shone upon the board of Caesar.

Some of us, kind old Pagans, watch with dread the shadows
falling on the age: how the unconquerable worm invades the

sunny terraces of France, and Bordeaux is no more, and the
Rhone a mere Arabia Petraea. Chateau Neuf is dead, and I

have never tasted it; Hermitage - a hermitage indeed from all
life's sorrows - lies expiring by the river. And in the

place of these imperial elixirs, beautiful to every sense,
gem-hued, flower-scented, dream-compellers:- behold upon the

quays at Cette the chemicals arrayed; behold the analyst at
Marseilles, raising hands in obsecration, attesting god

Lyoeus, and the vats staved in, and the dishonest wines
poured forth among the sea. It is not Pan only; Bacchus,

too, is dead.
If wine is to withdraw its most poeticcountenance, the sun

of the white dinner-cloth, a deity to be invoked by two or
three, all fervent, hushing their talk, degusting tenderly,

and storing reminiscences - for a bottle of good wine, like a
good act, shines ever in the retrospect - if wine is to

desert us, go thy ways, old Jack! Now we begin to have
compunctions, and look back at the brave bottles squandered

upon dinner-parties, where the guests drank grossly,
discussing politics the while, and even the schoolboy "took

his whack," like liquorice water. And at the same time, we
look timidly forward, with a spark of hope, to where the new

lands, already weary of producing gold, begin to green with
vineyards. A nice point in human history falls to be decided

by Californian and Australian wines.
Wine in California is still in the experimental stage; and

when you taste a vintage, grave economical questions are
involved. The beginning of vine-planting is like the

beginning of mining for the precious metals: the wine-grower
also "Prospects." One corner of land after another is tried

with one kind of grape after another. This is a failure;
that is better; a third best. So, bit by bit, they grope

about for their Clos Vougeot and Lafite. Those lodes and
pockets of earth, more precious than the precious ores, that

yield inimitable fragrance and soft fire; those virtuous
Bonanzas, where the soil has sublimated under sun and stars

to something finer, and the wine is bottled poetry: these
still lie undiscovered; chaparral conceals, thicket embowers

them; the miner chips the rock and wanders farther, and the
grizzly muses undisturbed. But there they bide their hour,

awaiting their Columbus; and nature nurses and prepares them.
The smack of Californian earth shall linger on the palate of

your grandson.
Meanwhile the wine is merely a good wine; the best that I

have tasted better than a Beaujolais, and not unlike. But
the trade is poor; it lives from hand to mouth, putting its

all into experiments, and forced to sell its vintages. To
find one properly matured, and bearing its own name, is to be

fortune's favourite.
Bearing its own name, I say, and dwell upon the innuendo.

"You want to know why California wine is not drunk in the
States?" a San Francisco wine merchant said to me, after he

had shown me through his premises. "Well, here's the
reason."

And opening a large cupboard, fitted with many little
drawers, he proceeded to shower me all over with a great

variety of gorgeously tinted labels, blue, red, or yellow,
stamped with crown or coronet, and hailing from such a

profusion of CLOS and CHATEAUX, that a single department
could scarce have furnished forth the names. But it was

strange that all looked unfamiliar.
"Chateau X-?" said I. "I never heard of that."

"I dare say not," said he. "I had been reading one of X-'s
novels."

They were all castles in Spain! But that sure enough is the
reason why California wine is not drunk in the States.

Napa valley has been long a seat of the wine-growing
industry. It did not here begin, as it does too often, in

the low valley lands along the river, but took at once to the
rough foot-hills, where alone it can expect to prosper. A

basking inclination, and stones, to be a reservoir of the
day's heat, seem necessary to the soil for wine; the

grossness of the earth must be evaporated, its marrow daily
melted and refined for ages; until at length these clods that

break below our footing, and to the eye appear but common
earth, are truly and to the perceiving mind, a masterpiece of

nature. The dust of Richebourg, which the wind carries away,
what an apotheosis of the dust! Not man himself can seem a

stranger child of that brown, friable powder, than the blood
and sun in that old flask behind the faggots.

A Californian vineyard, one of man's outposts in the
wilderness, has features of its own. There is nothing here

to remind you of the Rhine or Rhone, of the low COTE D'OR, or
the infamous and scabby deserts of Champagne; but all is

green, solitary, covert. We visited two of them, Mr.
Schram's and Mr. M'Eckron's, sharing the same glen.

Some way down the valley below Calistoga, we turned sharply
to the south and plunged into the thick of the wood. A rude

trail rapidly mounting; a little stream tinkling by on the
one hand, big enough perhaps after the rains, but already

yielding up its life; overhead and on all sides a bower of
green and tangled thicket, still fragrant and still flower-

bespangled by the early season, where thimble-berry played
the part of our English hawthorn, and the buck-eyes were

putting forth their twisted horns of blossom: through all
this, we struggled toughly upwards, canted to and fro by the

roughness of the trail, and continually switched across the
face by sprays of leaf or blossom. The last is no great

inconvenience at home; but here in California it is a matter
of some moment. For in all woods and by every wayside there

prospers an abominable shrub or weed, called poison-oak,
whose very neighbourhood is venomous to some, and whose

actual touch is avoided by the most impervious.
The two houses, with their vineyards, stood each in a green

niche of its own in this steep and narrow forest dell.
Though they were so near, there was already a good difference

in level; and Mr. M'Eckron's head must be a long way under
the feet of Mr. Schram. No more had been cleared than was

necessary for cultivation; close around each oasis ran the
tangled wood; the glen enfolds them; there they lie basking

in sun and silence, concealed from all but the clouds and the
mountain birds.

Mr. M'Eckron's is a bachelorestablishment; a little bit of a
wooden house, a small cellar hard by in the hillside, and a

patch of vines planted and tended single-handed by himself.
He had but recently began; his vines were young, his business

young also; but I thought he had the look of the man who
succeeds. He hailed from Greenock: he remembered his father

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 verandah, cellars far dug
into the hillside, and resting on pillars like a bandit's

cave:- all trimness, varnish, flowers, and sunshine, among