The times seemed prosperous with us, but it was only a deceptive gleam of sunshine before the coming storm of adversity.  I built an addition to my dwelling; and when it was completed I employed a paperhanger from London named Taylor, to beautify the old rooms.  He was of a talkative disposition; when he had nobody else to listen he talked to himself, and when he was tired of that he began singing.  The weather was hot, and the heat, together with his talking and singing, made him thirsty; so one day he complained to me that his work was very dry.  I saw at once an opportunity of obtaining an independent and reliable judgment on the quality of my wine; so I went for a bottle, drew the cork, and offered him a tumblerful, telling him it was wine which I had made from my own grapes.  As Taylor was a native of London, the greatest city in the world, he must have had a wide experience in many things, was certain to know the difference between good and bad liquor, and I was anxious to obtain a favourable verdict on my Australian product.  He held up the glass to the light, and eyed the contents critically; then he tasted a small quantity, and paused awhile to feel the effect.  He then took another taste, and remarked, “It’s sourish.”  He put the tumbler to his mouth a third time, and emptied it quickly.  Then he placed one hand on his stomach, said “Oh, my,” and ran away to the water tap outside to rinse his mouth and get rid of the unpleasant flavour.  His verdict was adverse, and very unflattering.

Next day, while I was inspecting his work, he gave me to understand that he felt dry again.  I asked him what he would like, a drink of water or a cup of tea?  He said, “Well, I think I’ll just try another glass of that wine of yours.”  He seemed very irrational in the matter of drink, but I fetched another bottle.  This time he emptied the first tumbler without hesitation, regardless of consequences.  He puckered his lips and curled his nose, and said it was rather sourish; but in hot weather it was not so bad as cold water, and was safer for the stomach.  He then drew the back of his hand across his mouth, looked at the paper which he had been putting on the wall, and said, “I don’t like that pattern a bit; too many crosses on it.”

“Indeed,” I said, “I never observed the crosses before, but I don’t see any harm in them.  Why don’t you like them?”

“Oh, it looks too like the Catholics, don’t you see? too popish.  I hate them crosses.”

“Really,” I replied.  “I am sorry to hear that.  I am a Catholic myself.”

“Oh, lor!  Are you, indeed?  I always thought you were a Scotchman.”

Taylor finished that bottle of wine during the afternoon, and next day he wanted another.  He wanted more every day, until he rose to be a three-bottle man.  He became reconciled to the crosses on the wall-paper, forgave me for not being a Scotchman, and I believe the run of my cellar would have made him a sincere convert to popery—­ as long as the wine lasted.