"_Example is better than precept!_"--is the constant plea, the invariable subterfuge, of those who do not want to follow good counsel. Be the counsel ever so sage--be the propriety and expediency of following it ever so manifest--if it perchance do not square to a T with the adviser's own practice, he is twitted with this sapient apothegm; and the advised party wends his way of folly as completely self-satisfied, as if he had demonstrated it to be the way of wisdom by an argument clearly pertinent, and mathematically unanswerable. Yet how is his argument more to the purpose--how is he more rational--than if he should refuse to take a road pointed out by a sign-board, because the board itself did not run along before him? May I not correctly show to others a way, which it is not convenient or agreeable for me to travel myself? I could fill a book with the instances I have known, of people who have deluded themselves to their own hurt, by relying upon this same proverb. For years, I have been a little given to drinking: not to excess, 'tis true--but more than is good for me. A sprightly younker, whose thirst appeared likely to become inordinate, being counselled by me to abstain altogether from strong waters, as the only sure resource of those afflicted with that propensity--told me, "_example was better than precept,_" and refused to heed the one, because he could not have the other also. He has since died a sot. The last three years of his existence were, to his wife, years of shame, terror, and misery, from which widowhood and the poor-house were a welcome refuge. His children are schooled and maintained by the parish. My appetite is better than ordinary. It is, in truth, too much indulged, and not a few head-aches and nightmares have been the consequence. Venturing once, on the score of my woful experience, to admonish a young friend whom I saw entering the habit in which I was confirmed, he confuted me with the accustomed logical reply--"_example,_" and so forth. Seven years afterwards saw him tottering on the grave's brink, with an incurable _dyspepsia_, the fruit of gluttony, and of gluttony's usual attendant, indolence. When a boy, I was a famous _climber_. Perched in a cherry tree one day, I saw a lad, clumsier than I was, going far out upon a slender branch. I cautioned him that it would break. "Didn't I see you on it just now?" said he: "and there you are now, further out on a smaller limb! _Example's better_"--but before he could end the saying, his bough snapped, and he fell twenty feet, breaking a leg and dislocating a shoulder by the fall.