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?"