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 the tangled wildwood. Stout, smiling Mrs. Schram,
who has been to Europe and apparently all about the States for
pleasure, entertained Fanny in the verandah, 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.
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