On the passage home we got quite friendly, and he told me the whole story of the attack. He had met George Fullerton, and been told by him of his wife’s faithlessness and flight, coupled with M^cCulloch’s name. He was quite frenzied, and went off at once to look for M^cCulloch, whom Fullerton had seen not long before in the town. He met him at last by chance, and stabbed him twice, meaning to kill him. When he came to be tried, which was two months later, on account of the state of his victim, he pleaded “Not guilty” by advice, and M^cCulloch was called as a witness, when, to the astonishment of all, M^cCulloch declared most positively that he could not remember who stabbed him, but that he had a strong impression that the assailant was _not_ the man at the bar. None looked more astonished than the prisoner, but a moment later he recovered himself and rose to his feet. “He’s telling a lie! I did stab him. I’m guilty, and I’m not sorry. He led away my wife, and she’s now on the streets. Ask him if it’s not true? That’s all I’ve to say.” M^cCulloch, when questioned, made some shuffling answers, and was finally ordered out of the box. Then Fisher, in consideration of the peculiar circumstances of the case, and his having been already two months in prison, was sentenced to a month’s imprisonment. I saw him after his release. He was searching for his wife, and had come to me to get my assistance, but we only found her grave. THE STOLEN DOWRY. In a public-house in the Saltmarket of Glasgow there had been a leak in a barrel of spirits which stood in a dark corner inside the counter. The whisky was pure and unreduced as it came from the distillery. Before being retailed it would have been mixed with water in certain proportions, according, to the price labelled on the fancy-painted casks ranged along the wall, to which it would have been partly transferred on the day after its arrival. As it happened, however, that particular barrel was not to be sold. An old spigot had got loose during the night, and the pot-boy who opened the shop waded into what he thought was water instead of the thick coating of sawdust generally covering the floor. The shop was dark, and the boy got a stump of candle and lighted it, to have a search into the cause. The smell might have enlightened him. Behind the counter the floor was covered with escaping whisky. The boy crouched down and poked the candle-stump in under the barrel, and at the same moment was burnt by some of the melted grease. His fingers were of most importance to him, and he dropped the candle with a howl. If the whisky had been gunpowder, it could scarcely have put him out of the shop more quickly. There was a blaze and a roar, and then an explosion, and the boy had scarcely reached the opposite side of the street, with more burns than the candle had inflicted, when the whole shop was in flames.