nd more familiarly
acquainted; but though I liked much in him, and he somewhat in me, it
would not do. He was always very kind to me, but seemed to have a
feeling I should--could--not become wholly his, in which he was right,
and that on other terms he could not have me; so we let it so remain,
and for many years--indeed, even after quitting Edinburgh--I had no
acquaintance with him; occasionally got symptoms of his ill-humour with
me--ink-spurts in _Blackwood_, read or heard of, which I, in a surly,
silent manner, strove to consider _flattering_ rather.... So far as I
can recollect, he was once in my house (Comely Bank, with a testimonial,
poor fellow!), and I once in his, De Quincey, &c., a little while one
afternoon.'[29]

On September 16, 1854, Carlyle breaks out in his journal: '"The harvest
is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."' What a fearful
word! I cannot find how to take up that miserable "Frederick," or what
on earth to do with it.' He worked hard at it, nevertheless, for
eighteen months, and by the end of May 1858, the first instalment was
all in type. Froude remarks that a fine critic once said to him that
Carlyle's Friedrich Wilhelm was as peculiar and original as Sterne's
Tristram Shandy; certainly as distinct a personality as exists in
English fiction. Carlyle made a second journey to Germany. Shortly after
his return, the already finished volumes of _Frederick_ appeared, and
they met with an immediate welcome. The success was great; 2000 copies
were sold at the first issue, and a second 2000 were disposed of almost
as rapidly, and a third 2000 followed. Mrs Carlyle's health being
unsatisfactory, Carlyle took a house for the summer at Humbie, near
Aberdour in Fife. They returned to Cheyne Row in October, neither of
them benefited by their holiday in the north.

While many of Carlyle's intimate friends were passing away, he formed
Ruskin's acquaintance, which turned out mutually satisfactory. On the
23rd April 1861, Carlyle writes to his brother John: 'Friday last I was
persuaded--in fact had unwarily compelled myself, as it were--to a
lecture of Ruskin's at the Institution, Albemarle Street. Lecture on
Tree Leaves as physiological, pictorial, moral, symbolical objects. A
crammed house, but tolerable to me even in the gallery. The lecture was
thought to "break down," and indeed it quite did "_as a lecture_"; but
only did from _embarras des richesses_--a rare case. Ruskin did blow
asunder