THE LOOK-OUT AT MAST-HEAD.

THE steamer Asia had a narrow escape, on one of her summer trips, from a huge iceberg on the grand banks of Newfoundland. Going at the rate of ten or twelve knots an hour, "she had just entered one of those heavy clouds which lie on the surface of the ocean, indicating the presence of a berg, when the look-out at the fore-topmasthead sung out at the top of his voice, 'Iceberg! hard astarboard!' Quick as thought the helm obeyed the warning, and the ship took a short sheer to port. Instantly the towering mountain of ice with its cloud-piercing turrets loomed in terrific grandeur over the ship's starboard bow. 'Meet her!' roared the captain, and port went the helm. The counter motion barely cleared the wheel-house and stern of the ship from the iceberg, and the danger was past. A united scream from the timid rung through the ship. The stout-hearted stood motionless and awe-stricken ; and even the ship herself almost seemed to be sensible of the providence which saved her and her freight of living hundreds from destruction; for her motion ceased, and she stood as if paralyzed by the fright. Had the eyes of the look-out been diverted a single moment, had he hesitated to give the alarm but for a minute, or had the ship been less obedient to her helm, nothing could have saved a soul on board, and the fate of the Asia would have been as profound a mystery as that of tthe President."

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Few can read this thrilling account without emotion. What, under God, saved this noble steamer? The quick eye, the instant warning, the obedient helm. These were the instrumentalities of safety. And, as we dwell upon circumstances, the mind instinctively turns to those moral icebergs that are sweeping down the currents of society, clouding the atmosphere, and crushing many a noble spirit by their terrible might.

A young man is steaming on his way in prosperous business. Every thing looks safe, but has he a look-out at the fore-topmast-head? Clouds gather round. Danger is on his track. Hark! a voice from the masthead :

"Useless expenses! failure! fraud! hard a-starboard !” Quick as thought does the young man obey the warning? As ruin looms in terrific grandeur over his starboard bow, does he make a short sheer to port?

A young man has left his early home, and with strong and buoyant spirit, is dashing over the ocean of life. Sunshine is overhead. Favouring winds swell his sails. But has he a look-out at the mast-head? He enters the heavy clouds which sometimes lie on the bosom of life's troubled waters. Are they not tokens of hidden peril? Hark! a voice at the mast-head: "Profligate companions! drinking, dissoluteness, death! hard a-starboard !" Quick as thought does the young man obey the warning? And as vice looms in terrific wildness over his starboard bow, does he make a short sheer to port?

A young man has embarked on life's sea, freighted with eternal hopes. The Word of God seems to be his chart, faith his compass, and the obedient will at the helm. The prayers of pious friends go with him. God's people watch his course with grateful joy. The Sun of Righteousness seems to illume his path by day, the Star of Bethlehem by night; all seems well with him. But has he a look-out at the mast-head? There is a change in the spiritual atmosphere. A chill and cloud envelope his way. Unseen danger lurks on his track, Hark! the voice of warning: "Prayerless day, broken vows, profaned Sabbaths! hard a-starboard!" Quick as thought does he obey the warning? And as "lost character" looms in terrific boldness over his starboard bow, does he make a short sheer to port? If the eye is diverted, if there is hesitation in giving the alarm, if there is less obedience at the helm, nothing but a miracle of grace can save that soul from shipwrecked hopes and a lost eternity. Young man, have you a good look-out at your mast-head ?

CLEVER NAT.

THERE was once a man, an acquaintance of my boyhood, whose name was Nathaniel Fellowes, or Clever Nat, as

we used to call him, on account of his quickness. He was a watchmaker by trade, but he dabbled in several other employments. He could not only mend locks and hang bells, but he played the pianoforte, and could tune his own instrument. He knew how to tinker with a broken flute; he took profiles; engraved names on doorplates; and carved wonderfully expressive heads on walkingsticks. He was also a rhymer, and furnished New-Year addresses to the carrier of the newspaper, and scraps of verse for weddings.

Nat was a reader, and had a good stock of books. In his travels he had picked up a little French. I am sorry to say, it did him no good. The French books which we used to get in those days were generally of an infidel cast. It was observed that although Nat said little on these points, he often looked sneeringly at church, and at length discontinued his attendance on public worship. In process of time, he spent his Sabbaths in fishing and strolling through the woods. His chief companion was a gunsmith of the village, who was suspected as one of a counterfeiting company. I never heard any one say that Nat was concerned in this; but the alliance was unhappy. The watchmaker began to neglect his business. His head was turning grey; but he had laid up nothing. Most of his customers forsook him, on account of his dilatory ways and frequent breaches of engagement. His very sports became distasteful to him. Being a bachelor, he had no household cares to employ him. He grew every day more wrinkled, and his temper was soured. There was no more playing on his instrument; there were no more children at his shop, watching the progress of snares, and windmills, and birdcages. If he took up a watch-movement, he no longer whistled over his work. Still he read on, even more assiduously than ever. People used to wonder whether it was the fruit of much reading to make a man pettish and discontented.

After some years' absence, I fell into discourse with my old friend Nat. He was slow to satisfy me in regard to my inquiries, but I was resolved to be answered. The

truth came out—his knowledge was spurious-his learning was godless-he had learned his disease, but not his remedy-he had cultivated his understanding, while his heart had lain unmoved. In this fallow state, it had thrown up a rank crop of noisome weeds-doubts, misanthropic distrust of his fellows, discontent with his lot, sickly apprehensions of the future, a thousand imaginary evils. He showed me an essay he had written in justification of suicide. I suspected that it was an attempt to steel himself for this supposed escape from sorrow. "Oh !" cried he, "would to heaven I had never seen a book, or learned to read and write!" I took him by the hand, and said, "Fellowes, let me be plain with you-you would see through any disguise-what you lack is the religion of Jesus Christ." He rose to his feet in a great rage. I shall not repeat his expressions: they were both violent and blasphemous. Their very heat convinced me that I had touched the inflamed fibre, and that he knew it. I took no notice of his vehemence and disrespect, but, going a little about, I adverted to our boyhood, recalled one or two incidents of a somewhat tender kind, and by cautious approaches endeavoured to bring strongly before his mind the image of his mother, to whom he had been devotedly attached. His feelings were much affected, and he sat musing, with his arms folded, and looking in the direction of the cottage where she had lived. After allowing this current of thought to run freely in silence for a few moments, I said,

"Well do I remember your mother. You resemble her, Nat; and more than ever since you have begun to wear glasses. But she was gayer than you. A sprightlier, happier woman, I never saw. Her old age was peaceful, and her decline like that of a beautiful sunset. Her death was like what Milton calls

"A gentle wafting to eternal life.'"

This was too much for poor Nat. He burst into tears. "Now," said I, "tell me truly, do you think that good woman was sincere in her religion ?" "Sincere!" cried

he, kindling in a moment, " I could cleave the man down who should charge her with hypocrisy !" "And do you think,” I added, "that she was less happy by reason of her Christian belief?" Nat was silent. "And do you not believe that that Christian belief is exactly the thing which her prodigal son needs to make him equally happy? And can you, my dear old friend, abandon all hope of ever meeting her sainted spirit in a better world ?" I did not wait for a reply, but left him to indulge his meditations.

Nat relinquished his infidelity, but by slow degrees. After a time he opened the Bible. It was a new book to him, though the copy he used was a little, worn pocketvolume, which his mother carried for many years, and in which many passages were marked with her own hand.

It may be asked whether I ever went over with him all the series of his infidel objections. I did not. Converted infidels will tell you that the method of grace is more summary. I had but a small share in the work. Divine truth entered by the door of the affections. It was in the heart that infidelity had found its settlement; it was in the heart that he felt the wretched vacuity; it was to the heart that Christ revealed himself as an all-satisfying Saviour. And I may add, that religion now turned all his acquisitions into gold. His knowledge became invaluable -a source of inexhaustible pleasure and a fund of usefulness. He was from that time to the day of his death an industrious, cheerful workman, a beneficent neighbour, an aid to all Christian teachers, and the very happiest old man I ever saw. Religion precisely filled the void, which, if left alone, would have become insupportable.

"Then, after all," said my niece, to whom I told the story, "his secular knowledge did him no harm."

"Who said it did? Sanctified knowledge does no man any harm. Give the individual, give the community, all the knowledge you can bestow; only give them the fear and love of God with it. This is the balance-wheel, or 'governor,' without which the machine will drive on to self-destruction. The Gospel was introduced with the in