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Updated: June 14, 2025
Stanihurst wrote his historical tracts, as did Lombard the Catholic and Usher the Protestant Primate, O'Sullivan, White, O'Meara, and almost all the Irish writers of that age, without exception, in the Latin language. The first Latin book printed in Ireland is thought to be O'Meara's poem in praise of Thomas, Earl of Ormond and Ossory, published in 1615.
It was then dark, so being unable to see more than the black forms and waving hands of the crowd waiting for us with the lights behind them, I arranged with O'Sullivan that he should slip ashore as soon as we got alongside, and see if he could find my dear one. "Will you remember her face?" I asked. "And why wouldn't I? By the stars of God, there's only one of it in the world," he answered.
"It is strange," he mused. "I surely saw him. The most beautiful face I ever saw." Then he looked down at what had been James Neal. "He was very fortunate," said the doctor in a low tone, "to die with a face like that looking into his." There was a smile on the death-white lips of the little clerk. By VINCENT O'SULLIVAN
It is my brother-in-law's full baptismal designation; but he has dropped the O'Sullivan for many years past, and, to say the truth, doesn't like it. He is a little bit ashamed of his mother's family. Charles glanced at it hurriedly. "Quite right," he said, "quite right!" But his voice was hollow. I could guess he didn't care to continue the séance.
O'Sullivan, who arrived from Lisbon just an hour before they both started for Rhyl. . . . Julian's worship of nature and natural objects meets with satisfaction here. . . . The following was also written from Rhyl:
O'Sullivan Og himself he believed to be The McMurrough's agent in his more lawless business; a fierce, unscrupulous man, prospering on his lack of scruple.
And then to think of O'Sullivan doing the same for me, with: "The poor Commanther! Look at him there. Faith, he's keeping a good heart, isn't he? But it's just destroyed he is for want of news of a great friend that was in trouble. It was a girl . . . a lady, I mane. You haven't heard the whisper of a word, sir . . . eh?" Our chairman had heard nothing.
Mary Kenney O'Sullivan, Boston; treasurer, Miss Mary Donovan, Boot and Shoe Workers; board members, Miss Mary McDowell, Chicago; Miss Lillian D. Wald, New York; Miss Ellen Lindstrom, United Garment Workers; Miss Mary Trites, Textile Workers; Miss Leonora O'Reilly, Ladies' Garment Workers.
Yet, even in such a life this was a tragedy beyond the common. And "What can I do?" he cried. "Non mihi, domine, culpa! Oh, what can I do?" "You can do nothing, father," O'Sullivan Og said grimly. "They're heretics, no less! And we're wasting your time, blessed man." He whispered a few words in the priest's ear. The latter shuddered. "God forgive us all!" he wailed.
In fact the pangs of uncertainty grew so strongly upon me as we neared home that in the middle of the last night of our voyage I went to O'Sullivan's cabin, and sat on the side of his bunk for hours, talking of the chances of my darling being lost and of the possibility of finding her. O'Sullivan, God bless him, was "certain sure" that everything would be right, and he tried to take things gaily.
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