"My manuscript," he said, writing his name in the mail-book with an unsteady hand. "There's a gulden and twenty-four kreutzers to pay," said the messenger. "So much?" growled Herbert, counting out the money carefully by groschen and kreutzers. When the man had left the room, Herbert hastily tore open the envelope, and a letter appeared, which he hurriedly looked through and handed to his wife with a look of despair. The letter was from the manager of the royal court theatre at X----, and ran thus: "To Herr Professor Herbert, of N----: "I am greatly concerned, sir, to be obliged to return you your tragedy of 'Penthesilea,' as it presents insurmountable difficulties for scenic representation. The secrecy enjoined upon me shall be inviolably preserved. "With great respect, etc., "W----." Frau Herbert looked up with a sigh at her husband, who stood pale and trembling beside her. "There goes my last hope," he said, tearing up the letter. "I forgave all the other managers and directors for sending back the manuscript, for they are incapable of appreciating the value of such a work. But no one can accuse a man like W---- of not appreciating genuine art, and if he refuses to bring it out he must be actuated by envy. However that may be, in these lines he has written his own death-warrant." He raised his hand containing the crushed letter with something like solemnity, and continued: "I now declare war upon the German stage and its supporters. If I have nothing to hope, I have nothing to fear. I have written six tragedies for the waste-paper basket. I will not write another. Having nothing to fear, I may allow myself the delight of revenge. Criticism is an all-embracing friend, affording a sure refuge for every one who is misunderstood and depreciated. I will throw myself into its arms from this moment. Our public is degenerate. I give up composing for a people who crowd to a farce, shout applause at the commonplace jests of the hero of a modern comedy, and dissolve in tears at a sensation drama from a woman's pen. Shakspeare's, Schiller's, and Goethe's works would be rejected to-day as 'pulpit eloquence,' if past ages had not stamped them as classic. This degraded generation must be educated anew by criticism. They sneer and jeer, and jingle the money in their pockets, these traders of the drama, who demoralise the public; but I will so scourge them that I shall be called the Attila of the German stage." He paused, for breath failed him to continue his philippic, and he began to read over his manuscript, murmuring to himself, "This is for the future."