sehold, as household
dogs always are, became interested in Landseer's dogs. They could not buy
a painting by Landseer, but they could spare a few shillings for an
engraving.

And so John Landseer began to reproduce the pictures of Edwin's dogs.

The demand grew, and Thomas now ceased to sketch and devoted all his time
to etching and engraving his brother's work.

Every one knew of Landseer, even people who cared nothing for art: they
wanted a picture of one of his dogs to hang over the chimney, because the
dog looked like one they used to own.

Then rich people came and wanted Edwin to paint a portrait of their dog,
and a studio was opened where the principal sitters were dogs. From a
position where close economy must be practised, the Landseers found
themselves with more money than they knew what to do with.

Edwin was barely twenty, but had exhibited at several Royal Academy
Exhibitions and his name was on every tongue. He gave no attention to
marketing his wares--his father and brothers did all that--he simply
sketched and had a good time. He was healthy, strong, active, and could
walk thirty miles a day; but now that riches had come that way he bought
a horse and rode.

Then other horses were presented to him, and he began to picture horses,
too. That he knew horses and loved them is evidenced in many a picture.
In every village or crossroads town of America can be found copies of his
"Shoeing," where stands the sleek bay mare, the sober, serious donkey,
and the big dog.

No painter who ever lived is so universally known as Landseer, and this
is because his father and brothers made it their life-business to
reproduce his work by engraving.

Occasionally, rich ladies would want their own portraits painted with a
favorite dog at their feet, or men wanted themselves portrayed on
horseback, and so Landseer found himself with more orders than he could
well care for. People put their names, or the name of their dog, on his
waiting-list, and some of the dogs died of old age before the name was
reached.

"I hear," said a lady to Sydney Smith at a dinner party--"I hear you are
to have your portrait painted by Landseer."

"Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?" answered the wit.
The story went the rounds, and Mulready once congratulated the clergyman
on the repartee.

"I never made the reply," said Sydney Smith; "but I wish I had."

Sydney Smith was once visiting the Landseer studio, and his eye ch