The Prince stands full-length, and, though taller and slimmer than men are, he has shoulders that athletes might envy, and artists search in vain. Your women looking at them, however chaste and sober, however work-a-day, would suddenly grow weak, in admiration of so much strength, moulded in God-like beauty. True, he has walked on Lucifram stunted and dwarfed--a joke, a laughable affair--yet, when they saw him, woman-like they loved him all the more--they being contrary, and having the biggest share, the silent share, in the making of the world. For his dress. To-night he wears the long black cloak--the robe invisible which spirits wear--fastened at either shoulder by three great glowing clasps of ruby-red that shine out danger-signals in the darkness, below the olive face and sculptured neck. And those strong hands, white as marble, firm as death--instinct with the beauty of a great perfection; and then the ruby ring! The powerful talisman that kings and queens have cried for, statesmen too; and he, indulgent master, has given them a little sham affair, to stop their tears and make a seeming happy world, just for appearance’ sake. There is the picture of the great Prince Plucritus, standing at one of Hell’s majestic windows--looking across the Silent Forest--looking on Lucifram. Sheer down below the awful rocks, grey and purple, with the Spirit paths--none other--by which they come and go. Behind him home. Now, Mr Scientist, what shall it be? You wouldn’t feel at home on a golden floor, would you?--A throne’s a trivial, irksome thing. Harps?--Your ears were never exactly cultivated to appreciate a tune. Hallelujah?--Such conversation deadens the finer intellect, and reminds one rather of the braying of an ass--omitting fine distinctions, certainly. No--at home the Prince Plucritus is a simple gentleman, with simple tastes and unchanged fashion. This suite of rooms he dedicates to Lucifram--not neglecting his estates. Here is his study--his own simple, homely room. That chair--he’s sat in it over three thousand years--not bad for household furniture. And that writing-desk was ready there to record in simple language the first effects of conscious sin. “How often used it must have been since then!” think you. Ah yes! and how well it’s stood the test of time! Out there is his experimenting chamber, for you must know he dabbles now and then in science, and he has friends who more than dabble in it. Out there his picture-galleries. All Lucifram’s great works--toned to the understanding of the gods. The pictures bought with souls and heart-blood--no trivial affairs--each in itself a silent history--bearing alike the one inscription “Failure” or “Success”--judged from the understanding of the gods. Through there his library--Lucifram’s library, not his own. These being business quarters. So Publishers, beware! As you send out books, so they go up to Heaven--down to Hell, mean I--silently, without comment or criticism.