One of the most interesting phases of modern mediumship, on the physical side, is psychography, or slate-writing. After an investigation extending over ten years, I am of the opinion that the majority of slate-writing feats are the results of conjuring. The process generally used is the following.
The medium takes two slates, binds them together, after first having deposited a small bit of chalk or slate pencil between their surfaces, and either holds them in his hands, or lays them on the table. Soon the scratching of the pencil is heard, and when the cords are removed a spirit message is found upon the surface of one of the slates. I will endeavor to explain the “modus operandi” of these startling experiments.
Some years ago, the most famous of the slate-writing mediums was Dr. Henry Slade, of New York, with whom I had several sittings. I was unable to penetrate the mystery of his performance, until the summer of 1889, when light was thrown upon the subject by the conjurer C— whom I met in Baltimore.
FIG. 2. DR. HENRY SLADE.
“Do you know the medium Slade?” I asked him.
“Yes,” said he, “and he is a conjurer like myself. I’ve had sittings with him. Come to my rooms to-night, and I will explain the secret workings of the medium’s slate-writing. But first I will treat you to a regular séance.”
On my way to C’s home I tried to put myself in the frame of mind of a genuine seeker after transcendental knowledge. I recalled all the stories of mysterious rappings and ghostly visitations I had read or heard of. It was just the night for such eerie musings. Black clouds were scurrying across the face of the moon like so many mediaeval witches mounted on the proverbial broomsticks en route for a mad sabbat in some lonely churchyard. The prestidigitateur’s pension was a great, lumbering, gloomy old house, in an old quarter of Baltimore. The windows were tightly closed and only the feeble glimmer of gaslight was emitted through the cracks of the shutters. I rang the bell and Mr. C’s stage-assistant, a pale-faced young man, came to the door, relieved me of my light overcoat and hat, and ushered me upstairs into the conjurer’s sitting-room.
A large, baize-covered table stood in the centre of the apartment, and a cabinet with a black curtain drawn across it occupied a position in a deep alcove. Suspended from the roof of the cabinet was a large guitar. I took a chair and waited patiently for the appearance of the anti-Spiritualist, after having first examined everything in the room—table, cabinet, and musical instruments—but I discovered no evidence of trickery anywhere. I waited and waited, but no C—. “Can he have forgotten me?” I said to myself. Suddenly a loud rap resounded on the table top, followed by a succession of raps from the cabinet; and the guitar began to play. I was quite startled. When the music ceased the door opened, and C— entered.
“The spirits are in force to-night,” he remarked with a meaning smile, as he slightly diminished the light in the apartment.