a very remote period of the world’s history, is not so black as he is sometimes painted.  Let us keep good-natured, at least, in this discussion; for we propose to settle it without taking off the gloves, as we intimated in the opening paragraph.  Your patience will be much needed for the sad army of facts and figures which is to follow.  Therefore it is but just that you should speak now, after these long sentences.

Your George will never smoke?  Excuse me. When he will smoke depends upon the precocity of his individual generation; and that increases in a direct ratio with time itself, in this country.  Thus, to state the matter in an approximate inverse arithmetical progression, and dating the birth of “young America” about the year 1825,—­previously to which reigned the dark ages of oldfogydom, so called,—­we find as follows:  —­From 1825 to 1835, young gentlemen learned to smoke when from 25 to 20 years of age; from 1835 to 1845, young gents, ditto, ditto, from 20 to 15 years; 1845 to 1855, from 15 to 10; 1855 to 1865, 10 to 5; 1865 to 1875, 5 to 0; and, if we continue, 1875 to 1885, zero to minus:  but really the question is becoming too nebulous. Corollary.  In about ten years, the youth of the United States will smoke contemporaneously with the infant Burmese, who, we are credibly informed, begin the habit aet. 3, or as soon as they have cut enough teeth to hold a cigar.

Therefore, we will say, Madam, at some indefinite period of his childhood or youth,—­for we would not be so impolite as to infer your age by asking that of your son,—­the susdit George will come home late from play some afternoon, languid, pale, and disinclined for tea.  He will indignantly repel the accusation of feeling ill, and there will lurk about his person an indescribable odor of stale cinnamon, which you will be at a loss to account for, but which his elder brother will recognize as the natural result of smoking “cinnamon cigars,” wherewith certain wicked tobacconists of this city tempt curious youth.  If you follow him to his chamber, you will probably discover more damning evidence of his guilt.

We will draw the curtain over the scene of the Spartan mother—­we hope you belong to that nearly extinct class—­which is to follow.  Let us suppose all differences settled, the habit ostensibly given up, and your darling, grown more honest or more artful,—­the result is the same to your blissful ignorance,—­studiously pursuing his way until he enters college.  Some fine day you drive over to the neighboring university, and, entering his room unannounced, you find him coloring his first (factitious) meerschaum!—­also a sad deficiency in his wardrobe of half-worn clothes. C’est une pipe qui coute cher a culotter, the college meerschaum,—­and in more ways than one, according to the “Autocrat":—­“I do not advise you, young man, to consecrate the flower of your life to painting the bowl of a pipe,” et seq.  More bold, the Sophomore will smoke openly at home; and by the end of the third vacation, it is one of those unyielding faits accomplis against which reformers, household or peripatetic, beat their heads in vain.