Stop before entering the literary profession, if devoid of imagination, a proverbial fool, and with but a lazy comprehension of orthography, grammar and syntax.
Stop, next, and ask yourself, what great author, dead or living, shall I emulate? Then, be your model Shakespeare or Bartley Campbell, Thackeray or Tupper, Byron or the Burlington Hawkeye, stick to your ideal, revel in ink and starve for glory.
Stop, if of a dramatic turn, before absolutely forcing a manager to produce your play. There are, unfortunately, legal safeguards for even this species of credulous, unsophisticated, professionals.
Stop, and reflect profoundly, before adopting pugilism as a vocation, if constitutionally weak in the back, color-blind, short-winded, and timid to pusillanimity.
Stop before deciding upon a histrionic career, until satisfied that you are not better fitted for an auction-room or a junk-shop.
Stop, in any calling, long enough to become familiar with the foot of the ladder before clawing ineffectually at the top-round. Beginning at the top, to come down with a rush, is reserved for millionaires’ sons, holders of winning lottery-tickets and cat’s-paws of nominating conventions.
In General Deportment.
Stop at the assumption of a supercilious, ducal air, especially if small of stature, monkey-brained and impecunious. This is solely the privilege of floor-walkers, brained midgets and actresses’ husbands.