Typescript journal entry with manuscript edits

Augusta Gregory (1852–1932) Typed journal entry September 2, 1926 Henry W. and Albert A. Berg Collection of English and American Literature

Lady Gregory's journal

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I came to Dublin on Friday to go through the pamphlet. But Yeats was away. And a lump had developed a week or so ago, where the old one had been. And though I had determined not to have anything done that would keep me from home while the holidays last, I went to Slattery, and he said it must come out, the sooner the better. I said, not till end of September. But then I thought it best to give in. And so on Monday evening I came in here (after two acts of Murray's Autumn Fire at the Abbey) and next morning at quarter to 11 (after preparations from 6 o’clock on) I was laid on the table, no chloroform, just the local anesthetic—it lasted about 20 minutes. I had not much pain, though feeling the knife working out made me feel queer. But I fixed my my mind upon a river, the river at Roxborough, imaged it as it flows from the mounts through the flat land from Kilchreest—then under the bridge, then under the Volunteer Memorial bridge; through the deer park, then deepens; salleys and bulrushes on one side, coots and wild fowls making their nests there—on the other, the green lawns; past the house, past the long line of buildings, stables, kennels, dairy, the garden walls; the, narrow and deep here, it turned the old mill wheel, supplying water for the steam engine that helped the sawmills work. Then the division of the parting of the water, the otters cave, the bed of soft mud of which we children used to make the little vessels that never went through the baking without cracks; the dip of the stream underground, rising later to join its sunlit branch; rushing current again, passing by Ravahasey, Caherlinneypoll Sionnach Frooskelly, Castleboy, bridges again and then through thickets of laurel, beside a forsaken garden— a sting of pain here from the knife, but I only make a face and hear a voice say “put in another drop”—and then by a sleeping field of daffodils—and so at least to the high road where it went out of our demesne.

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