The gay and graceful Woodward was a contemporary of Ryan’s; and though he was not originally a tailor, he was a pupil of “Merchant Tailors’,” and, if I mistake not, head scholar there in his youth. One good consequence resulting therefrom was, that Woodward never had a benefit without active and liberal patronage on the part of that establishment, which felt itself honoured at ranking so distinguished an actor among its celebrities; and distinguished indeed was Harry Woodward. Since his time the part of Bobadil has never been justly represented; it may be said to have died with him. At a period when correct costume was not cared for, he was ever careful regarding the proprieties of dress; and, more fortunate than Ryan, he sustained the assaults of Time without letting the consequent ravages be seen. Charles Mathews is, in many respects, exactly what Woodward is said to have been; but Woodward could play a far wider range of characters. His scamps were perfect for their cool impudence; his modern fops, for their brazen impertinence; his fops of earlier days, for their elegant rascality; his every-day simpletons, for their vulgar stolidity; his mock-brave heroes, for their stupendous but ever-suspected courage; and his Shakspearian light characters, for their truly Shakspearian spirit. He was gracefully shaped, and bore a serious dignity of countenance, but he was no sooner before the foot-lights than a ripple of funny emotion seemed to roll over his face; and this, with the tones of a capital stage voice, never failed to arouse a laughter which was inextinguishable until the green curtain separated the old pupil of Merchant Tailors’ from his ecstatic audience. The younger Rich used, like Foote, to ridicule actors who had abandoned other professions for the stage, and generally on the ground of their ignorance. But neither Ryan the actual tailor, nor Woodward the “Merchant Tailor,” ever exhibited so much ignorance as Rich and Foote themselves. Rich always confounded the words _turbot_ and _turban_; and he was once heard to insist upon the necessity of “laying the _empharsis_ on the _adjutant_.” Foote had more wit than Rich, but not more wisdom. “I almost forget my own name,” said the latter, by way of apology for calling Foote by no other appellation than “Mr.” “Well,” remarked Foote, “I knew you couldn’t write your name, but I didn’t suppose you could forget it.” The latter displayed his own ignorance when he laughed at the idea of a ghost taking a corporal oath. He forgot that such an oath was so called because it was taken on the _corporale_, or cloth which covers the elements in the Sacrament. But even tailors on the stage would be nothing if the poets did not write for them; and here is a poet-tailor to our hand, doing honour to two crafts. PAUL WHITEHEAD, THE POET TAILOR.