A SAMPLE OF SPIRITUAL SLATE-WRITING.
By P. R. Ladd
I wish to give an account of a sitting that I had a day or two since, by invitation, with C. N. Watkins, who has been stopping with A. H. Longley in Liberty Hall block. Once in his room, I seated myself at a table on which were two slates and a piece of blank paper. After cutting the paper into small strips, I was requested to write the name of my spirit friends on them and roll them up, so that I could not distinguish one from the other. This over, as they lay in a pile on the table, I was requested to point with a pencil to each one separately, and when three raps came on the table to take the one indicated in my hand. The first one I pointed to, three raps were distinctly heard, and as I held it in my hand Mr. Watkins gave a name that was on it, which I found on unrolling it to be correct. In this way we went through the list, he giving the name correctly in every instance. He then gave a description of a lady friend that he said thought a world of me, and was with me nearly all the time,—at least he had seen her with me every time he had seen me. He said that she influenced me more than I would be willing to admit, and asked me if I had not such a friend in the spirit world; and told me to write down the names of all I could think of. I then wrote down the name of my wife who passed away in 1854, and a cousin and a niece that have passed away since. With the pencil I pointed to one of them, when three slight raps were heard, and, on unrolling, the name he gave was found correct. On pointing to the second, three loud raps were given, that could be heard in the next room. He gave the name “Roxelana Clapp Ladd, my wife,” which was just what I had written on the pellet. He said, “This is the person I have seen, and she will give you a communication on the slate.” He then broke off a piece of slate pencil about the size of a small pea and laid it on one of the slates, first asking me to examine them and see if there was any writing on them,—and I can swear that there was none,—and placed the other slate over it, and, holding them out to me, told me to take hold of them, which I did, holding them firmly together, both his hands being in plain sight, and mine also. Instantly I heard the pencil writing as distinctly as I should if I had been using it myself. In a short time three raps were heard to signify the communication ended. He removed the top slate and left the bottom one in my hands, on which was written the following communication, directed to me:— Summer Land.—My Dear One, My Husband: How glad I am to see you here to-day, and to tell you that I still think as much of you as when living. Keep on working for the cause of truth, and may right ever triumph over wrong, and may all hypocrites be cast into outer darkness, just the place where they are trying to escape from, is the wish of one who loves you and is standing on the shores of time beholding you ever in your work; and I come now to tell you that I am with you always. Your own loving wife, ROXELANA CLAPP LADD.” I will add that what makes this particularly satisfactory to me is the handwriting. The moment the slate was removed I saw at once that it was the person’s whose signature it bore; if I can swear to my own, I can to hers as well. Now here is a fact. I did not write it, and, if I can swear by my senses, Mr. Watkins nor any other visible human agent did. Who did? This is the question for the world to answer; and when it has done it “the mystery (of life) of God” is solved (See Rev. 10:7; Col. 1:26, and Matt. 13:11), which is already, as far as I am concerned. The closing sentence of Rev. Dr. Henry M. Field’s address before the alumni at Williamstown, July 3, as reported in your paper, is no uncertainty, or need not be. He says: “But we may be marching not only to death but to life. Our leaders for whom we mourn, we should rather rejoice, for they have got the victory. Perhaps they are looking down from the shining battlements to beckon us upward.” There is no “may be” or “perhaps” about it with me, for it is God’s eternal truth.—P. R. Ladd, in Springfield (Mass.) Republican.