Never set a man to work he is not fit for, for he will never do it well.  They say that if pigs fly they always go with their tails forward, and awkward workmen are much the same.  Nobody expects cows to catch crows, or hens to wear hats.  There’s reason in roasting eggs, and there should be reason in choosing servants.  Don’t put a round peg into a square hole, nor wind up your watch with a corkscrew, nor set a tender-hearted man to whip wife-beaters, nor a bear to be a relieving-officer, nor a publican to judge of the licensing laws.  Get the right man in the right place, and then all goes as smooth as skates on ice; but the wrong man puts all awry, as the sow did when she folded the linen.

TWO DOGS FIGHT FOR A BONE, AND A THIRD RUNS AWAY WITH IT.

We have all heard of the two men who quarreled over an oyster, and called in a judge to settle the question; he ate the oyster himself, and gave them a shell each.  This reminds me of the story of the cow which two farmers could not agree about, and so the lawyers stepped in and milked the cow for them, and charged them for their trouble in drinking the milk.  Little is got by law, but much is lost by it.  A suit in law may last longer than any suit a tailor can make you, and you may yourself be worn out before it comes to an end.  It is better far to make matters up and keep out of court, for if you are caught there you are caught in the brambles, and won’t get out without damage.  John Ploughman feels a cold sweat at the thought of getting into the hands of lawyers.  He does not mind going to Jericho, but he dreads the gentlemen on the road, for they seldom leave a feather upon any goose which they pick up.

HE HAS A HOLE UNDER HIS NOSE.  AND HIS MONEY RUNS INTO IT.

This is the man who is always dry, because he takes so much heavy wet.  He is a loose fellow who is fond of getting tight.  He is no sooner up than his nose is in the cup, and his money begins to run down the hole which is just under his nose.  He is not a blacksmith, but he has a spark in his throat, and all the publican’s barrels can’t put it out.  If a pot of beer is a yard of land, he must have swallowed more acres than a ploughman could get over for many a day, and still he goes on swallowing until he takes to wallowing.  All goes down Gutter Lane.  Like the snipe, he lives by suction.  If you ask him how he is, he says he would be quite right if he could moisten his mouth.  His purse is a bottle, his bank is the publican’s till, and his casket is a cask; pewter is his precious metal, and his pearl is a mixture of gin and beer.  The dew of his youth comes from Ben Nevis, and the comfort of his soul is cordial gin.  He is a walking barrel, a living drain-pipe, a moving swill-tub.  They say “loath to drink and loath to leave off,” but he never needs persuading to begin, and as to ending that is out of the question while he can borrow twopence.