Here was a man, at least, who was a Swede, a Scot, and an American, acknowledging some kind allegiance to three lands.  Mr. Wallace’s Scoto-Circassian will not fail to come before the reader.  I have myself met and spoken with a Fifeshire German, whose combination of abominable accents struck me dumb.  But, indeed, I think we all belong to many countries.  And perhaps this habit of much travel, and the engendering of scattered friendships, may prepare the euthanasia of ancient nations.

And the forest itself?  Well, on a tangled, briery hillside—­for the pasture would bear a little further cleaning up, to my eyes—­ there lie scattered thickly various lengths of petrified trunk, such as the one already mentioned.  It is very curious, of course, and ancient enough, if that were all.  Doubtless, the heart of the geologist beats quicker at the sight; but, for my part, I was mightily unmoved.  Sight-seeing is the art of disappointment.

“There’s nothing under heaven so blue,
That’s fairly worth the travelling to.”

But, fortunately, Heaven rewards us with many agreeable prospects and adventures by the way; and sometimes, when we go out to see a petrified forest, prepares a far more delightful curiosity, in the form of Mr. Evans, whom may all prosperity attend throughout a long and green old age.

CHAPTER III—­NAPA WINE

I was interested in Californian wine.  Indeed, I am interested in all wines, and have been all my life, from the raisin wine that a schoolfellow kept secreted in his play-box up to my last discovery, those notable Valtellines, that once 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 poetic countenance, 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.