By this time the fact of the great actor-author's departure for America, taking with him a select troupe for the purpose of playing certain of his own pieces, had been heralded in the newspapers, and had created as much excitement as even he could have wished. Most of the journals congratulated Mr. Duval on the engagement, and the Americans on the fact that they were about to renew their acquaintance with that distinguished combination of literature and art, who would add fresh laurels to the wreath which had already adorned his brows, and from this they proceeded in a tone of patronage towards the Western hemisphere generally, telling it how thankful it ought to be in having such a school of talent as England to draw upon for its artists. Some of the other journals, however, the conductors or writers of which had a personal pique against Mr. Duval, did not think so strongly on the matter. They averred, roundly enough, that the autumn was the usual time for English actors to go out to America, and not the spring; and that probably the reason which induced Mr. Duval to take his departure from his native country at the present time was that he was entirely played out and used up there, and he hoped to recoup himself by repeating his previous success in America, an expectation which would be undoubtedly disappointed. Mr. Duval read these various reports with equal delight. He liked being praised; but he did not in the least mind being found fault with. 'I like to see 'em pitch in,' he would say, slowly rubbing his hands together, with a broad grin, such as those who had only seen him in his melo-dramatic parts on the stage, could never believe him capable of giving. 'I like to see them pitch in; it shows their interest in me. I would sooner that they would write about me with bradawls dipped in vitriol, rather than that they should say nothing. This,' touching one of the journals before him, 'is Cosby's doing. Cosby is a stupid ass. I have told him so in print and by word of mouth many a time and oft. I have dropped down hot and heavy upon Cosby frequently, and he don't forgive that. When my _Varco the Vampire_ was produced at the Parthenon, Cosby's original comedy of _Gold and Gloom_ (taken from a play of Maquet and Dumas, produced at the Porte St. Martin in '52--I have it there in the bookcase, and can show it to you) was brought out at the Gravity. _Varco_ ran for one hundred and fifty nights, when I stopped it myself, as I wanted a little chamois shooting in Styria, and _Gold and Gloom_ fizzled out in a fortnight. Cosby didn't like that--he don't like the notion that my _Pickwick's Progress_ is about to be produced at the Gravity, which he looks upon somewhat as his own theatre; he don't like, what he knows to be the fact, that I have a splendid engagement with Van Buren in New York, and so he writes these lies about me, thinking to rile me and to draw me out. No good, dear Cosby; no good, dear boy.