forward with pleasure to the bright future which they fondly hoped awaited him.

In intelligence Jonathan was quite in advance of his years and station; possessed of a body in robust health, he was strong and active, and in this beautiful casket was contained a gem, which sparkled with intelligence, and was adorned with religious worth. Many of his peculiarities are worth recording in the "Juvenile Companion."

He was an excellent reader. He loved the Bible, and at nights he frequently read it to his mother; he drew out a plan for the regular reading of the Holy Scriptures. Our "Juvenile Companion," was a great favourite with him; this and other religious books which he obtained at school, were carefully preserved as his chief treasure, and were also well read by him. When he heard wicked boys making use of profane or filthy words, he was deeply affected, and often expressed his gratitude that he had been saved from such naughty conduct. Like most healthy children he was fond of play, but was careful in selecting his company, and the time and nature of his childish amusements. If he unintentionally did anything which grieved his mother or uncle, with whom he resided, he would express sorrow, and never would rest until he had obtained forgiveness. His uncle George, remarks, "Jonathan was very fond of flowers, he was much pleased when sent to purchase some for the house or garden, and when taking a walk he was delighted with the wild roses and honeysuckles. His many beautiful allusions to familiar objects of nature, bear witness that his spirit was in harmony with the good, beautiful, and true."

While his friends were cherishing hopeful anticipations respecting him, for this life, Providence ordered otherwise; this bud of early promise was not destined to flourish long in this world. When, or what were the peculiar circumstances which led to the surrender of his heart to Christ, there is no means of ascertaining, that he did love God, and was the object of Divine favour there is not any doubt.

He was at the Sunday School on Lord's-day, the 25th of

September, 1853, as happy and as promising for life as ever; on the day following he was taken with English cholera, nothing serious was then apprehended. On Tuesday he was decidedly worse. The doctor was called in, and he seemed to apprehend no immediate danger. Alarming symptoms however rapidly were manifested, and it soon became evident that Jonathan's robust frame was giving way; his breathing became difficult, and he soon perceived and acknowledged that the fearful crisis was approaching. He appeared wishful to have his life prolonged; he took his medicine and submitted most cheerfully to the doctor's wishes; but although, on account of his mother, life appeared to him to be desirable, yet he never complained of his suffering or charged God foolishly. When all hope of life was over, and he was quite conscious of it, he was enabled, not merely to look at death with composure, but with triumph. Not till then did the advantages of his Sabbath-school training fully appear. On the Wednesday night his last struggle commenced. About nine o'Clock his uncle returned from the doctor with fresh medicine. Although then in much pain, and weakness extreme, the poor little sufferer sat up in bed, surrounded by weeping friends, and quietly took the medicine in his hand, and raising it to his lips drank the nauseous draught. It however was of no avail: after composing himself a few moments, looking around and addressing his mother, he remarked, "God has told me I must die. I am going to Heaven; don't cry for me. O, it is a grand place! it is better than being here! God has told me I must go." When he was in health he was very fond of reading the eighth chapter of St. Luke's Gospel, his mother therefore asked him, what Jesus said about children? He then, in the most sweet and collected manner, said, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven."

Finding his strength nearly gone, and being exceedingly happy, he expressed a wish to have one of the Sunday-s chool scholars sent for, that he might informher how happy he now was, when in prospect of eternity. In

this respect his wishes were complied with. Before she arrived, he asked his mother if he might give her one of his books as a parting token of his affection. This was also agreed to the box was brought, and he selected from his little stock "The Basket of Flowers." Between 11 and 12 o'clock at night the little girl was carried to his bedside, wrapped up in a blanket, so as to screen her from the cold. He looked earnestly at her, presented her with the book, and in the most affectionate manner said, " Sally, I am now going to heaven-God bless you, be a good lass, Sally," and then he sank exhausted in the bed. His look and expression seemed to say to his deeply affected companion, "Be a good girl, and you will follow me to that bright world where death can never devour, but where friendship pure and uninterrupted will last for ever." He also desired that another of his favourite books should be given as a token of affection to a little boy, who also was a scholar in the Sundayschool. The scene was affecting beyond description, all were bathed in tears. The mother and uncle, unable to suppress their feelings, gave vent to their afflicted hearts in tears and sobs, whilst all in the room seemed to be much more affected than the little sufferer, who was the occasion of so much grief, and whose efforts to administer consolation only added to the sorrow experienced. Could the Sundayschool teachers only have witnessed the scene I have attempted to sketch, they must have felt rewarded for and encouraged in their labour of love. He seemed rather like an angel of light, sent to comfort those who could ill bear the severe stroke inflicted on them-than as one struggling in the agonies of mortality.

Just before he closed his eyes in death, seeing those around so deeply affected, in a whisper he was heard to say, "Happy land-mother! - uncle George don't cry, you must pray, I am going !" and then he peacefully fell asleep, September 28th, 1854, aged eleven years. Thus another lamb was gathered from our Sunday-schools to the fold above.

This sudden and happy death produced a deep impression on the teachers and scholars at Castle-street school. With

the design of improving his death, I delivered an address to them on Sunday the 27th of November, when the substance of this paper was read. The room was exceedingly crowded, many were deeply affected, and it is hoped that the removal of Jonathan Robertshaw will be the means of doing much good. It is rather remarkable, that at the last annual tea party held before his death, he repeated a piece which he had selected and committed to memory. The piece was selected from a beautiful work, entitled a "Present to Sunday School-scholars"-recently published by Mr. W. Ingham, of Mankenhoes, Todmorden, a warm friend to our Sunday Schools-and as it so beautifully describes his own happy change, it might almost justify the idea of his having had a presentiment of his own translation to everlasting rest

"He's gone, the spirit's fled,

His mortal life has ceased;

He now lies numbered with the dead,
In quietude and peace.

His hopes were not on earth,

Nor did he fear to die;

His was a pure and holy birth,
In yon bright world on high.

Lov'd and esteem'd by all,
A friend to Jesus dear,
His happy spirit heard the call,
And scorn'd to linger here.

Weak are our thoughts, and vain;
How could we wish his stay,
In this bad world of grief and pain,

From that of endless day.

Blest is his lot above,

Where streams of bliss abound,

And every eye beams bright with love,

And joy is all around."

C. EDWARDS.

MOTHERLESS MARIAN.

THE room lay silent and deserted, with the chairs set primly back against the wall-a massive bedstead, gaunt and gloomy-books piled carefully upon the tables, the curtains drawn aside, and the sash raised a few inches to admit the outer air to mingle with the funereal dampness within. Upon a couch, the snow-white drapery of which swayed gently in the breath of the autumn wind creeping through the bowed shutters, rested a coffin of dark and polished wood. A withered leaf which had found its way through some crevice, went rustling along the floor coquetting with a long slant ray of moonlight, which streamed far into the room, dashing with brightness the fringe of the bed curtain, and quivering in the golden hair of the only living thing within that chamber--a little child, with pale, peaked features, and small, thin fingers, clutching the edge of the coffin. A strange little child that was, and a strange thing it seemed to see her standing there at the dead hour of midnight, looking down into that narrow house so fearlessly—with a kind of sullen sadness-crushing now and then a tear from her glittering eyes, and compressing her childish lips.

What had she come there for? She lifted from a stand near the bed a lamp burning dimly, and drew away from the face of the corpse the cold linen cloth.

'Mother!" she whispered, holding her breath, and touching with her finger the marble brow-"I know she won't wake up," she continued sadly to herself, "though only three days ago she was here, and told me she had prayed to God that she might live to take care of me—and God couldn't have listened to her, for she went away so What shall I do without her ?-I'm so little, and I never can ask other people for what I want. Oh! I wish she would come back-but they never do-people who die. How they all cried, and I can't; that is so strange I feel so badly-it all seems like a dream. Mother!"

soon.

But the silent sleeper stirred not; no answering look on the white face, no smile on the fallen lips; the long lashes