hting and of whiskey has been long
proverbial; and of his tact in swearing much has also been said. But
there is one department of oath-making in which he stands unrivalled and
unapproachable; I mean the alibi. There is where he shines, where his
oath, instead of being a mere matter of fact or opinion, rises up
into the dignity of epic narrative, containing within itself, all the
complexity of machinery, harmony of parts, and fertility of invention,
by which your true epic should be characterized.

The Englishman, whom we will call the historian in swearing, will depose
to the truth of this or that fact, but there the line is drawn; he
swears his oath so far as he knows, and stands still. "I'm sure, for my
part, I don't know; I've said all I knows about it," and beyond this his
besotted intellect goeth not.

The Scotchman, on the other hand, who is the metaphysician in swearing,
sometimes borders on equivocation. He decidedly goes farther than the
Englisman, not because he has less honesty, but more prudence. He will
assent to, or deny a proposition; for the Englishman's "I don't know,"
and the Scotchman's "I dinna ken," are two very distinct assertions when
properly understood. The former stands out a monument of dulness, an
insuperable barrier against inquiry, ingenuity, and fancy; but the
latter frequently stretches itself so as to embrace hypothetically a
particular opinion.

But Paddy! Put him forward to prove an alibi for his fourteenth or
fifteenth cousin, and you will be gratified by the pomp, pride, and
circumstance of true swearing. Every oath with him is an epic--pure
poetry, abounding with humor, pathos, and the highest order of invention
and talent. He is not at ease, it is true, under facts; there is
something too commonplace in dealing with them, which his genius scorns.
But his flights--his flights are beautiful; and his episodes admirable
and happy. In fact, he is an improvisatore at oath-taking; with
this difference, that his extempore oaths possess all the ease and
correctness of labor and design.

He is not, however, _altogether_ averse to facts: but, like your true
poet, he veils, changes, and modifies them with such skill, that they
possess all the merit and graces of fiction. If he happen to make an
assertion incompatible with the plan of the piece, his genius acquires
fresh energy, enables him to widen the design, and to create new
machinery, with such happiness of adaptation, that what appea