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he general public who frequent Hyde Park little suspect that this Royal pleasance contains a dogs' cemetery, and that within a stone's-throw of Victoria Gate and the Bayswater Road, yet carefully hidden from the profane eyes of the throng, are the graves of thirty-nine dogs, of which thirty-three are surmounted by tombstones, mostly marble. Such is nevertheless the case; the graves are bright and green, some are even decorated with flowers. The cemetery is not a public institution; it does not belong to one person; it is an accident, just as my discovery of it was an accident. With a few exceptions, the dogs whose remains are interred there have belonged to ladies residing in the neighbourhood. They were the friends and playmates of their mistresses, sources of comfort and consolation in their hours of sadness, of amusement in their leisure, and trusted companions always. It is a fitting thing that the memories of faithful friends should be kept green. There have been herote dogs whose names have become historical, dogs like the noble "Gelert," who defended his master's child against a wolf, and was slain by his enraged master on suspicion of having killed the child himselt—not until he descried the wolf's dead body, and found his child safe and sound under its overturned cot, did the impetuous knight discover his mistake. Then there was the celebrated dog of Montargis, who avenged his master's death and killed his master's murderer in single combat. "Gelert" received a burial, and his grave is shown to this day; and the dog of Montargis has an undying memorial in the folk-lore of France. Then why should not the bodies of the less celebrated, but possibly equally noble, pets of modern fashionable London be remembered and buried? There is at least nothing obtrusive or objectionable about the modest canine Elysian-field of Hyde Park.

Driving along the Bayswater Road on the top of an omnibus, the passenger can get a glimpse of this unique little spot dotted with tiny marble tokens of affection. But the pedestrian who would wish to survey the graves at his leisure must enter Hyde Park a Victoria Gate and ask for the gatekeeper at the lodge. This lodge is a miniature Greek temple, like all the lodges of the Park, and is sacred to lollypops and ginger-beer, for which reason it is dear to the imagination of children. To them it is a palace of delight, and the little dogs, their companions, are quite unconscious that they are in close proximity to what must be conseerated ground in their doggish eyes. For behind this severely classical lodge is the canine necropolis. Without the gracious permission of Mr. Winbridge, the gatekeeper, we shall not be able to put our unhallowed foot inside it. Mr. Winbridge, the venerable custodian of Victoria Gate, is a genial old man, well