for the "West End" of London. It would seem that the Government, on whose shoulders hung this mighty "potato-famine," had exhausted all its resources of invention "to stay the plague" but the one last mentioned, and, driven to their "wits' end," they happily hit upon this panacea.
Every minutia cannot be given, either of the "getting up," or the "recipe" itself; but the "sum and substance" was simply this, that a French cook from London was sent to Dublin with a recipe of his own concocting, made out of "drippings," whether of "shinbones" or "ox-tails" was not specified; but this "dripping" was to be so savory, and withal so nourishing, that with a trifling sum, Paddy could be fed, and fed too so that he could dig drains, cut turf, and spade gardens, on an advanced strength, which flung both the potato and "yellow Indian" entirely in the "back-ground." The work commenced: a new and splendid soup-shop in French and West End fashion soon gladdened the eyes of the expecting Irish. "By dad," exclaimed one as he passed it, "and there's the cratur that'll du the heart good; not a ha'porth of the blackguards will be fightin' for the 'yaller Indian' when that's in the stomach."
So great was this work, that the city was moved when the sound went forth that the boiler was ready, and the soup actually "under way." A great and general invitation was given to the lords and nobles, with wives, sons and daughters, to be there, and test this never-equaled sustainer of life and zest of palate—
