ste, the elder Wieland. His life
was spent in the composition of sonatas and dramatic pieces. They were
not unpopular, but merely afforded him a scanty subsistence. He died
in the bloom of his life, and was quickly followed to the grave by his
wife. Their only child was taken under the protection of the merchant.
At an early age he was apprenticed to a London trader, and passed seven
years of mercantile servitude.

My father was not fortunate in the character of him under whose care
he was now placed. He was treated with rigor, and full employment was
provided for every hour of his time. His duties were laborious and
mechanical. He had been educated with a view to this profession, and,
therefore, was not tormented with unsatisfied desires. He did not hold
his present occupations in abhorrence, because they withheld him from
paths more flowery and more smooth, but he found in unintermitted
labour, and in the sternness of his master, sufficient occasions for
discontent. No opportunities of recreation were allowed him. He spent
all his time pent up in a gloomy apartment, or traversing narrow and
crowded streets. His food was coarse, and his lodging humble. His heart
gradually contracted a habit of morose and gloomy reflection. He could
not accurately define what was wanting to his happiness. He was not
tortured by comparisons drawn between his own situation and that
of others. His state was such as suited his age and his views as to
fortune. He did not imagine himself treated with extraordinary or
unjustifiable rigor. In this respect he supposed the condition of
others, bound like himself to mercantile service, to resemble his own;
yet every engagement was irksome, and every hour tedious in its lapse.

In this state of mind he chanced to light upon a book written by one of
the teachers of the Albigenses, or French Protestants. He entertained no
relish for books, and was wholly unconscious of any power they possessed
to delight or instruct. This volume had lain for years in a corner of
his garret, half buried in dust and rubbish. He had marked it as it lay;
had thrown it, as his occasions required, from one spot to another; but
had felt no inclination to examine its contents, or even to inquire what
was the subject of which it treated.

One Sunday afternoon, being induced to retire for a few minutes to his
garret, his eye was attracted by a page of this book, which, by some
accident, had been opened and placed full in his