Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
Uttered not, yet, comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer.
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air."
In the house of the lady I have mentioned in "The Story of the Monk," Mrs. Uniacke of Bruges, I have witnessed marvellous phenomena. They were not pleasant manifestations, very far from it, but there was no doubt that they were genuine. Whether they proceeded from the agency of Mrs. Uniacke, my sister Blanche, or a young lady called Miss Robinson, who sat with them, or from the power of all three combined, I cannot say, but they had experienced them on several occasions before I joined them, and were eager that I should be a witness of them. We sat in Mrs. Uniacke's house, in a back drawing-room, containing a piano and several book-cases, full of books—some of them very heavy. We sat round a table in complete darkness, only we four women, with locked doors and bolted windows. Accustomed as I was to all sorts of manifestations and mediumship, I was really frightened by what occurred. The table was most violent in its movements, our chairs were dragged from under us, and heavy articles were thrown about the room. The more Mrs. Uniacke expostulated and Miss Robinson laughed, the worse the tumult became. The books were taken from the shelves and hurled at our heads, several of the blows seriously hurting us; the keys of the piano at the further end of the room were thumped and crashed upon, as if they would be broken; and in the midst of it all Miss Robinson fell prone upon the floor, and commenced talking in Flemish, a language of which she had no knowledge. My sister understands it, and held a conversation with the girl; and she told us afterwards that Miss Robinson had announced herself by the name of a Fleming lately deceased in the town, and detailed many events of his life, and messages which he wished to be delivered to his family—all of which were conveyed in good and intelligible Flemish. When the young lady had recovered she resumed her place at the table, as my sister was anxious I should see another table, which they called "Mademoiselle" dance, whilst unseen hands thumped the piano. The manifestation not occurring, however, they thought it must be my presence, and ordered me away from the table. I went and stood up close against the folding doors that led into the front room, keeping my hand, with a purpose, on the handle. The noise and confusion palpably increased when the three ladies were left alone. "Mademoiselle," who stood in a corner of the room, commenced to dance about, and the notes of the piano crashed forcibly. There was something strange to me about the manifestation of the piano. It sounded as if it were played with feet instead of hands. When the tumult was at its height, I suddenly, and without warning, threw open the folding door and let the light in upon the scene, and I saw the music-stool mounted on the keyboard and hammering the notes down. As the light was admitted, both "Mademoiselle" and the music-stool fell with a crash to the floor, and the séance was over. The ladies were seated at the table, and the floor and articles of furniture were strewn with the books which had been thrown down—the bookshelves being nearly emptied—and pots of flowers. I was never at such a pandemonium before or after.
The late Sir Percy Shelley and his wife Lady Shelley, having no children of their own, adopted a little girl, who, when about four or five years, was seriously burned about the chest and shoulders, and confined for some months to her bed. The child's cot stood in Lady Shelley's bedroom, and when her adopted mother was about to say her prayers, she was accustomed to give the little girl a pencil and piece of paper to keep her quiet. One day the child asked for pen and ink instead of a pencil, and on being refused began to cry, and said, "The man said she must have pen and ink." As it was particularly enjoined that she must not cry for fear of reopening her wounds, Lady Shelley provided her with the desired articles, and proceeded to her devotions. When she rose from them, she saw to her surprise that the child had drawn an outline of a group of figures in the Flaxman style, representing mourners kneeling round a couch with a sick man laid upon it. She did not understand the meaning of the picture, but she was struck with amazement at the execution of it, as was everybody who saw it. From that day she gave the little girl a sheet of card-board each morning, with pen and ink, and obtained a different design, the child always talking glibly of "the man" who helped her to draw. This went on until the drawings numbered thirty or forty, when a "glossary of symbols" was written out by this baby, who could neither write nor spell, which explained the whole matter. It was then discovered that the series of drawings represented the life of the soul on leaving the body, until it was lost "in the Infinity of God"—a likely subject to be chosen, or understood, by a child of five. I heard this story from Lady Shelley's lips, and I have seen (and well examined) the original designs. They were at one time to be published by subscription, but I believe it never came to pass. I have also seen the girl who drew them, most undoubtedly under control. She was then a young married woman and completely ignorant of anything relating to Spiritualism. I asked her if she remembered the circumstances under which she drew the outlines, and she laughed and said no. She knew she had drawn them, but she had no idea how. All she could tell me was that she had never done anything wonderful since, and she had no interest in Spiritualism whatever.