Strange as it may seem, the music translated itself
into pure colour--and the rhythmic beating of the time seemed to
aid the process. I thought of the untutored Indians as they sat
in groups about the flickering camp-fire while others beat the
tom-toms and droned the curious melody. What were the visions of
the red man, I wondered, as he chewed his mescal button and the
medicine man prayed to Hikori, the cactus god, to grant a
"beautiful intoxication?"
Under the gas-lights of the chandelier hung a cluster of electric
light bulbs which added to the flood of golden effulgence that
bathed the room and all things in it. I gazed next intently at
the electric lights. They became the sun itself in their
steadiness, until I had to turn away my head and close my eyes.
Even then the image persisted--I saw the golden sands of Newport,
only they were blazing with glory as if they were veritable
diamond dust: I saw the waves, of incomparable blue, rolling up
on the shore. A vague perfume was wafted on the air. I was in an
orgy of vision. Yet there was no stage of maudlin emotion. It was
at least elevating.
Kennedy's experiences as he related them to me afterwards were
similar, though sufficiently varied to be interesting. His
visions took the forms of animals--a Cheshire cat, like that in
"Alice in Wonderland," with merely a grin that faded away,
changing into a lynx which in turn disappeared, followed by an
unknown creature with short nose and pointed ears, then tortoises
and guinea-pigs, a perfectly unrelated succession of beasts.
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