floating easily about my room, I remember noticing that a thick layer of dust covered the top of a bookcase. In my dream I made a mark in the dust with my finger; and, when I got rid of the effects of the drug, my first action was to mount a chair in order to see, not whether I had actually made my mark, but whether I could not remove the dust without summoning a servant.
This condition is, I say, one of the most delightful of experiences. It often, however, introduces some of the most disagreeable sensations,—disagreeable, that is, when felt for the first time, but afterwards only gruesomely grotesque.
For instance, I had once been in "Keef," and seemed to imagine, as I lay back in an arm-chair, that the effects of the drug were passing off. I stretched myself, as if I were awaking from a heavy sleep, and attempted to thrust my hand through my hair, when, horror! my fingers passed through my crackling skull, and into my warm, cheesy brain!
At another time, too, as I leaned for-
