Another very unequivocal instance is given us by Mr. Hugh Miller. Pompey, a black Retriever, belonging to a lady at Morningside, Edinburgh, could not be kept because he was perpetually damaging the neighbours’ gardens. He was, therefore, sent to lodge with the family of an old servant, but there, too, he made his position untenable by fighting with the servant’s own Dog. At last, it was agreed that there was no use in trying to cure Pompey of his bad habits; he was condemned to death, and the butcher was ordered to hang him on a certain day. The children, who loved the poor beast, despite his crimes, kept throwing their arms round his neck and saying, “Oh, poor Pompey, you’re going to be hanged!” On the morning fixed for the execution Pompey disappeared, and kept clear until he imagined the storm had blown over. Another day was, therefore, fixed, but before that time the servant at whose house he was stopping mentioned Pompey’s case to a lady, who obtained a reprieve, and adopted him herself. He behaved very well with his new mistress for some time, although for a full year after his rescue he was much depressed in spirits, and wore quite a hang-dog look. But after some years, there was a general change of servants in the house, and Pompey, who disliked strangers, bit one of the new-comers. His mistress--without meaning a threat--said to him, “Oh, Pompey, you’ll be hanged after all!” whereupon Pompey decamped, and could by no means be heard of. At length, an advertisement in the _Scotsman_ was answered by a gentleman, who stated that an ownerless Dog, of the description given, had been caught _changing trains_ at Layton, Cumberland. Here he was detained, and, although at home rather averse to strangers, displayed at once extraordinary urbanity, and was soon a prime favourite. Evidently it was his intention to ingratiate himself with his new friends, that he might not be sent home and hanged. Subsequently, he was identified by a friend of his mistress’s who was travelling in Cumberland, and sent home. Besides illustrating a Dog’s knowledge of words, this anecdote furnishes a wonderful instance of acuteness, for this Dog knew nothing of the railway by which he travelled to Layton, except from having a short time before accompanied the cook to the station to see her off on a journey. After finding that the Dog can understand what is said to him, one is always tempted to wish he could go one step further, and answer again, for to hear from a Dog’s own lips his opinion on “men and things” would be an entertainment of no small interest. Attempts have been made to teach Dogs to speak, but as one might imagine with very partial success. A curious account of an attempt of this kind was communicated by the great philosopher Leibnitz to the French Academy.