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Updated: June 22, 2025
I am writing these last lines in the saloon of the Booth liner Francisca, and they will go back by the pilot to the keeping of Mr. McArdle. Let me draw one last picture before I close the notebook a picture which is the last memory of the old country which I bear away with me. It is a wet, foggy morning in the late spring; a thin, cold rain is falling.
The carriage outside had filled them with wild alarms, but the sight of their parents alive, and entertaining guests of shining quality, was almost as satisfyingly unusual as death and a funeral. They were a noisy, hearty throng, and Bertha's heart went out to poor Patrick McArdle, who sat amid the uproar, silent, patient, the heroic breadwinner for them all. No wonder he was old before his time.
He used chiefly to give selections from Lover's songs, and one song written for him by John McArdle, "Pat Delany's Christenin'." John had an instinctive grasp of stage effect. A hint of the possibilities of an idea was enough for him. On my return from the Curragh I told him of how I had heard the militia men and soldiers singing the "Shan Van Vocht" on the road.
Bertha would have given a good deal to avoid this visit, but seeing no way to escape she stepped from the carriage under the keen scrutiny of her hostess and walked up the rickety steps with something of the same squeamish care she would have shown on entering a cow-barn. "Here, Benny!" called Mrs. McArdle. "Run you to Dad and tell him me brother Mart has come, and to hurry home. Off wid ye now!"
"I'm clean worn out with it, Mart," she confessed. "We've been here two weeks the day, and the children howlin' the whole time to go back and McArdle workin' himself to the figger of a spoon with a mind to polish the lawn and get the garden into seed." But Mart only smiled. "'Tis good discipline, Fan." Haney senior was delighted with his daughter's household.
My Aunt Nancy could speak the Northern Irish fluently, and, in the course of her business, acquired the Connaught Irish and accent. After a time Hughey Roney retired, and the house was carried on by his daughter and her husband, John McArdle, a good, decent patriotic Irishman, much respected by his Connaught neighbours, though he was from the "Black North."
After Father Mathew's visit, their trade fell away to such an extent that John McArdle, determined to hold his ground while still keeping the public house open, though the business was all but gone broke another door into the street, and made his parlour into a grocery and provision store.
'Patrick McArdle, pattern-maker. Sure, Charles said he was in a stove foundry. 'Tis over on the West Side, Lucius says. How would it do to slide over and see?" "I'm agreeable," she carelessly answered, her mind full of Mrs. Brent and the dinner. Lucius interposed a word. "It's a very poor neighborhood, Captain. We can hardly get to it with a machine." "Well, then we'll drive.
LIEUT. H. T. KETCHAM, "H" Co., 339th Inf. LIEUT. HARRY J. COSTELLO, "M.G." Co., 339th Inf. MAJOR CLARE S. McARDLE, Commanding officer 1st Battalion 310th Engrs. LIEUT. EDWIN J. STEPHENSON, "A" Co., 310th Engrs. LIEUT. B. A. BURNS, "A" Co., 310th Engrs. CAPT. W. O. AXTELL, "B" Co., 310th Engrs. LIEUT. E. W. LEGIER, "C" Co., 310th Engrs. Distinguished Conduct Medal
I felt proud when two young men of my training, John McArdle, who had been with me on the "Catholic Times"; and afterwards Daniel Crilly, on the "United Irishman," were appointed to the literary staff of the "Nation," for which they were well fitted, seeing that, with their brilliant gifts, they had, from their earliest days, been imbued with the doctrines of that newspaper.
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