in body—­almost spent; and here he would have died, had not Providence directed the impotent mind of the imbecile to the spot, and willed it otherwise.  I have narrated, as shortly as I might, the history of my earliest college friend, as I received it from his brother’s lips.  There remain but a few words to say—­the pleasantest that I have had to speak of him James Temple did not die a hardened man.  If there be truth in tears, in prayers of penitence that fall from him who stand upon the borders of eternity—­who can gain nothing by hypocrisy, and may lose by it the priceless treasure of an immortal soul—­if serenity and joy are signs of a repentance spoken, a forgiveness felt, then Heaven had assuredly been merciful with the culprit, and had remitted his offences, as Heaven can, and will, remit the vilest.

I remained in the village of Belton until I saw all that remained of the schoolfellows deposited in the earth.  Their bodies had been easily obtained—­that of the idiot, indeed, before life had quitted it.  The evening that followed their burial, I passed with William Temple.  Many a sad reminiscence occurred to him which he communicated to me without reserve, many a wanton act of coarse licentiousness, many a warning unheeded, laughed at, spurned.  It is a mournful pleasure for the mind, as it dwells upon the doings of the departed, to build up its own theories, and to work out a history of what might have been in happier circumstances—­a useless history of ifs.  “If my brother had been looked to when he was young,” said William Temple more than once, “he would have turned out differently.  My uncle spoiled him.  As a child, he was never corrected.  If he wished for a toy, he had but to scream for it.  If, at school, he had been fortunate enough to contract his friendships with young men of worth and character, their example would have won him to rectitude, for he was always a lad easily led.”  And again, “If he had but listened to the advice which, when it would have served him, I did not fail daily and hourly to offer him, he might have lived for years, and been respected—­for many know, I lost no opportunity to draw him from his course of error.”  Alas! how vain, how idle was this talk—­how little it could help the clod that was already crumbling in the earth—­the soul already at the judgment-seat; yet with untiring earnestness the brother persisted in this strain, and with every new hypothesis found fresh satisfaction.  There was more reason for gratification when, at the close of the evening, the surviving relative turned from his barren discourse and referred to the last days of the deceased.  There was comfort and consolation to the living in the evidences which he produced of his most blessed change.  It was a joy to me to hear of his repentance, and to listen to the terms in which he made it known.  I did not easily forget them.  I journeyed homeward.  When I arrived at the house of Doctor Mayhew, I was surprised to find