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 verandah 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 pavillions; 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 passengers, but its green
side was dotted with the camps of travelling families: one
cumbered with a great waggonful of household stuff, settlers going
to occupy a ranche they had taken up in Mendocino, or perhaps
Tehama County; another, a party in dust coats, men and women, whom
we found camped in a grove on the roadside, all on pleasure bent,
with a Chinaman to cook for them, and who waved their hands to us