"Nothing disturbs me," was the reply. "I answer no questions, so folks tire of putting them. It is such a glorious night—there may not be another like it for months; and the moon is clearer than I have seen her since I had the seven-foot reflector."
As William Herschel spoke, he was preparing to carry the precious reflector downstairs—that outcome of many a night-watch, and many a weary hour of purely manual labour. Turning the lathe and polishing mirrors was, however, but a small part of his unflagging perseverance. This perseverance had evolved the larger instrument from a small telescope, bought for a trifle from an optician at Bath. That telescope had first kindled the desire in William Herschel's mind to produce one which should surpass all its predecessors, and help him to scan more perfectly those "star-strewn skies," and discover in them treasures to make known to future ages, and be linked for ever with his name. Caroline Herschel was his right hand. She was his apprentice in the workshop—his reader when the polishing went on; and often, when William had not even a moment to spare for food, she would stand over him, and feed him as he worked with morsels of some dish prepared by her own hand.
"You have copied the score for Ronzini, Caroline?"
"I have nearly finished it."
"And you have practised that quick passage in the song in 'Judas Maccabæus'?"
"Yes; but I will do so again before to-morrow. It is our reception-day, you remember."
"Yes; where is Alexander?"
"He is at the Ball at Wiltshire's. He was at work all the morning, you know," Caroline said, in an apologetic tone.
"Work is not Alex's meat and drink; he likes play."
In a few minutes the telescope was adjusted on the pavement before the house; and the faithful sister, having thrown a thick shawl over her head, stood patiently by her brother's side, handing him all he wanted, writing down measurements, though her fingers were blue with cold, and the light of the little hand-lanthorn she had placed on the doorstep scarcely sufficed for her purpose.