Mr. JONES is entirely justified in calling _The Deacon_ a "sketch," as it can scarcely claim greater histrionic importance. I think I may take it for granted that a sausage-maker, from the nature of his employment, is usually presumed to be a man not absolutely without guile, and, therefore, _Abraham Boothroyd_, "Wholesale bacon-factor, Mayor of Chipping Padbury on the Wold, and Senior Deacon of Ebenezer Chapel," may perhaps be counted one of those exceptions that are said to prove the rule. According to Mr. JONES, this eccentric individual comes up to town to attend an indignation meeting held with a view to protesting against the conversion of Exeter Hall into a temple of the drama, and after dining with "a _Juliet_ of fifteen years ago," and a new and quaint sort of Barrister, accompanies them to the play, and is so greatly pleased with the performances presented, to him, that, before the curtain falls, he announces his intention of repeating his visit to the theatre every evening until further notice! This may be true to human nature, because there is authority for believing that the said human nature is occasionally a "rum un"; but, without the precedent I have quoted, it is difficult to accept the sudden conversion of _Mr. Boothroyd_ as quite convincing. I could scarcely have believed that Mr. JONES, who has done such excellent work in _Judah_, and _The Middleman_, could have been the author of _The Deacon_, had not his name appeared prominently on the playbill, and had not a rumour reached me that this "comedy sketch" had adorned for years, in MS. form, a corner of some book-shelves. I think, if the rumour is to be believed, that it is almost a pity that there was any interference with that corner--I fancy _The Deacon_ might have rested in peace on the book-shelves indefinitely, without causing serious injury to anyone. But this is a fancy, and only a fancy.
I may add that Mr. WILLARD made the most of the materials provided for him; but whether that most was much or little is, and must remain, a matter of conjecture. On the whole, if I had understood aright what the sad sea waves were evidently attempting to say to me, I think I would not have attended on the 27th of August a London _Matinée_. But this is a thought, and nothing more. Believe me, dear _Mr. Punch_, yours, more in sorrow than in anger,