Now, Salan was not the bad boy that Millenki and his wife represented him to be. He was an orphan boy, and his uncle, who had lately died, had left him a nice little sum of money, which was placed in the hands of his employer for safe keeping until Salan should arrive at age. Millenki was a bad man, and his wife was by no means a good woman. They both resolved to resort to any expedient within their power to get Salan's money, and to use it for their own purposes. They now thought that they had succeeded, and that they could represent to the world that the runaway boy had set fire to the barn.

But what became of Salan while the new barn was building? His history was certainly remarkable. He was a bright active-looking boy, and could ride a horse equal to any man. A few days after he had started from the little Russian village he was overtaken by a troop of horsemen who were doing all they could to annoy Napoleon's army; for this was the time when Napoleon was marching his great army into Russia. Salan was met, caught up by the horsemen, placed upon a swift little horse, and told that he must do his duty whenever his turn for fighting came. It was soon found that he was a brave soldier, and he rapidly acquired much skill in using his lance. By-and-by the horsemen had an engagement with a foraging party of the great French army, and though the Russians were successful Salan was nevertheless severely wounded. He was taken by several of the officers to the nearest village, and placed in the care of a kind widow woman who superintended a little hospital. She promised to take great care of Salan, and I assure you she kept her promise. Several weeks he was compelled to lie in bed, but by-and-by he was permitted to go out on the doorstep and get a little fresh air. One day as he was taking a little exercise, he saw two policemen hurrying along the street taking a man to prison. That man was none other than Millenki.

for him promotion and substantial rewards. In 1797 he was made Rear Admiral, received the Order of the Bath, and a pension of £1,000 per Annum.

On August 12th, 1798, he destroyed the French Fleet in the Bay of Aboukir, and thus dealt a fatal blow at the designs of Napoleon Bonaparte on Egypt; for this service he was elevated to the peerage as Baron Nelson of the Nile. On the 1st of April, 1801, he attacked and destroyed the Danish Fleet in front of Copenhagen, a victory which led to the return of peace between Great Britain and the Northern Powers. On October 21st, 1805, he fought his last great battle with the combined French and Spanish Fleets off Cape Cape Trafalgar. It was at the commencement of this action that he displayed the celebrated signal, England expects every man to do his duty." The allies were totally defeated, and the destruction of their navies relieved the British Island from the fear of that French invasion with which Napoleon had long threatened them. The victory cost Nelson his life. He was wounded by a musket ball, which entered his left shoulder and lodged in the spine; he expired three hours and a half afterwards. His body was brought to England and buried in St. Paul's Cathedral, London, where it now reposes.

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Lord Nelson rendered great services to his country. In combination with intense patriotism, boundless courage, and great ambition, he had an almost childlike tenderness of feeling. "Kiss me, Hardy," said he to one of his favourite captains, not long before he expired.

Nelson, we regret to have to say, was not without grave faults. At Naples he became acquainted with Lady Hamilton, wife of the English Ambassador; under her influence he separated from his wife, and sanctioned acts of perfidy and cruelty, against some who had rebelled against the Neopolitan Government, which, had they been perpetrated by others, he would probably have condemned. Genius is no excuse for immorality. In reading Nelson's life, we are painfully

reminded of the horrors of war. It is a sad thing that men who profess to believe in "the Prince of Peace," should so frequently be engaged in shedding each other's blood; may the time soon come when they shall love as brethren, and learn war no more.

THE WAY TO SPEAK TO BOYS.

ANY years ago, a certain minister was going one Sunday morning from his house to his schoolroom. He walked through a number of streets, and as he turned a corner, he saw assembled around a pump a party of little boys who were playing at marbles. On seeing him approach, they began to pick up their marbles and run away as

fast as they could. One little fellow not having seen him as soon as the rest, could not accomplish this so soon; and before he had succeeded in gathering up his marbles, the minister had closed upon him, and placed his hand upon his shoulder. They were face to face, the minister of God and the poor little ragged boy who had been caught in the act of playing marbles on Sunday morning. And how did the minister deal with the boy? for that is what I want you to observe.

He might have said to the boy, "What are you doing here? You are breaking the Sabbath! Don't you deserve to be punished for breaking the command of God?"

But he did nothing of the kind. He simply said, "Have you found all your marbles ?"

"No" said the little boy, "I have not."

"Then," said the minister, "I will help you to find them," whereupon he knelt down and helped to look for the marbles, and as he did so he remarked, "I liked to play at marbles

when a little boy very much, and I think I can beat you; but," added he, "I never played marbles on Sunday.”

The little boy's attention was arrested. He liked his friend's face, and began to wonder who he was.

ter said,―

The minis

"I am going to a place where I think you would like to be-will you come with me?"

Said the boy, "Where do you live?"

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Why, in such and such a place," was the reply.

'Why, that is the minister's house!" exclaimed the boy, as if he did not suppose that a kind man and the minister of the Gospel could be the same person.

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'Why," said the man, "I am the minister myself, and of you will come with me, I think I can do you some good. Said the boy, "My hands are dirty; I cannot go."

Said the minister, "Here is a pump-why not wash ?"
Said the boy, 66
I am so little that I can't wash and pump

at the same time."

Said the minister, "If you'll wash, I'll pump."

He at once set to work, and pumped, and pumped, and pumped, and as he pumped, the little boy washed his hands and his face till they were quite clean.

Said the boy, "My hands are wringing wet, and I don't know how to dry them."

The minister pulled out of his pocket a clean pocket-handkerchief, and offered it to the boy.

Said the little boy, "But it is clean."

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"Yes," was the reply, "but it was made to be dirtied."

The little boy dried his hands and face with the handkerchief, and then accompanied the minister to the door of the Sunday-school.

Twenty years after, the minister was walking in the street of a large city, when a tall gentleman tapped him on the shoulder, and looking into his face said, "You don't remember me."

"No," said the minister, "I don't.”