138 TOBACCO. 



PRESENT OUTLOOK. 



The outlook has not improved since Thoreau's 

 day. On a hot summer's night you invite your 

 guests to sit by the windows and enjoy the cool air. 

 No sooner are you all fairly seated than strolling 

 smokers begin to pass, compelling you to shut out 

 the air which they have poisoned. 



On a Sunday evening, you wander forth to an 

 out-door meeting on the hill-side. Once, twice, and 

 yet again, the near presence of some smoker drives 

 you from your seat. 



You eniraofe a room at some fashionable seaside 

 hotel, — Nantasket, Coney Island, Atlantic City, 

 or any of the popular resorts. Through the open 

 windows, with the fresh breath of Ocean, enters a 

 totally different breath. It pervades the verandah 

 crowded with ladies, filling the wide atmosphere ; 

 "and sometimes," writes a sojourner who had vainly 

 sought an escape, "the finer sex seem to like to 

 have it so." 



You enter a city ferry-boat. If you are a gentle- 

 man and not a smoker, and the ladies' cabin is 

 full, whither shall you betake yourself? Accord- 

 ing to the best of testimony the so-called gentle- 

 men's cabin is not a fit place for a decent man. 

 Says one who had been obliged to occupy it several 

 times, "I have invariably suffered headache or 

 dizziness or nausea after standing in the filth, and 

 breathing the abominable smoke from hundreds of 

 vile cigars and viler pipes." How long will our 



