My friend was one of those wandering Americans you are always sure to light upon abroad, who makes your acquaintance whether you like it or not, and who cries out frantically whenever he sees a foreign flag. "By Gad--Sir, that flag is all good enough in its way--but I _tell you_ it does not come up to our flag of beauty and glory--now I'll put it to you--does it?" A grimy looking cellar man who smelled like an old claret bottle that had long remained uncorked, wearing an apron and carrying a wooden hammer for tapping, came to us and said, politely, on presentation of our orders: "The horders are werry correct, sir. Would you like to try a little old Sherry, sir, fine as a sovrin and sparkling as the sun?" "Well, I don't care if I do take a little sherry--I don't think it will hurt me--do you think it will?" said my friend. He then took about half a pint of fine golden sherry, and after taking it he seemed all at once to discover a new beauty in the architecture of the vaults, although he had condemned the place when he entered it, as a "chilly, stinking hole, not fit for a dog, by Gad, sir." While he was delivering himself most eloquently on the merits of the sherry, I had an opportunity to look about me and examine the place. [Illustration: "I DON'T THINK IT WILL HURT ME."] Different parties were going from cask to cask, from hogshead to hogshead, like my friend, trying each vintage, and tasting brandies, and gins, and wines to their heart's content. [Sidenote: HOISTING AND DISCHARGING CARGOES.] I thought to myself, what a splendid boon these vaults would be to a New York corner loafer, without restriction and with full liberty to drink till he died like a soldier, contending to the last against the enemy which deprives a man of his brains. The attendants here never object to the amount called for, and a tasting permit admits to all the privileges. We were now standing in an arched alcove devoted exclusively to the wines of Madeira, Teneriffe, and the Canary Islands. Some of these huge casks held as many as seven hundred gallons, and the rich, old, musty and fruity odors that came from them were truly revivifying to my friend, who was loquacious under the influence of the sherry. "This ere sexshin is for the Madeery," said the bung starter. "Will you try a little Madeery, sir?" said he. "Well I _don't_ care if I _do_ take a little Madeira--I don't think it will hurt me. Now I put it to you this way--I don't think it will hurt me if I am moderate?" He seemed to relish this heavy and fruity wine very much, and before he left the alcove he had "tasted" a good deal of the Canary also smacking his lips lusciously.