The value of state paternalism gets inverted beyond a point—but what exactly is that point?

Subscribe to enjoy similar stories.In 1604, James I of England anonymously published a small book titled A Counterblaste to Tobacco. He called smoking “a custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmful to the brain, dangerous to the lungs, and in the black stinking fume thereof, nearest resembling the horrible Stygian smoke of the pit that is bottomless.” Within a year, he had raised the import duty on tobacco by 4,000%. The duty did not work.

Smoking spread from court to coffeehouses. Four centuries later, his constitutional descendants have decided to finish the job he started. The Tobacco and Vapes Bill, passed by the British Parliament earlier this month, prohibits the sale of tobacco to anyone born on or after 1 January 2009.

This cohort moves with time. In 2050, when those children are 41, a shopkeeper selling them a cigarette will be deemed a criminal. Their 42-year-old neighbours, born a fortnight before the cutoff, will face no such restriction.

Whatever else this is, it is among the most ambitious experiments in cohort paternalism ever attempted in a liberal democracy. For Indians, this is not a distant quarrel. Article 47 of India’s Constitution instructs the state to “endeavour to bring about prohibition” of intoxicating drinks.

The Cinematograph Act of 1952 empowers a board not merely to certify films but censor them. The Food Safety and Standards Authority does more than demand disclosures, it forbids certain products. The Reserve Bank tells you what you may invest in abroad and up to what limit.

The state’s instinct, here as in the UK, is that citizens require guidance, and where that fails, legal restraints. That some paternalism is justified isn’t in doubt. John Stuart Mill, who is everyone’s