Sir John Herschel returned to England in 1838, and in July of the same year he and his little son paid a visit to Miss Herschel. It is characteristic that her intense anxiety as to the proper treatment of her little grand-nephew—his sleep, his food, his playthings—greatly disturbed her peace. "I rather suffered him," she writes, "to hunger, than would let him eat anything hurtful; indeed, I would not let him eat anything at all unless his papa was present." Her biographer remarks, that great as was her joy to see once more almost the only living being upon whom she poured some of that wealth of affection with which her heart never ceased to overflow, yet it was on the disappointments and shortcomings of those few days, those precious days, that she chiefly dwelt; and the abrupt termination of her nephew's visit filled her with the deepest sorrow. With the generous, but, as it proved, mistaken intention of sparing her feelings, her nephew left without informing her beforehand of the exact time of his departure, simply bidding her good-night prior to his return to his inn. Great was her distress when she found that he and his son had quitted Hanover at four o'clock on the following morning.
Her introduction to her grand-nephew, as described by his father, Sir John, was exceedingly quaint:—
"Now, let me tell you how things fell out. Dr. Groskopff took Willie with him to Aunty, but without saying who he was. Says she, 'What little boy is that?' Says he, 'The son of a friend of mine. Ask him his name.' However, Willie would not tell his name. 'Where do you come from, little fellow?' 'From the Cape of Good Hope,' says Willie. 'What is that he says?' 'He says he comes from the Cape of Good Hope.' 'Ay! and who is he? What is his name?' 'His name is Herschel.' 'Yes,'says Willie. 'What is that he says?' 'He says he comes from the Cape of Good Hope.' 'Ay! and who is he? What is his name?' 'His name is Herschel.' 'Yes,' says Willie, 'William James Herschel.' 'Ach, mem Gott! das nicht möglich; ist dieser kleines neffeu's sohn?' And so it all came out; and when I came to her all was understood, and we sat down and talked as quietly as if we had parted but yesterday."
In a letter which she wrote to Lady Herschel in 1838, we find some reminiscences of her early years. She says that when, at the age of twenty-two, she first visited England, there was no kind of ornamental needle-work, knitting, plaiting hair, stringing beads and bugles, and the like, of which she did not make samples by way of mastering the art. As she was the only girl, and consequently the Cinderella, of the family, she could not find time, however, for much self-improvement. She was not, for instance, a skilled musician, but she was able to play the second violin part of an overture or easy quartette. And it is worth notice that the Herschels were something more than astronomers only. Both Sir William and his son, great as they were in their special department of science, took care to cultivate their minds generally; were mathematicians, chemists, geologists, and men of letters. And here is a lesson for our younger readers. The mind should always be diverted towards one particular object; it should be the aim of everybody to attain towards supreme excellence, if possible, in some one pursuit. On the other hand, he should gather knowledge, more or less, in every field, so as to avoid narrowness of view and poverty of idea. Versatility does not necessarily mean superficiality; we may know much of many things, and more of one thing. A man who is only a botanist, shuts himself out from all the truest and deepest pleasures of knowledge. It may be very clever for a violinist to play on a single string; but he must play on all, if he would bring out the full harmonies of his instrument, and do justice to its extraordinary powers.
Miss Herschel's enjoyment of life, which, when not carried to an excess, is a Christian duty, continued to the very last. When she was in her ninetieth year, she rose as usual every day, dressed, ate, drank, rested on her sofa, read and conversed with her numerous visitors; still taking an interest in science and literature, even in public affairs, and still occupying herself with all that concerned the evergrowing reputation of her nephew. Of course, she could not escape the infirmities of old age, but by cheerfulness and patience she did her best to alleviate them. In recalling incidents of her early life, she frequently gave evidence of her good-humoured contentment. In 1840, writing to her niece, she refers to an incident which occurred in the early part of the forty-foot telescope's existence, when "God save the King" was sung in it by her brother and his guests, who rose from the dinner-table for the purpose, and entered the tube in procession. She adds that among the company were two Misses Stows, one of whom was a famous pianoforte player; some of the Griesbachs (well-known musicians), who accompanied on the oboe, or any instrument they could get hold of; and herself, who was one of the nimblest and foremost to get in and out of the tube. "But now," she adds, "lack-a-day! I can hardly cross the room without help. But what of that? Dorcas, in the Beggar's Opera, says, 'One cannot eat one's cake and have it too!'"
She relates, in the same letter, a curious anecdote of the old and celebrated tube. Before the optical apparatus was finished, many visitors took a pleasure in walking through it,—among the rest, on one occasion, King George III. and the Archbishop of Canterbury. The latter following the king, and finding it difficult to proceed, his majesty turned and gave him his hand, saying, "Come, my Lord Bishop; I will show you the way to heaven!"
Then, with that astonishing memory of hers, which kept its greenness until the very last, she notes that this occurred on August 17, 1787, when the King and Queen, the Duke of York, and some of the princesses were of the company.