king 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