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Updated: June 2, 2025
But whether night reveals or hides the activities of men it changes them most curiously. The difference between man in day, man in night, is acute. The arrival of darkness always meant something to the Rev. Peter Uniacke, whose cure of souls now held him far from the swarming alleys and the docks in which his early work had been done.
His advice was strongly in favour of adopting the line to Holyhead, as less costly and presenting better gradients. A public meeting was held at Chester, in January, 1839, in support of the latter measure, at which he was present to give explanations. Mr. Uniacke, the Mayor, in opening the proceedings, said that Mr.
"What painter ever before had such a model?" he said to Uniacke. And that night after supper, he got up from the table saying: "I must go and see if Jack will give me a sitting to-night." Uniacke rose also. "Let me come with you," he said. Sir Graham stopped with his hand on the door. There was a smile on his lips, but his eyes were full of foreboding.
"And you your night?" he asked. "I did not sleep at all," said Uniacke quickly, telling the truth with a childish sense of relief, "I was excited." "Excited!" said Sir Graham. "The unwonted exercise of conversation. You forget that I am generally a lonely man," said the clergyman, once more drawn into the sin of subterfuge, and scorching in it almost like a soul in hell.
The sea must be breaking magnificently." Uniacke took Sir Graham's arm and led him away, compelling him almost as if he were a child. They left the churchyard behind them, and were soon in solitary country alone with the roar of wind and sea. Branching presently from the road they came into a narrow, scarcely perceptible, track, winding downward over short grass drenched with moisture.
The very instant Miss Gascoigne was gone, Christian, throwing herself on her husband's neck, clasping him, clinging to him, ready almost to fling herself at his knees in her passion of humility and love, told him without reserve, without one pang of hesitation or shame perhaps, indeed, there was little or nothing to be ashamed of every thing concerning herself and Edwin Uniacke.
"He is just where I stood?" Uniacke asked. "Yes." "Then he is watching." "By a grave?" "Yes. Only one of his crew ever gained the land. He gained it a corpse. He is buried by that wall. I was reading the inscription upon his tombstone, and wondering " "Wondering? Yes?" "Where he is, how he is now, far away from the voice of the sea which took his life, the wind which roared his requiem."
Uniacke was beginning to feel happier about him, even to doubt the doctor's wisdom in denouncing work as a danger, when something happened which filled him with a vague apprehension.
I interested him much less than old brocade and lighted wax candles, which inspired him with a solemnity that widened his eyes and narrowed his features. He looked on a new, and never-before-imagined, life. And he was grave to excess, though, later, I found plenty of the London child's impish nature in him." "That impish quality hides in nearly all street-bred children," said Uniacke.
"My picture was before me and a child's budding soul, and I thought of nothing at all but my picture. That's sin, if you like. Little Jack, in his jersey and squeaky boots, with his pale face and great eyes, was my prey on canvas and my £1,000. I hugged myself and told him wild stories of bold men on the sea. Uniacke, do you believe in a personal devil?"
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