hic) fur to come in here till a wud trate ye?”

We assure him we are teetotallers, but that-some day again.

"Well, it's orr right-(hic)-it's orr right: no 'fence, a hope?"

"Not at all," is our reply.

"Fur, ye know, I'm the boy cud do it!" -pulling out a fistful of silver, which with difficulty we induce him to replace. "Well, am sayin', boys-(hic)-it's orr right, ye know. When a man gits a wee dhrop (hic) when a man gits a wee dhrop, ye know, he's foolish; but am

but a can bate iver a man in the fair-(hic)—iver a man at or undher eleven stone an' a quarter in the fair the day."

Here he begins to sway backwards and forwards, in a pensive mood; and after a few moments' sage meditation, utters, in a dreamy tone, without looking up, the following sapient reflection

"Well, am sayin', boys-(hic)—am sayin' -I wondher if I'm dhrunk."

Wishing to put his mind at ease on this little matter, we kindly inform him that he can rest assured of it.

"Give us yer han'. Shure it's orr right enough—(hic)—it's orr right enough. There needn't be no more abour't."

We are not desirous of having any more "abour't," so we part from our affectionate friend--not, however, without being called back a few times to hear of the unchanging regard he bears towards us. When at some distance we look back, he is balancing himself on the kerbstone-to all appearances moralising on the vanity of hunian affairs; for he frequently wags his head in a most sad and philosophical manner, as if quite convinced of the truth of the preacher's words.

But now-having, as purposed, taken the reader a hasty run through the fair, and shown him the principal objects of interestI must conclude my sketch. I hope, brief as it necessarily is, that it will give him a tolerably correct notion of an Irish fair, as seen in the prosperous county mentioned at the beginning.

J. R. PLANCHÉ.

THE subject of our cartoon, Mr. J. R.

Planché, Somerset Herald, has recently given to the world a very interesting and amusing book, entitled "Recollections and Reflections." It is a very pleasant autobiography, and with our sketch of Mr. Planché's life we propose to unite a notice of the two volumes that contain his recollections.

Mr. Planche's grandfather was a French refugee, but his parents, both of French stock, were born in London. The author of the "Recollections" made his first appearance on life's stage in Old Burlington-street, on the 27th of February, 1796. He is therefore seventy-six years of age, and is as active in the prosecution of his literary pursuits as ever he was. Besides publishing this year the book under notice, he has furnished the stage with the lyrical parts of "Babil and Bijou," Mr. Boucicault's great show at Covent Garden. Mr. Planche's father was an eminent watchmaker, and attracted the notice of George III., who often chatted with him He tells this in the most familiar manner. characteristic anecdote of that monarch:

One day, going to St. James's with the King's watch, which had been mended, he told the page that the ribbon was rather dirty. The King overheard this, and coming to the door, said

"What is that, Planché?—what is that?" Mr. Planché repeated his remark about the state of the royal ribbon, and suggested

a new one.

"New ribbon, Planché !" said the King. "What for? Can't it be washed?"

This excellent gentleman, having known what it was to be very poor, determined that his son should learn some useful profession or trade. At first, the subject of our notice tried artistic pursuits, but having a very strong development of the cacoëthes scribendi, he chose to be articled to a bookseller. Soon after he turned his attention to playwriting, and became distinguished as an amateur actor of his own characters. early recollections date back to the destruction by fire of both the great national theatres; the Old Prices row at New Covent Garden; the Young Roscius mania; the retirement of John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons; and the appearance of Edmund Kean and Miss O'Niel.

His

In 1818, "Amoroso," a piece of his own, was produced at Drury Lane, and for fifty-four years Mr. Planché has been writing for the stage. In 1820, the "Vampire" was brought out at the Lyceum.

It was three years after this that Mr. Planché began his reform of the costume of the stage: he designed the dresses of "King John," in accordance with the true dresses of the period, gratuitously for John Kemble. On the subject of costume, Mr. Planché is the greatest authority we have. It is a matter to which he has devoted many years of earnest study; and he may be regarded as the originator of correct dressing on the stage. This rehabilitation of the characters in "King John" was thoroughly successful, and, he says, "a complete reformation of dramatic costume became from that moment inevitable on the English stage."

On the subject of old armour, too, Mr. Planché is a great authority; and he more than once arranged the splendid collection of the late Sir Samuel Meyrick, for public exhibition.

While his two handsome volumes are by no means overburdened by reflections, they contain a fund of most interesting recollections. Without following the autobiographer year by year, we may state, in a few words, that it has been the fortune of the amiable and accomplished playwriter and antiquary to know intimately almost all the notabilities

of the stage who have flourished from his youth to the present day; whilst in society he has been everywhere welcome, and has seen and known nearly everybody of social distinction.

His office of Herald has brought him into immediate contact with kings and courts; and his descriptions of courtly scenes, at home and abroad, are not the least interesting portion of his book.

Of course, he has a great store of anecdotes, which he tells in the happiest way; and we select a few at random. We cannot appear to rob such an extensive repertory; and for the rest, if they like these, we refer our readers to the book itself.

Mr. Planche tells a good story of Poole. Dining one day where the host became exceedingly excited and angry at not being able to find any stuffing in a roast leg of pork, Poole quietly suggested

"Perhaps it is in the other leg."

At dinner, on another occasion, a City knight asked

"Who wrote the 'School for Scandal'?” Poole, with perfect sang froid, replied"Miss Chambers, the banker's daughter." "Ah! indeed," said Sir J. “Clever girl! very clever girl!"

Almost directly after, Poole said— "Pray, Sir J——, are you a knight bachelor or a knight errant ?"

"Well, now-I really can't say—I don't think I ever was asked that question. I'll make it a point to inquire."

At a theatre once, Mr. Planché heard one of the "gods" exclaim, during the performance of a wretchedly presented melodrama

"We don't expect no grammar, but you might let the scenes meet!"

On another occasion, a novelty in the shape of a drop-curtain made of lookingglass was advertised and duly produced. There was considerable applause at its appearance. The moment it subsided, a stentorian voice from the gallery shouted out

"That's all werry well! Now show us summut else!"

Mr. Planché observes

"What more cutting commentary could