her putting him inside Mons Meg, and that touched me home; and we
exchanged a word or two of Scotch, which pleased me more than you would
fancy.

Mr. Schram's, on the other hand, is the oldest vineyard in the valley,
eighteen years old, I think; yet he began a penniless barber, and even
after he had broken ground up here with his black malvoisies, continued
for long to tramp the valley with his razor. Now, his place is the
picture of prosperity: stuffed birds in the veranda, cellars far dug
into the hillside, and resting on pillars like a bandit's cave:--all
trimness, varnish, flowers, and sunshine, among the tangled wildwood.
Stout, smiling Mrs. Schram, who has been to Europe and apparently all
about the States for pleasure, entertaining Fanny in the veranda, while
I was tasting wines in the cellar. To Mr. Schram this was a solemn
office; his serious gusto warmed my heart; prosperity had not yet wholly
banished a certain neophite and girlish trepidation, and he followed
every sip and read my face with proud anxiety. I tasted all. I tasted
every variety and shade of Schramberger, red and white Schramberger,
Burgundy Schramberger, Schramberger Hock, Schramberger Golden Chasselas,
the latter with a notable bouquet, and I fear to think how many more.
Much of it goes to London--most, I think; and Mr. Schram has a great
notion of the English taste.

In this wild spot, I did not feel the sacredness of ancient cultivation.
It was still raw, it was no Marathon, and no Johannisberg; yet the
stirring sunlight, and the growing vines, and the vats and bottles in
the cavern, made a pleasant music for the mind. Here, also, earth's
cream was being skimmed and garnered; and the London customers can
taste, such as it is, the tang of the earth in this green valley. So
local, so quintessential is a wine, that it seems the very birds in the
veranda might communicate a flavour, and that romantic cellar influence
the bottle next to be uncorked in Pimlico, and the smile of jolly Mr.
Schram might mantle in the glass.

But these are but experiments. All things in this new land are moving
farther on: the wine-vats and the miner's blasting tools but picket for
a night, like Bedouin pavilions; and to-morrow, to fresh woods! This
stir of change and these perpetual echoes of the moving footfall, haunt
the land. Men move eternally, still chasing Fortune; and, fortune found,
still wander. As we drove back to Calistoga, the road lay empty of mere
pa