ces
without hesitation he grew interested. Men grow interested when you know
and appreciate their work; sometimes they grow more interested, at which
time they are also interesting.

And so it came about that they were married, the beautiful Miss Pott and
John Landseer, and it can also be truthfully added that they were happy
ever afterward.

But that was the last of Miss Pott. Her husband was so strong, so
self-centered, so capable, that he protected her from every fierce wind,
and gratified her every wish. She believed in him thoroughly and
conformed her life to his. Her personality was lost in him. The
biographer scarcely refers to her, save when he is obliged to,
indirectly, to record that she became the mother of three fine girls, and
the same number of boys, equally fine, by name, Thomas, Charles and
Edwin.

Thomas and Charles grew to be strong, learned and useful men, so
accomplished in literature and art that their names would shine bright on
history's page, were they not thrown into the shadow by the youngest
brother.

Before Edwin Landseer was twenty years of age he was known throughout the
United Kingdom as "Landseer." John Landseer was known as "the father of
Landseer," and the others were "the brothers of Landseer."

And when once in Piccadilly, the beautiful Miss Pott (that was) was
pointed out as "the mother of Landseer," the words warmed the heart of
the good woman like wine. To be the wife of a great man, and the mother
of a greater was career enough--she was very happy.

Queen Anne Street, near Cavendish Square, is a shabby district, with long
lines of plain brick houses built for revenue only.

But Queen Anne Street is immortal to all lovers of art because it was the
home of Turner; and within its dark, dull and narrow confines were
painted the most dazzlingly beautiful canvases that the world has ever
seen. And yet again the street has another claim on our grateful
remembrance, for at Number Eighty-three was born, on March Seventh,
Eighteen Hundred Two, Edwin Landseer.

The father of Landseer was an enthusiastic lover of art. He had sprung
from a long line of artistic workers in precious metals; and to use a
pencil with skill he regarded as the chief end of man.

Long before his children knew their letters, they were taught to make
pictures. Indeed, all children can make pictures before they can write.
For a play-spell, each day John Landseer and his boys tramped across
Hampstead Heath to