.. sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes
Or Cytherea's breath";
it imparted to the brandy, apparently, a vague, unnameable something
that tickled the palate of the drinker, to the tobacco an extra aroma
that was grateful to the nostrils of those who smoked it. Nay, the very
term "smuggled" raised the standard of those goods in the estimation of
some very honest folk, and caused them to smack their lips in
anticipation. Perhaps this superstition as to the supreme quality of
things smuggled is not even yet wholly dead. Who has not met the hoary
waterside ruffian, who, whispering low,--or at least as low as a throat
rendered husky by much gin _can_ whisper,--intimates that he can put the
"Captain" (he'd promote you to be "Admiral" on the spot if he thought
that thereby he might flatter you into buying) on to the "lay" of some
cigars--"smuggled," he breathes from behind a black and horny paw, whose
condition alone would taint the finest Havanna that ever graced the lips
of king or duke--the like of which may be found in no tobacconist's
establishment in the United Kingdom. There have been young men, greatly
daring, who have been known to traffic with this hoary ruffian, and who
have lived to be sadder and wiser men. Of the flavour of those weeds the
writer cannot speak, but the reek is as the reek which belches from the
Pit of Tophet.
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