That "endurance under privation, greater than that of any country in Europe," is the true characteristic of the peasantry, cannot be questioned, particularly after being declared by the high authority of the Devon Commission. That it is innate in their character, is evident. They believe that "whatever is, is best"--not as fatalists; for under the most severe suffering, you will hear them say, "Well, shure, it's a marcy 'twasn't worse any how." "Well, I'm shure, I might be contint, bekase it might be double as bad." And every sentence ends--"And God is good." They have also a certain natural _spring_ (lessening daily) which upholds them, and they _try_ to make the best of every thing as it comes. "Jack," said I, some years since, to a handy "hedge carpenter," in the county of Wexford, "why did you not come last night to do the job I wanted? It is done now, and you have lost it." "Whi-thin, that's my misforthin any how--an be-dad 'twas a double misforthin too, for I wus dooin nothin else thin devartin meeself." "_Diverting_ yourself," said I, "and not minding your business?" "Bee-dad it's too thru; but I'll tell your hanur how it happened. I wus workin fur the last three days fur my lan'lady, which av coorse goes agin the rint; and whin I cum home yisterday evenin, throth, barrin I tuck the bit from the woman and childre, sorra a taste I could get--so sis I, Biddy jewel, I'm mighty sick intirely, an I cant ate any thing. Well, she coxed me--but I didn't. So afther sittin a while, I bethought me that there wus to be a piper at the Crass-roads, an I was thin gettin morthul hungery; so sis I t'meeself _I'll go dance the hunger off_--and so I did:--an that wus the way I wus divartin meeself." Now, I have no doubt, that many an Irishman has _danced_ the thought of hunger away as well as Jack. But the following incident will prove that the innate feeling of the people is to make the best of their miseries. It was, I think, in the winter of 1840, a fortnight of most severe weather set in at Dublin. I had suffered in London from "Murphy's coldest day" in 1838, and thought it was in reality the coldest I had ever felt; but 1840 would have won the prize if left to his Majesty of Russia to decide the question. In addition to a black frost, there came with it a biting, piercing, easterly wind, which seemed to freeze and wither every thing it came upon. Pending this infliction (for I confess I suffered under sciatica as well as the easterly wind), I left home rather early one morning, muffled in two coats, a cloak, muffler, "bosom friend," worsted wrists, and woolsey gloves; and yet as I closed the door, I half repented that I had faced the blast.