“The Home Land” (1939)

“The Home Land” is chapter 1 of Share the Profits! The Story of Richard W. Wolfe and His Conclusions, by William H. Stuart and published in 1939. Ostensibly a biography of Wolfe (1866–1951), who served as commissioner of public works in Chicago from 1927 to 1931, the book was likely cowritten by Wolfe and does not consider any of the various controversies of his term in office. Instead, it serves as an opportunity to mythologize his native Ireland and pronounce on the “manipulation of money” by “international bankers.”

Richard W. Wolfe was born on a farm in the Townland of Cratloe, four miles from Athea, County Limerick, Ireland, on August 21, 1869. His family have lived on that farm, at first as tenants and later as owners, for 150 years. The place is known as “The Glen.”

Richard and many others of his kin who came to this country never have been far away in the thought from the historic countryside of the home land. The past always lives with the Irish, active though they may be in the present.

Dollie Wolfe, born in Glasgow, now owns and lives in “The Glen.” She is the niece of the subject of this biography.[1] A recent letter from her, written to her Chicago uncle, showed that in heart and appearance the old neighborhood was much the same. She wrote of a recently issued book telling the history of the countryside, including, of course, much about the Wolfe family, always outstanding. It told of the kindness of her great grandfather, Richard Wolfe’s grandfather, who was known as “Ned of The Glen”[2]—how he had befriended a poor woman and her three children as they were on the way to the poorhouse—how he had lifted the whole family up beside him on his horse and ridden with them to the Board of Guardians of Newcastle West, of which he was a member. He saved them from the almshouse. Memories are long over there, in recalling good deeds, or in holding resentment against injuries inflicted.

Dollie Wolfe wrote also of witnessing the northern lights and of the superstitions connected with the brilliant beams rising up out of the Arctic vastness. She told too of seeing, from the top of the cutting near James Paddy’s place,[3] strange lights at night coming across the fields, sometimes with incredible speed, and always AGAINST the wind. Dick’s niece may have trembled as much as the other onlookers but bravely she wrote to the Chicago folks:

“It is just marsh gas, jack-o’-lantern, will-o’-the-wisp, or ‘Friar Rush.’

“Some people are very afraid of it, but fortunately the Woulfes generally are not superstitious.”

Oh, not a bit superstitious!

And the niece then proceeds in her letter to ask:

“Did you know that Spirit na Barbagh was a real woman?

“She was one Margaret O’Shanessy, hanged at Reens Pike in 1801 for the murder of a child.

“Many the honest man went up Gowndraugh top speed years after she was in dust on account of her. I expect their wives were thankful and didn’t let the yarn die.”

The Gael back in his home land has not changed much. He still sees strange shapes in the mist, fairy lights in the gloaming; and every glen and brook is brimful of sentiment. Throughout all the land, the legends of the past are held in memory and not challenged, not even the tales of the prodigious feats of vehement, valorous Cuchulain of early medieval times about whom the snow melted when his anger rose to the boiling point.

Thirty miles from Athea is the City of Limerick—“City of the Violated Treaty”—fine old city through which the River Shannon runs on its way to the sea.

Dick Wolfe’s family goes back to four brothers whose names are indelibly written into the history of battles against the English to save Limerick. In that period the Wolfes, or Woulfes, owned extensive lands in the richest section of the county, known as “The Golden Vale.” The Cromwell invasion changed radically and tragically the fortunes of the family. Of the four Wolfe brothers, who fought at Limerick, two were executed, one escaped to England, and the fourth fled into the Irish hills, there, in the less desirable part of the county, to establish a new home. The line of “The Glen” comes directly from this fourth brother.

Dollie Wolfe, writing to her uncle, tells in inimitable style:

“We don’t belong here, really—on the spur of the Mullaghareirk Mountains, not we.

“We were rich and powerful once, to the east, entirely of Limerick, in the good land, not in the hills as now.

“So rich and proud were we, we took a crack at ‘the Great Queen’ (Elizabeth) and, faith, she cracked back. Signs on, there was more to her powers and venom than ours. She blasted us clean out of Corbally, and scattered us here and there over the plain of Limerick—a few of us without heads, to be talking about our mistake.

“Well, we got together again after a while, being careful and prudent in everything but politics. Along comes Cromwell and again we stuck our heads in, through the wrong door of course, and, by herrings, there was a job made of us this time. Some he hanged on the Walls on the Limerick. Some got away to England—I remember one of us saved the life of a big fellow there, Walpole was his name.

She blasted us clean out of Corbally, and scattered us here and there over the plain of Limerick—a few of us without heads, to be talking about our mistake.

“The cripples and the ones who couldn’t get away took every short cut to here—and here we stayed. Not but what we have done well in a way. There are millionaires of our name in America, and judges and doctors and professors, but we don’t fight any more, and we don’t know the glory of being murdered for a lost cause.”

Dick Wolfe’s father, Richard Edmund Wolfe,[4] was strict and stern but of great humanity. He was loved by the countryside because of his good heart and his wise leadership, and, when he rescued a little girl from drowning, his popularity grew.

Richard Edmund Wolfe’s farm was one of the largest. He owned at one time fifteen cows, a herd of goats, sheep, pigs, two draft horses, geese, turnkeys, chickens and two donkeys. On an extensive acreage he raised oats, rye, flax, and potatoes. Of course, near the house was a vegetable garden, and all about the house flowers. Always the Irish, rich or poor, loved flowers—cultivated them in profusion.

The father was civic-minded. He gave to the children of the community a building for a school and the land upon which it stood. It was far from a modern structure, but a long way ahead of the former hedge-fence school.

Catherine Wolfe, the mother, was born in the Townland of Coole, parish of Athea.[5] Her maiden name was White—of an old, widely known and respected family. Born to her were ten children, all of whom grew to maturity. She was noted for her comely appearance, gentle, religious ways, and her success in maintaining her home and family up to the best traditions of Irish life.

Dick’s mother worked hard, and put joy into her work, and color into everything about her. She spun the wool from her own sheep and made the children’s caps, stockings, and sweaters, and into the clothes and blankets went the colors of the flowers of her garden.

She was inclined to believe that in her youth she had seen fairies, and innumerable were the tales she told the children—fascinating stories about ghosts, devils, witches, banshees, fairy thorns, devil cats, elves, bewitched butter, horned women, blood-thirsty giants, and weird and startling enchantments. How much of it all she really believed Dick never knew, but this he does know, as did all the countryside—that she was a deeply religious woman whose trust in God was implicit.

From his seventh to twelfth year Richard went to the school his father had given the community. There he and the other children learned the three R’s, the Catechism, and prayers from Mr. Wren and Mr. Sheahan.[6] When he had absorbed the rudimentary wisdom of the country school, he went to the Ballagh Townland school, later to the Athea school, National Government institution. At both schools there was a woman teacher always for the girls, and at Ballagh a Mr. McAuliff was head master for the boys, a Mr. Sullivan serving in like capacity at Athea.[7] The boys and girls were kept separate.

Young Richard’s education was not confined to school courses. Much he secured at home from his father’s library—particularly from the writings of Henry Grattan, John Stuart Mill, Oliver Goldsmith, and Shakespeare The “Sesame and Lilies” of Ruskin and Edmund Burke’s essays on the sublime and the beautiful were boyhood treasures destined for life-long companionship.

But in school-time and in vacation periods always there was work for the youth on the farm. The cows were his particular charge, and so great a herd—great for those days—created an important obligation. Dick was assigned to watch the cattle as they grazed and roamed through the low hills. As he tended herd, he looked at the clouds sailing toward the sea, and he dreamed of the land of promised freedom and wealth far away in the western world. On the hills he found time to read a bit, and he searched for flowers and hazel nuts, and explored the mysteries of life beneath the slippery stones of the brook—always searching, exploring, thinking.

The distant, mist-covered, green Kerry Mountains intrigued and coaxed him. Beyond them was the ocean which carried ships to the wonder land, the United States of America, where men could own land, say what they pleased, and worship as their hearts dictated. It was his belief that some day he would go there. What a country that must be! He and other Irish lads had been told that the first man actually to step upon New World soil was an Irish sailor whom Columbus recruited in Galway. He had been told too that two brothers from his own Limerick—Michael and Nicholas MacDonald—were the first white men to explore upper New York.

The tide to America was running as strong as ever. During the “unendurable fifties,” 914,000 person had emigrated from Ireland to America, and the movement showed no sign of abatement in young Wolfe’s time. Everywhere were the placards and folders of the steamship companies proclaiming the glories of the land of opportunity.

But young Richard could not hope to go until he had finished his schooling, if then. There were years of preparation ahead, and much for him to do on the farm.

The boy used the brain back of his eyes and sought the meaning of things. The brook in which he waded so often had in it a horse-shoe curve in a corner of the pasture. Young Dick reflected. Why should there be that detour, lost motion, delay, in the flow to the sea? He brought a spade next day and laboriously dug out a channel making a straight line that eliminated and made unnecessary the laggard curve. Dick had straightened his first water course. He got more of a thrill in that than he did in his great achievement, straightening the Chicago River, years after.

Close to the soil the boy lived as did all those around him. Together they fought against all the hazards of nature—storm, drought, late frost, blight, and all the diseases that plant and animal are heir to. It was a rough, never-ending battle to win a living out of the earth, but a wholesome one, with feet always on the ground. However, many were the pleasures these soil people found. There were social gatherings with music. Gaelic flutes, concertina, and violin brought smiles and laughter and quickened the feet of youth never too tired to dance. Strict was the surveillance over the boys and girls, but love found trysting places, and from marriage vows came new ties, new paths between homes, to bind the community closer together.

Great was the joy in the harvesting of the crops—the pleasure that comes out of achievement. The swish of the scythes, swung by a lines of men and boys advancing into waving acres of grain, was a music that thrilled.

The boys dug and sacked potatoes, and raked the hay. The girls churned butter, weeded the garden, and helped in the house-work. They took the butter and eggs to Athea to trade for flour and sugar. Dick and his father went to the bog a mile away, cut out the peat, loaded it on a donkey cart, and brought it home to be stacked and dried behind the house.

Richard Wolfe never forgot those scenes. Fifty years afterwards in Chicago he wrote for the New World the poem, “We Cling to Thee Erin.” In part it follows:

“Oh, Erin, acushla, tho’ I ne’er see thee again,
I roam in my dreams by they streams and thy glen,
Sadly sweet are the moments tinged with delight,
Away from the throng in the silence of night,
When on fancy’s wing backwards swiftly I fly
To the land of my youth where folks laugh while they cry,
Where smiles through the darkness of sorrow doth gleam,
Where the sun through the mists shoots its radiant beam.
’Twas the song of the maiden, the smile of the lad,
The warble of birds that made the place glad;
’Twas the lark in the sky, the thrush in the glade,
Not the whistle or noise or bustle of trade;
’Twas the swish of the mowers in the meadow ‘beyant’
And the flash of the scythes as they swung them aslant—
A memory as sweet as the scent of the hay,
As soothing and soft as the troubadour’s lay.”

The blight of alien landlordism could not take all the joy out of Ireland. Although there was poverty all around Richard Wolfe declares that he never saw poverty as pitiful as he witnessed in the period of depression, right here in Chicago, when, before the dole came, men in instances were forced to go to garbage heaps in search of food.[8]

It was the time of the Land Wars. Long before the yoke of England had been pressed down. What the Irish had done in enlightening the world in medieval times we have told in the preface. The softening, refining influence of Gaelic education had worked a miracle in Europe, but at heavy expense to Ireland. It was still a world of force, and the priests, professors, philosophers, and bards of Eire had not built up home defenses sufficient to stand against the hosts of war which swept down upon Ireland from England, the land the Gael had led out of darkness. Moral influence may count upon ultimate victory, despite many defeats, but that lessens but little the suffering when the power of might crushes down upon a land. Might had triumphed over right as it does so often that Napoleon came to the belief that heaven is on the side of the heavier guns. The world is not yet safe for philosophers, and there are not so many protected groves for those who would court the muses.

The English had overrun Ireland, created huge bonfires out of tomes of precious Irish literature, and made once dominant Eire a political chattel of England.

The English landlords—hereditary holders of huge estates—were oppressing Ireland in the time of young Dick Wolfe, as they had for centuries before.[9] They rented patches of their acreage to the soil people. The tenant farmers knew that, even if by a life of toil and sacrifice they could save up enough to buy the land they worked, they would not be permitted to acquire title to their farms. So they worked as tenants, with little or no hope ever of being anything but tenants. The English landlords, most of them of royal titles, demanded the last farthing. They kept spies in Ireland of the type of the shoneen, servitors of the absentee landlords. These spies watched the renters. If one showed evidence of prosperity, even as much as the purchase of new clothes or the installation of a new chimney, that fact was at once reported. Invariably the rent was then raised.[10]

The English landlords—hereditary holders of huge estates—were oppressing Ireland in the time of young Dick Wolfe, as they had for centuries before.[9] They rented patches of their acreage to the soil people. The tenant farmers knew that, even if by a life of toil and sacrifice they could save up enough to buy the land they worked, they would not be permitted to acquire title to their farms. So they worked as tenants, with little or no hope ever of being anything but tenants. The English landlords, most of them of royal titles, demanded the last farthing. They kept spies in Ireland of the type of the shoneen, servitors of the absentee landlords. These spies watched the renters. If one showed evidence of prosperity, even as much as the purchase of new clothes or the installation of a new chimney, that fact was at once reported. Invariably the rent was then raised.[10]

Game-keepers watched over the land and there was medieval punishment for all who poached or otherwise violated the hunting and trapping laws and rules, but the tenant farmers had no appeal or redress when English hunting parties rode over their lands and ruined the crops the tenants had planted.

Evictions were of almost everyday occurrence, and, to make certain the evicted did not creep back into their former homes for shelter, crowbar brigades came from London and burned and razed the cottages. The evicted had no place to go.

Young Dick saw such fires. At first he and his brothers thought they were “fairy fires” but his parents told them the truth. Men who had never been harmed were burning down houses occupied by poor people. “Why?” asked Richard. He asked that question less often through the years for with maturity came the realization that in many other ways “man is a wolf to man.”

Later the boy learned of an affair that made a deep impression upon him. Captain Charles Cunningham Boycott, agent for the Mayo estates of the Earl of Erne, by continued cruelties had created bitter resentment. For him a day of reckoning came. No man would work for him. No one spoke to him. His servants fled, and his mail was intercepted. His crops were fired, his fences demolished, and he had difficulty in getting food supplies.

Finally it took 900 English soldiers to protect the Ulster Orangemen who were imported from the north of Ireland to care for the Boycott land and crops.

“Boycott.”—the subject of this biography heard that word often afterwards in America.

Came a parish drama in which Dick’s father was the hero. It centered about a sad scene, typical of many in those days. Nearby “The Glen” in a shack lived a man, his wife, his children, and his cow. The crops had failed; the rent was long overdue; the landlord’s agent came to take the cow away. He put a rope around the cow’s neck and led her down the road. Behind walked the wife, the oldest boy and lastly the youngest child, howling. It was a mournful procession. As it proceeded other farmers and their wives and children swung into line, following in single file. Dick saw the parade of poverty. He summoned his father.

“I’ll not be allowing that,” said Richard Edmund Wolfe. He hastened to the side of the landlord’s agent and after a little dickering paid the rent that was due. The cow was saved.

The procession turned back in the road, now a parade of joy. The man and his wife could hardly believe their good fortune. The children gleefully patted the cow. Saved for them was their nourishment.

Richard was growing up. He understood many things now. His father realized that, so one day he took his son with him to the railroad station of a near-by town. An excited, earnest crowd had gathered about the depot. Soon a train pulled in. The crowd, mostly farmers, pressed about the last car. There was no cheering, no brass band. Everyone was tense.

A tall, bearded man came out on the platform and began to speak. What a speech! Dick remembers it to this day. He listened to campaign slogans never heard before in those parts, but later to be written on banners and unfurled throughout Ireland. Among the words indelibly impressing themselves on the mind of the youth were:

“Irish Unity—Home Rule—the Manchester Martyrs—Abolition of the Gat—and the three F’s: Fair Rent, Fixed Hold, and Free Sale.”

Charles Stewart Parnell had spoken. The train pulled out. Young Dick stood in silence and bewilderment for some minutes. He wondered if ever he could make such a speech, phrase such stirring words. He began to think about “the money Kings of England.” He began to think about the power of money—and who controlled it—and why what meant so much to all was in the hands of the few.

That was a revealing day for Richard Wolfe. It opened for him a new line of thought, one that led far from fields of grain, but always came back to where it started, the land.

He paid more attention thereafter when at night neighbors gathered in the Wolfe home to talk on all sorts of subjects. Those were wholesome gatherings, home meetings of neighbors exchanging ideas. Such gatherings were usual too in America when the country was young, and it is not good that there are less of them today.

Nor did all the talk in and about the chimney corner concern affairs of the present. There were tales of ancient Ireland, and of the supremacy of the Gael in medieval times. The stories that the boy liked best of all were those told by his father.

Father James Cregan, parish priest and good friend, called Richard Edmund Wolfe, “the book of Athea,” for Dick’s father knew all about the immediate community and he knew Irish history through the long centuries as few other men did.

The father, “The Book,” quoted pages of authentic record when he told of his ancestors—all the Wolfes or Woulfes who had gone before.

There was Nic Wolfe who in 1345 was guardian of the peace for the County of Limerick and Maurice Wolfe who in the fourteenth century was Canon of Emly. Thrilling was the story of Philip Wolfe, an officer in Sarsfield’s Munster regiment who fought so gallantly against William of Orange in defence of “The City of the Violated Treaty.”

Yet more stirring was the life of David Wolfe, born in Limerick, a member of the Jesuit Order. Trained by Loyola himself he became rector of the College at Modena. In him though was the blood of the soldier, as well as the heart of the spiritual adviser. He invited danger. In 1560 he came back to Ireland with St. Francis Borgia, carrying the Pope’s authority of apostolic legate. Times were indeed dangerous, for Elizabeth was on the throne in England and persecution was general. Father Wolfe’s task was to maintain discipline, safeguard Catholic worship, and keep open the line of communication with dignitaries of his church abroad. How boldly and well he carried out his mission is evidenced by the fact that he incurred the displeasure of Queen Elizabeth. The English queen, because of him, refused to send representatives to the Council of Trent complaining in a letter to the Pope that “Woulfe had been sent from Rome to excite disaffection against the Crown.” Father Wolfe became a hunted man. For six years he eluded his pursuers, being the hero of many sensational episodes, but finally he was arrested and lodged in Dublin Castle. He made a dramatic escape and took refuge in Spain. Within a year, however, the fearless priest was back in Ireland. Again he was heard of in Spain, with the English no doubt in hot pursuit. Mystery shrouded the end of the life of this heroic priest of the Wolfe line. One risked life for the faith in those days.

Geasa was an unshirkable obligation to do a certain thing, or refrain from a certain action. There was no escape from the obligation. It just had to be fulfilled.

“The Book” too told of his ancestors who forfeited near Rathkeal in 1586 for their part in the Desmond rebellion. Yet with greater fervor he recited the story of Captain George Wolfe who assisted his Brother Francis, Superior of the Dominicans, in the endeavor to hold Limerick “for faith and country against both Cromwell and parliament.” They were charged with conducting a rebellion of their own. After Limerick surrendered they were listed with twenty-four who were specifically exempted from quarter. Francis was put to death, probably after tortures.

The siege of Limerick immortalized another Wolfe—James—Superior of the Dominicans. A plague had fallen upon the city. James was safe outside the walls but when he learned that all the clergy within had died, he entered the town to minister to the plague-stricken patients in the pest-house. The Cromwellians discovered him and he was hanged without ceremony. Not so long ago, in Richard Wolfe’s lifetime, the cause of his heroic ancestor, James of the Dominicans, was presented to Rome for canonization.

Captain George Wolfe succeeded in escaping to England. His grandson was General Edward Wolfe who, commanding troops in London mobilized against rioters, saved the life of Walpole. For that act he was offered a peerage—but the proud Gael refused it.

The same Captain George Wolfe was the great-great-grand-father of General James Wolfe, the hero of Quebec. The soldiers who under his leadership triumphed for England against Montcalm on the Plains of Abraham were mostly Irish and Catholic.

But impressing Richard Wolfe as much as any story he heard in his boyhood was the fairy tale concerning “the geasa.” A youth there who, because of his stepmother’s cruelty, was launched upon a career of amazing, weird adventures. He began by fighting with the three giants, Slat Mor, Slat Marr, and Slat Beag Beag. As it should be in a fairy tale, the boy killed all three—then he killed the cailliach, the old hag whose magic could restore them to life. However, just before dying, the cailliach put the lad under geasa. Now that was something mighty grave, as the narrators would explain as the children crowded closer.

Geasa was an unshirkable obligation to do a certain thing, or refrain from a certain action. There was no escape from the obligation. It just had to be fulfilled.

The brave youth fulfilled the geasa the old hag had put upon him: He buried the Bull of the Iron Horn, but not before that creature had put him under another geasa—to fight the Black Goat of the Hill of Fire. The gallant lad did that, too, and triumphed, but, as the Black Goat was passing out, he put upon the boy a geasa to tie up the Jester of the Prince of Darkness. That also the youth did, only to have another geasa put upon him. There seemed to be no end to this geasa business. But there is no limit to valor and endurance as presented in fairy tales.

The lad, with stout heart, proceeded to fulfill the new obligation—to destroy the Seven Cats of the Blue Vale. Just think of what an undertaking that was, considering each of the seven cats was supposed to have nine lives. Nine times seven is sixty-three, young Dick had learned at school.

However, the troubles of the lad of the fairy tale were nearer to an end than he realized. One of the cats suddenly changed into a beautiful princess. She had been bewitched and transformed into a cat, doomed to stay forever in that shape unless released by a youth of super valor.

Well, of course the end is, the brave boy married the lovely princess who was no longer a cat, and, in a castle overlooking the sea, they lived happily ever after.

That story could not be told too often for the children of “The Glen.” It never seemed to lose anything in the telling. For young Richard in particular it had a fascination. He thought of it often, and made changes in it, as he turned it over in his imaginative mind.

He wondered, when child fancy winged him into day dreams, whether he had been put under geasa when he was born, If so what was the task put upon him? What monster, or monsters, must he slay? He would brandish a stick and clip the top off a road-side bush. He would pretend for a moment at least that he was swinging his sword against a giant, a Slat Mor or a Slat Marr. He was of serious mind and whatever came, geasa or no geasa, he would meet his obligations, fight for the right, as his ancestors, heroic priests and soldiers, had done.

Yes, we are part of all that has gone before, and of no race is that truer than of the Gael, sentimental, spiritual, and often superstitious.

Richard Wolfe’s character was moulded as much by past centuries as by the years in which he has lived. So with most people.

[William H. Stuart, Share the Profits! The Story of Richard W. .Wolfe and His Conclusions (Chicago and New York: M. A. Donohue and Company, 1939), 3–20.]

Top of the page: house near Athea, County Limerick, 1935, by Caoimhín Ó Danachair (The National Folklore Collection)

[1] Jane C. “Dollie” Woulfe (1879–1964) was the daughter of Maurice Richard Woulfe (1853–1928), an older brother of Richard W. Wolfe.

[2] Edmond Richard “Old Ned” Woulfe (1788–1876)

[3] James Patrick “Paddy” Woulfe (1842–1922)

[4] Richard Edmond “Dicky Ned” Woulfe (1824–1910)

[5] Catherine White Woulfe (1828–1900)

[6] Denny Wren (or Wrenn) and Michael Sheahan

[7] This likely was the national school teacher Martin O’Sullivan.

[8] The population of County Limerick in 1841, a few years before the Great Famine, was 330,029. By 1911 that number had dropped to 143,069, due in large part to starvation, emigration, and general poverty. “The long held view,” according to the historian Gerard Curtin, “was ‘that Limerick escaped the worst rigours of the famine.’ Nothing could be further from the truth.” “No pen has recorded the numbers of forlorn and starving who perished by the wayside or in the ditches,” an Irish census worker wrote in 1851; “whole families lay down and died.”

[9] The family that owned the estate on which Wolfe was raised, the Goolds, were Irish Protestants from Cork.

[10] Edmond Woulfe White tells a very different story, insisting that the Goold family negotiated with tenant representatives when rents became difficult to pay, with the adjusted rate remaining “practically undisturbed” for at least six decades.