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From the profile portrait by James Sharples Sharples, an English painter by birth, was recommended by the great George Romney as being equipped to produce a work "worthy of the greatest of Americans."
At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted. Whoever this might be, the visit seemed to have some reference to the carpenter, for, shortly afterwards, Sharples made his appearance, and informed the captives they were free.
Those of us who were looking on lost no time in taking cover when the fire got at those cartridges. Steele tells us in this same connection of an extraordinary feat of horsemanship he witnessed by Mr. Charles Sharples, of the Winder Ranch.
"And his lordship, furthermore, requests me to state," proceeded Sharples, in a hoarse tone, "that he'll be responsible for the doctors' bill of all such gem'men as have received broken pates, or been otherwise damaged in the fray ough! ough!" "Hurrah!" shouted the mob. "We're all damaged we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices.
We met the next night; and, mercifully for me, Jim Barnes, as I find from him, overheard the appointment to meet at Cricketty Hall; and wonderfully and graciously has the Lord kept me in my trouble, and delivered me out of it." "But how do you suppose that Sharples got hold of that money?" asked Bradly. "Oh," replied the other, "I can easily understand all about that.
Another striking exemplification of perseverance and industry in the cultivation of art in humble life is presented in the career of James Sharples, a working blacksmith at Blackburn. He was born at Wakefield in Yorkshire, in 1825, one of a family of thirteen children. His father was a working ironfounder, and removed to Bury to follow his business.
Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. "Vell," he growled, addressing Quilt, "you know who's here, I suppose?"
"Saint Foster," said Levi Sharples, who stood just behind the lantern, and spoke in a sneering, snuffling voice, "we don't wish you any harm; but we have brought your saintship before our right worshipful court, that you may answer to the charge brought against you, of having deserted your old principles and companions, and inflicted much inconvenience and discredit on the cause of free-thought and good fellowship in Crossbourne.
Warned of the approach of the prisoners by the increased clamour, Sharples, who was busied in distributing the Marquis's donation, affected to throw the remainder of the money among the crowd, though, in reality, he kept back a couple of guineas, which he slipped into his sleeve, and running hastily up the steps, unlocked the door.
I can guess pretty well, though I saw none of their faces distinctly. They don't want any punishment from me if I wished to give it them, for they're getting it hot and strong from all sides already; and as for Sharples, poor wretched man, he's got caught in his own trap as neatly as if he'd set it on purpose to catch himself."
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