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THE writer, who is about to record three
spiritual experiences of his own in the present
truthful article, deems it essential to state
that, down to the time of his being favored
therewith, he had not been a believer in
rappings, or tippings. His vulgar notions of
the spiritual world, represented its inhabitants
as probably advanced, even beyond the
intellectual supremacy of Peckham or New
York; and it seemed to him, considering
the large amount of ignorance, presumption,
and folly with which this earth is blessed, so
very unnecessary to call in immaterial Beings
to gratify mankind with bad spelling and
worse nonsense, that the presumption was
strongly against those respected films taking
the trouble to come here, for no better
purpose than to make supererogatory idiots of

This was the writer's gross and fleshy
state of mind at so late a period as the twenty-
sixth of December last. On that memorable
morning, at about two hours after
daylight,—that is to say, at twenty minutes
before ten by the writer's watch, which stood
on a table at his bedside, and which can be
seen at the publishing-office, and identified as a
demi-chronometer made by BAUTTE of Geneva,
and numbered 67,709—on that memorable
morning, at about two hours after daylight,
the writer, starting up in bed with his hand
to his forehead, distinctly felt seventeen heavy
throbs or beats in that region. They were
accompanied by a feeling of pain in the
locality, and by a general sensation not unlike
that which is usually attendant on biliousness.
Yielding to a sudden impulse, the writer asked:

"What is this?"

The answer immediately returned (in
throbs or beats upon the forehead) was,

The writer then demanded, being as yet
but imperfectly awake:

"What was yesterday?"

Answer: "Christmas Day."

The writer, being now quite come to
himself, inquired, "Who is the Medium in
this case?"

Answer: "Clarkins."

Question: "Mrs. Clarkins, or Mr. Clarkins?"

Answer: "Both."

Question: "By Mr., do you mean Old
Clarkins, or Young Clarkins?"

Answer: "Both."

Now, the writer had dined with his friend
Clarkins (who can be appealed to, at the
State-Paper Office) on the previous day, and
spirits had actually been discussed at that
dinner, under various aspects. It was in the
writer's remembrance, also, that both Clarkins
Senior and Clarkins Junior had been very
active in such discussion, and had rather
pressed it on the company. Mrs. Clarkins
too had joined in it with animation, and had
observed, in a joyous if not an exuberant
tone, that it was "only once a year."

Convinced by these tokens that the rapping
was of spiritual origin, the writer proceeded
as follows:

"Who are you?"

The rapping on the forehead was resumed,
but in a most incoherent manner. It was for
some time impossible to make sense of it.
After a pause, the writer (holding his head)
repeated the inquiry in a solemn voice,
accompanied with a groan:

"Who ARE you?"

Incoherent rappings were still the response.

The writer then asked, solemnly as before,
and with another groan:

"What is your name?"

The reply was conveyed in a sound exactly
resembling a loud hiccough. It afterwards
appeared that this spiritual voice was
distinctly heard by Alexander Pumpion, the
writer's footboy (seventh son of Widow
Pumpion, mangler), in an adjoining chamber.

Question: "Your name cannot be
Hiccough? Hiccough is not a proper name?"

No answer being returned, the writer said:
"I solemnly charge you, by our joint
knowledge of Clarkins the Mediumof Clarkins
Senior, Clarkins Junior, and Clarkins Mrs.—
to reveal your name!"

The reply rapped out with extreme
unwillingness, was, "Sloe-Juice, Logwood,

This appeared to the writer sufficiently like
a parody on Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-
Seed, in the Midsummer Night's Dream, to
justify the retort:

"That is not your name?"

The rapping spirit admitted, "No."