what," said an old woman, sitting by her vegetable stall, "would become of us miserable bodies, if God Almighty had sent the blast on us, and left the potato?"
This was in the autumn of 1845, when but a partial failure took place—the blast had not then fallen on man; but it did fall, and swept them down as grass before the mower's scythe, yet not one of the victims, through long months of starvation, was heard to murmur against God. They thanked his holy name, both when they saw the potato grow in luxuriance, and when they saw it dried, as by a scorching heat. It was one of the most touching, striking features of the famine, to see a family looking into a withered patch, which the day before looked promising, and hear the exclamations of wonder and praise, weeping and thanksgiving, mingled together, "He's sent the blast, blessed be his holy name!" "His blessed will be done—and we'll all die with hunger, and praise God we're all poor sinners," &c. They literally and practically carried out the principle of one in ancient days, who said, "Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him;" for though year after year they saw the root on which they and their fathers had lived, melt away, yet they would not be persuaded but that the good God would give them the potato again; and in 1846-7-8-9, when each successive year had produced the same if not worse effects, they yet persisted in saving, oftentimes by stealth, some part of a sound potato, to keep it from the hungry mouths of their children, that they might put it in
