TO BEGINNERS.
Sanguine beginners sometimes fail in their attempts to establish themselves in business; and in many cases are disposed to lay the blame on every thing and on everybody except themselves. So we here give some rules—(in an ironical way, to make them stick in the memory)—
HOW NOT TO SUCCEED.
1. Get from your father, uncle, aunt, grandmother, or somebody, four or five thousand dollars. You need not give notes or any written obligations, as they may prove troublesome some day.
2. Rent a comfortable room somewhere, no matter whether in a business centre or not, but let it be showy and pleasant.
3. Spend one-fourth of your capital in furnishing the room with matters of personal comfort. Provide an elegant desk, a luxurious lounge, and a pivot-chair: why shouldn’t the master of a printing office “take it easy”? Have a closet in your desk, it is so handy for your whisky-bottle and cigar-boxes.
4. Get all you can from the type-founder, press-maker, and paper-manufacturers. If they will give you credit for one-half of what you buy, well and good: if they trust you for the whole amount, all the better for you, and the more money you will have on hand for jollifications.
5. Put up your sign—a handsome one—
B. Sipwell Lovepunch,
Printer.
and signalize its erection by keeping “open house” for all comers between 11 A.M. and midnight. The mothers and wives of all who become tight and go home loose will long remember your public spirit.
6. Be at your office by nine in summer and ten in winter; and, following Charles Lamb’s witticism, that he who goes to work late should quit early, you need not return after dinner. Let your foreman attend to the business: isn’t he paid for it?
7. When you do go into your office, curse and grumble promiscuously, and be sure to swear at the apprentices, to show your spirit, and to let them know that you are master. Be careful never to praise them or any of the hands, or they may think they are worth higher wages.
8. Take work at any price that will keep it from a competitor, no matter whether it pays or not. Perhaps you can save something by giving short numbers, counting in imperfect copies, using very common ink, &c. The style is of no consequence: you want to make money if you can, let others improve the typographical art if they choose.
9. Cultivate the acquaintance of fancy folk, politicians, and wit-livers. A fast horse or two wouldn’t be a bad thing to bind their friendship; and, besides, you will never be at a loss for a companion in your rides.
10. If you want new type, and the founder who made your outfit won’t sell to you unless you pay off the old score, transfer your patronage to another foundry. How can you expect to get along if you pay your debts? Such a course would compel you to sell your horse and to taboo rum-shops and gay saloons, and to live economically; and this, you know, wouldn’t do at all.
11. Get out a newspaper, and advocate the principles of the strongest party, swearing thick and thin through every thing. You need not bother yourself about writing original matter; crib wherever you can. There are plenty of fellows who want office,—lawyers particularly,—and they will write slang enough to fill your columns. You might quietly levy a little black-mail or hush-money from neighbours guilty of indiscretions: dirty money will buy as much as clean.
12. You needn’t marry, unless some fond rich girl should happen to fancy a fool. You know, you need not trouble yourself much about her after you have secured her money: let her father look after her welfare. If she dies broken-hearted, why—she ought not to have been so sensitive.
13. You may be troubled occasionally by a qualm of conscience; but this can be settled by a dram or two. After a few doses, conscience will go to sleep, and trouble you no more, unless you should happen to see a Bible or hear a sermon, which as a matter of course you will try to avoid. It is true, wreck and ruin will be sure to overtake you, and the devil will catch you at last; but why worry yourself before the time?
