dow, and began to pose as the Prince and work his dreams and
languors for exhibition; and he would indolently watch the
blue films curling up from his cigarette, and inhale the stench,
and look so grateful; and would flip the ash away with the
daintiest gesture, unintentionally displaying his brass ring in
the most intentional way; why, it was as good as being in
Marlborough House itself to see him do it so like.
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SO LIKE THE PRINCE.
There was other scenery in the trip. That of the Hawksbury river, in the National Park region fine—extraordinarily fine, with spacious views of stream and lake imposingly framed in woody hills: and every now and then the noblest groupings of mountains, and the most enchanting re-arrangements of the water effects. Further along, green flats, thinly covered with gum forests, with here and there the huts and cabins of small farmers engaged in raising children. Still further along, arid stretches, lifeless and melancholy. Then Newcastle, a rushing town, capital of the rich coal regions. Approaching Scone, wide farming and grazing levels, with pretty frequent glimpses of a troublesome plant—a particularly devilish little prickly pear, daily damned in the orisons of the agriculturist; imported by a lady of sentiment, and contributed gratis to the colony. . . . Blazing hot, all day.
December 20. Back to Sydney. Blazing hot again. From
