The South Falls Again.

Which of course is the real story here. Most of the commemorative pieces about the end of the 'bacca-boards have concentrated on the artistic loss; yet there is much more afoot than that. As those of us with deep southern roots recognize, this crusade constitutes not only a full-blown act of cultural aggression-yet another blow to the heart of the South's once-distinct culture-but a philosophical coup d'etat that should disturb every rational person left in America.

Let us first consider the cultural-aggression issue. As every southern ethnic knows, tobacco is more southern even than grits. You can grow potatoes in Virginia, but you can't grow tobacco, or at least good tobacco, in Idaho or Maine. Not surprisingly, we have taken great pride in our Noble Weed. I recall as a child gazing up at the great smoke-ring-blowing billboard in New York and thinking: These people up here need us, and they know it.

But the regional identification goes much deeper than that. Tobacco smoking is the perfect embodiment of our philosophy of life-one in which pleasure walks hand in hand with death. Smoking is not our only contribution to this philosophical school, to be sure. There is also moonshine drinking, NASCAR racing, snake handling, and large family dinners, which often include a round of mutual pistol whipping prior to the serving of dessert. But tobacco smoking best reflects our delight in dancing with death because this particular dance can take many decades to complete, and as most people know we fully appreciate the virtues of taking one's time.

During the long waltz, partakers (as opposed to "addicts," a fiercely judgmental designation) can contemplate smoking's simple and profound core teaching: Life is transitory, and we are foolish to fear the Grim Reaper. To the contrary, the best way to proceed through life is by routinely rubbing shoulders with the Old Boy. This is why we could never think of the Marlboro Man as a mere marketplace peddler. Both he and the cheerful Camel are indeed prophets.

As befitting prophets, these two are now quite unwelcome in their own land. Their sensible and practical philosophy is under constant bombardment from men and women preaching a foolish creed, one clearly based on a deep and unconquerable fear of death. We know their beliefs all too well: Those who eat light, exercise right, and avoid tobacco, alcohol, and firearms, can live indefinitely. There is no questioning the chronic nature of this societal disease. Not long ago, when a person so disposed warned that cigarettes could kill you, we responded that if they didn't, something else would, which typically elicited a grudging assent. Now, that indisputable point is considered something close to a lie.

We southerners (I speak of true southerners, not scalawag trial lawyers and government officials) assume that the popularity of this fearful alien philosophy reflects a decline in traditional religious faith, which cautions against fretting over one's assured demise. We find no joy in pointing this out, for our adversaries are much to be pitied. Philosophically speaking, they have booked themselves on a train heading for a cliff, beyond which lies a yawning abyss. That is bad enough. But to make matters worse, they have determined to make this hopeless journey in a train where there is no smoking, no drinking, no scrapple, and no eggs. As self-flagellation goes, this is pretty hard to beat.

By contrast, when the southerner arrives at his eternal destination, wherever that may be, his first questions will concern whether the kegs have been tapped and if his old hunting dog is hereabouts. Until then, however, we do worry that our children will take on the alien philosophy, which will spoil their mental well-being, and ours as well. For one thing, we do not want them to suffer the night sweats every time they eat an eclair, sip a julep, bathe in the sun, or fire up a stogie.

We are saved only by our hope in Divine Providence, and by our ability to see the good in the bad. The new crackdown may indicate a growing consensus that youth really are influenced by media messages. To be sure, billboards had nothing to do with inspiring many older southerners to smoke, as we took up the habit before we learned to read. But it has been an article of enlightenment that a child can, for example, sit home reading bomb-making manuals and listening to Marilyn Manson without picking up anti-social ideas. Admitting otherwise-and the sort of censorship that took down the billboards is clearly such an admission-is in the service of truth.

Nor are we southerners immune to recognizing that the setback has been somewhat balanced by more sanguine cultural developments. Yes, in the days of our youth we could never have foreseen the war on smokes. At the same time, we would have been similarly incapable of imagining the day when a student could go to the school nurse and get a pack of rubbers ("condom" was not then in usage). In fact, as miracles go, the latter may be the greater of the two.

We are left with the prospect that some of our children will enjoy all that easy sex members of our generation were supposed to have experienced, but which seems to have eluded most of us. We can only hope that at the completion of relations, our dear ones do not suggest lighting up and have the hell smacked out of them.