Portrait of Ellen Sharples, painted by her daughter, Rolinda Sharples, c. 1814.
Self-portrait by Rolinda Sharples, with her mother, Ellen Sharples, in the background
Rolinda Sharples (1793–1838) was an English painter who specialised in portraits and genre paintings in oil. She exhibited at the Royal Academy and at the Society of British Artists, where she became an honorary member. Via Wikipedia
Valley Memorialize
Summary: Eliza gazed into the mirror, taking stock of her appearance.
Eliza gazed into the mirror, taking stock of her appearance. Her hair had been primped and allowed to fly free, to the point where she hardly recognized herself. It had been so long since she’d done something like this, and it felt strange to see herself in such a state. Reaching up, she tucked the strand of black pearls more securely amid her hair, and made sure that the matching bow was fixed as well.
“Eliza?”
Her eyes left her own image in the mirror and turned to gaze upon Alexander’s reflection. He stood in the doorway, dressed in a simple black coat with a white cravat. Unlike her, he had chosen to powder his hair, giving him that dignified air that he so often sought when sitting for his portraits. Eliza herself had decided against powder, recalling that she had worn powder in her hair the last time she had sat for a portrait – goodness, had it really been eight years?
In truth, she had been hesitant to agree to all of this. Their finances still were not entirely repaired, and Eliza had thought it an unnecessary expense. But Alexander had insisted on it, and had even located a painter of portraits who charged much less than the likes of Mr. Stuart and Mr. Trumbull. The portraits would not be large, grand things, but they would be perfectly respectable, as apparently Mr. Sharples came highly recommended for both his talents and his fees.
Eliza remembered the bright, excited expression Alexander had worn when he’d told her of the arrangement and, in the end, just hadn’t the heart to resist further.
Standing up from her dressing table, Eliza turned to face him, letting him see the entirety of what she had chosen to be painted in. The pearls had been a gift from her parents some years before, but the dress was relatively new, a confection of white and cream silk and taffeta, with a low-cut bodice.
Alexander’s eyes roved over her, taking everything in, and Eliza tried not to laugh. “Do I pass muster, husband?” she asked him lightly as she swept closer, intending to begin the journey downstairs. She didn’t even make it out of the room, because Alexander caught her by the arms, leaning in to nuzzle at her exposed neck.
“You are ravishing, my love,” he murmured against her skin, pressing a kiss on her pulse. “And so… inspiring. I have so many ideas now… ideas that will delay our appointment with Mr. Sharples.”
Eliza shivered against the sensation of his lips on her skin. “Now, now,” she breathed, and then firmly pushed him back a step. “I did not do all of this just to have it taken apart within five minutes, dearest,” she told him, and then she gave him her a naughty grin. “You’ll just have to wait until this evening. We shan’t be interrupted then.”
It was true, after all. With the children all visiting her parents, she and Alexander were in that rarest of states – alone in the house. And he was also remembering that, if the hungry gleam in his eyes was anything to go by.
“Just you wait, my lovely minx,” Alexander murmured in her ear as she slipped past him.
They made the journey downstairs to the parlor together. As they entered, Eliza was pleased to see that Mr. Sharples was already waiting for them, his easel and other tools already arranged neatly. What surprised her, however, was that he was not alone. He was accompanied by a young matron with chestnut curls peeking out from beneath her cap, who also had several sketching tools of her own organized and laid out neatly.
“Ah yes,” Alexander said from beside her, as though he was just remembering a previously forgotten detail. “My dear, permit me to introduce you to Mrs. Sharples. She is an artist herself, and often paints alongside Mr. Sharples here.”
Pleasantries were exchanged, but they were short. It was obvious to Eliza that the couple clearly wished to get on with their work, so she did nothing to impede them beyond asking if they would care for any refreshment. They politely accepted the offer, and Eliza called for their hired girl to bring them a tray of tea and other dainties that could easily be nibbled on while the couple went about their work.
It was Mr. Sharples who guided her and Alexander to sit in the pose he required. Instead of facing forward, he would be painting them both in profile. “Please,” he told Eliza, gesturing to one of the chairs, “sit here, Mrs. Hamilton. This angle will permit us to an excellent view of all pertinent details.”
By which, Eliza gathered, he meant her bow and pearls. So her efforts had not gone to waste, she thought, pleased.
Alexander was then left to the other chair, which was directly in front of Eliza, placing his back to her. As he seated himself, Eliza noted that, yet again, he had not completely covered his hair in powder, covering only the hair atop his head, at his temples, and part of the way down. The last few inches were still quite visibly their normal color. She smiled in amusement.
“Ah!” Mrs. Sharples cried out suddenly, “Just there, Mrs. Hamilton! Pray, do not move an inch!”
Eliza blinked, surprised by the younger woman’s exuberance, but did as she was told.
“You have a lovely smile, Mrs. Hamilton,” Mrs. Sharples continued, to which her husband hummed his agreement. Eliza could not see them clearly, but from the corner of her eye, she could detect the way their pencils flew over their work. “Mr. Hamilton showed us the portrait created by Mr. Earl, and he was most insistent that we do our best to capture that same liveliness. I had worried that we might not be able to, for people so often change over time, but now I see we need not have been concerned.”
“Quite so,” Alexander agreed cheerfully. “My Betsey is as lovely as she was the day we met!”
Eliza laughed. “And you are just as smooth-talking, my Alexander.”
The rest of the sitting passed pleasantly enough, and within an hour or two, Mr. and Mrs. Sharples had done enough preliminary work that they could return to their workshop. They would, of course, need to return for supplementary sketches, to catch further details, but that would not be for some days yet, and promised to send word to arrange a convenient time for another sitting.
Eliza saw them to the door with Alexander, and watched as they hurried down the street on foot. She turned away when Alexander shut the door on the outside world, and spotted a few pieces of mail sitting on the entry table. She walked over and picked them up, and brightened when she spotted her sister’s familiar handwriting. Before Eliza could open it, however, Alexander cleared his throat behind her. She turned and found him leaning against the closed door, staring at her intently.
She cocked her head. “Is something wrong, dearest?”
He shook his head. “No, just remembering what you said earlier.” Alexander gave her a slow, almost predatory smile, and asked, “Must we really wait until evening?”
Eliza paused, and then remembered her earlier words. She eyed him and, after setting Angelica’s letter back down, tapped her lips with her finger, giving him a mock-considering look. “Hmm,” she said. “We really should. ‘Tis almost supper time, and we –”
Alexander cut her off as he darted toward her, clearly intent on ambushing her. Eliza, however, knew this game very well, and her reflexes could be just as fast as his. In a flash, she turned on her heel and fled before him, holding her voluminous skirts up as she raced up the stairs. She could hear him pounding up the steps after her, just a few feet behind, and Eliza couldn’t help but laugh as she struggled to increase her pace in spite of her cumbersome attire.
He would catch her, of course. Alexander always caught her, not that she minded.
Most likely, they would have a late supper.
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Note: The portraits Eliza and Alexander are sitting for her are the 1795 portrait for Eliza, and the 1796 portrait of Alexander. Both portraits are credited to James Sharples, but his third wife, Ellen, was very much an artist in her own right, and was known to work right alongside her husband. She painted a portrait of George Washington in the same year as the one of Alexander (the two look very similar to my admittedly untrained eye). I combined their sittings, just so Eliza and Alexander could keep one another company, and have some fun together afterward.
The Monument to Alexander Hamilton at Weehawken by Pavel Svinyin, 1811-1813 (Metropolitan Museum of Art)
“The Mitchills…took the Sharpleses on a ferryboat across the Hudson….Ellen [Sharples] later noted in her journal…‘The neat elegant monument of white marble is placed on the spot where the General fell, at the foot of stupendous rocks.’ A Latin inscription had been etched into the marble:
Incorrupta Fides, nudaque Veritas,
Quando ullam invenient parem?
Multis ille quidem flebilis occidit.
These were the lines from Horace that Hosack had quotes in his account of Hamilton’s death. The monument to Hamilton, in the form of a fourteen-foot obelisk, had been erected by the New York chapter of the St. Andrew’s Society, a fraternal group founded in the 1750s for the benefit New Yorkers of Scottish descent.” (Victoria Johnson, American Eden, pp. 236-237).
The translation of the inscription: “When Will incorruptible Faith and naked Truth Find another his equal? He has died wept by many.” (Johnson, p. 167).
Ellen Sharples, Sarah Lloyd Hillhouse, n.d., pastel on paper, sheet: 9 1⁄8 x 7 1⁄8 in. (23.1 x 18.1 cm), Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of Mrs. John Mason Frier, 1970.356
#bornonthisday Ellen Wallace Sharples (4 March 1769 – 14 March 1849) was an English painter specialized in portraits in pastel and in watercolor miniatures on ivory.[1] She exhibited five miniatures at the Royal Academy in 1807, and founded the Bristol Fine Arts Academy in 1844 with a substantial gift. Via Wikipedia
Self-portrait of Rolinda Sharples with her mother Ellen Sharples (1814). Rolinda Sharples (ca. 1793 - 1838). Bristol City Museum and Art Gallery, Bristol, UK.
Sharples, born in England, emigrated when young to the US, and then moved back to the UK in 1811. Sharples' parents and three brothers were all professional artists. Her mother pictured above was the artist Ellen Wallace Sharples (1769-1849).
