He refused, in 1826, to compete for the Lucasian Professorship of Mathematics at Cambridge. It was practically at his disposal, since all agreed that no one could better than Herschel have filled the chair once occupied by Newton. He was, however, disinclined for an University career, and had undertaken labours incompatible with it. In 1830 he stood as the “scientific candidate” for the presidentship of the Royal Society, against the Duke of Sussex. His defeat was by “a ridiculously small majority.” “I had no personal interest in the contest,” he wrote to Sir William Hamilton. “Had my private wishes and sense of individual advantage weighed with me in opposition to what, under the circumstances, was an imperative duty, I should have persisted in my refusal to be brought forward; but there are situations where one has no choice, and such was mine.”
He made Hamilton’s personal acquaintance at a dinner of notabilities, given by the Duke of Sussex, in March, 1832. An invitation to Slough followed, and Hamilton, arriving “in a beautiful star-time,” enjoyed celestial sights that seemed the opening of a new firmament.
Herschel married, March 3, 1829, Margaret Brodie, second daughter of the Rev. Alexander Stewart, of Dingwall, in Ross-shire. The event—not merely by convention a “happy” one—gave great satisfaction to his numerous friends. Miss Herschel was beside herself with glad emotion. “I have spent four days,” she informed him on his wedding-day, “in vain endeavours to gain composure enough to give you an idea of the joyful sensation caused by the news. But I can at this moment find no words which would better express my happiness than those of Simeon: “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.” But there was no finality in her desires for this brilliant scion of her race. His domestic felicity did not long content her; she craved worldly distinctions. When, after the accession of William IV., a shower of honours was let fall, she began to think plain “John Herschel, Esq.,” an address very inadequate to his merits. “Dr. Grosskopf,” the husband of one of her nieces, “has been zum Ritter ernannt by his present Majesty,” she wrote discontentedly. “So was Dr. Mükry last week. If all is betitled in England and Germany, why is not my nephew, J. H., a lord or a wycount (sic) at least? General Komarzewsky used to say to your father, ‘Why does not King George III. make you Duke of Slough?’”
An instalment of her wishes was granted by his creation, in 1831, a Knight of the Royal Hanoverian Guelphic Order; and she lived to see him a baronet. She had no inkling of his approaching journey to the Cape when he came to see her in June, 1832, although the visit was designed as a farewell. Hanover itself, too, had for him an ancestral charm.
“It was only this evening,” he wrote home, “that, escaping from a party at Mrs. Beckedorff’s, I was able to indulge in what my soul has been yearning for ever since I came here—a solitary ramble out of town, among the meadows which border the Leine-strom, from which the old, tall, sombre-looking Marktthurm, and the three beautiful lanthorn steeples of Hanover are seen as in the little picture I have often looked at with a sort of mysterious wonder when a boy, as that strange place in foreign parts that my father and uncle used to talk so much about, and so familiarly. The likeness is correct, and I soon found the point of view.”
Almost from the beginning of his surveying operations, Herschel cherished the hope of extending them to the southern hemisphere. But during his mother’s lifetime, he took no steps towards its realisation. The separation would have been cruel. Her death, however, on January 6th, 1832, at the age of eighty-one, removed this obstacle, and the scheme rapidly took shape. The station originally thought of was Parramatta, in New South Wales; but Dunlop’s observations there anticipated him, and he reflected with disappointment that “the cream of the southern hemisphere had been skimmed” before his turn came. He learned afterwards that nothing important in the “sweeping” line had been done at Parramatta; he had virgin skies to explore. A trip to the Himalayas was his next ambition; and one of the recommendations of the Cape of Good Hope was its being “within striking distance of India.” But to India he never went. The Cape was beyond question the most suitable locality for his purpose, and it would have been waste of time to have left it, even temporarily, for any other. He was offered a free passage thither in a ship of war, but preferred to keep his enterprise altogether on a private footing. So having embarked with his wife, three children, and instrumental outfit, on board the Mountstuart Elphinstone, he left the shores of England, November 13, 1833.
CHAPTER VIII.
EXPEDITION TO THE CAPE.
The voyage was prosperous, but long. Nine weeks and two days passed before the welcome cry of “Land” was heard; and it was in the dawn of January 15, 1835, that Table Mountain at last stood full in view, “with all its attendant range down to the farthest point of South Africa,” outlined, ghost-like, in clear blue. The disembarkation of the instruments and luggage took several days. They filled fifteen large boats, and a single onslaught of the south-easterly gale, by which at that time of the year Cape Town is harried, might easily have marred the projected campaign. All, however, went well.
The travellers were welcomed by Dr. Stewart, one of Lady Herschel’s brothers, and enthusiastically greeted by the Royal Astronomer, Sir Thomas Maclear. They made no delay in fixing their headquarters.