Thomas Carlyle’s memoirs are a kind of graveyard of reputations; and we can well understand the rage and horror with which many individuals protested against the fierce Scotchman’s strictures.  In the hearts of thousands of noble young people Carlyle’s memory was cherished like that of some dear saint; and it was terrible to find that the strong prophet had been penetrated by such a virus of malice.  Carlyle met all the best men and women in England; but the only ones whom he did not disparage were Tennyson, the Duke of Wellington, Mr. Froude, and Emerson.  He could not talk even of Charles Darwin without calling him an imbecile; and his all-round hitting at his closest intimates is simply merciless.  The same perversity which made him talk of Keats’s “maudlin weak-eyed sensibility” caused him to describe his loyal, generous, high-bred friend Lord Houghton as a “nice little robin-redbreast of a man;” while Mrs. Basil Montagu, who cheered him and spared no pains to aid him in the darkest times, is now immortalized by one masterly venomous paragraph.  Carlyle was great—­very great—­but really the cultivation of loyal friendships seems hardly to have been in his line.  Men who know his works by heart, and who derived their noblest inspiration from him, cannot bear to read his memoirs twice over, for it sadly appears as though the Titan had defiled the very altar of friendship.

What shall we say of the cunning cat-like Charles Greville, who crept on tiptoe through the world, observing and recording the littleness of men?  His stealthy eye missed nothing; and the men whom he flattered and used little thought that the wizened dandy who pleased them with his old-world courtesy was chronicling their weakness and baseness for all time.  A nobly patriotic Ministry came before the world with a flourish of trumpets, and declared that England must fight Russia in defence of public law, freedom, and other holy things.  But the wicked diarist had watched the secret proceedings of his dear friends; and he informs us that those beloved intimates were all sound asleep when a single Minister decided on the movement which cost us forty thousand men and one hundred millions of treasure.  That close sly being used—­to worm out the secrets of men’s innermost hearts; and his impassive mask never showed a sign of emotion.  To illustrate his mode of extracting the information of which he made such terrible use, I may tell one trivial anecdote which has never before been made public.  When Greville was very old, he went to see a spiritualistic “medium” who was attracting fashionable London.  The charlatan looked at the gray worn old man and thought himself safe; four other visitors attended the seance, but the “medium” bestowed all his attention on Greville.  With much emotion he cried, “There is an aged lady behind your chair!” Greville remarked sweetly, “How interesting!” “She is very, very like you!” “Who can it be?” murmured Greville.  “She lifts her hands to bless you.  Her hands