1791. Aug. 2nd.—I began to sweep at 1.30, from the horizon through the Pleiades up as high as the head of Medusa. Left off with β Tauri. Afterwards I continued with horizontal sweeps till daylight was too strong for seeing any longer.
1792. May 3rd.—My brother having desired me by way of practice to settle the stars α Persei and Castor, and α Virginis, by some neighbouring stars in Wollaston’s Catalogue, I made last night an attempt to take their places. The moon was near the full, therefore no sweeping could be done.
1795. May 1st.—Mem. In the future when any great chasms appear in my journals, it may be understood that sweeping for comets has not been neglected at every opportunity which did offer itself. But as I always do sweep according to the precept my brother has given me, and as I often am in want of time, I think it is very immaterial if the places where I have seen nothing are noted down.
Nov. 7th.—0.40 sidereal time. About an hour ago I saw the comet [seventh] which is marked in the annexed field of view [diagrams drawn with extreme neatness illustrate the entries when necessary]. When I perceived it first the two small stars were entirely covered by it, and it appeared to be a cluster of stars mixed with nebulosity; but not knowing of such an object in that place, I kept watching it, and perceived it to be a comet by its having moved from the two small stars, so as to leave them entirely free from haziness.
1797. Aug. 14th.—C. H.’s comet. At 9.30 common time, being dark enough for sweeping, I began in the usual manner with looking over the heavens with the naked eye, and immediately saw a comet nearly as bright as that which was discovered by Mr. Gregory, January 8, 1793. I went down from the observatory to call my brother Alexander, that he might assist me at the clock. In my way into the garden I was met and detained by Lord S. and another gentleman, who came to see my brother and his telescopes. By way of preventing too long an interruption, I told the gentlemen that I had just found a comet, and wanted to settle its place. I pointed it out to them, and after having seen it they took their leave.
1822. Retrospection.
These entries were continued with great regularity to the year 1819, at which time, as the Diary shows, Sir William’s increasing feebleness made her close daily attendance more necessary, and her pen was in greater request than the “sweeper.” The last volume concludes with a carefully drawn eye-draft of the situation of a comet visible at Hanover, January 31st, 1824. Thenceforth the instrument which had done such good service in her hands for forty years of steady work, became the chief ornament of her sitting-room, until her disquieting fears for its ultimate fate led her to send it back to England.
Sad as is the story of those last years of declining old age, while the beloved brother lived we know that his sister’s life was full of occupation. It is not until the cruel hour comes, and she knows that death and the grave will soon claim him, that she allows the sense of her own bitter desolation to find expression. When all was over, her only desire seems to have been to hurry away. Hardly was he laid in his grave than she collected the few things she cared to keep, and left for ever the country where she had spent fifty years of her life, living and toiling for him and him only. “If I should leave off making memorandums of such events as affect, or are interesting to me, I should feel like—what I am, namely, a person that has nothing more to do in this world.” Mournful words: doubly mournful when we know that the writer had nearly half an ordinary lifetime still between her and that grave which she made haste to prepare, in the hope that her course was nearly run. Who can think of her, at the age of seventy-two, heart-broken and desolate, going back to the home of her youth in the fond expectation of finding consolation, without a pang of sympathetic pity? She found everything changed. In addition to those changes, for which she might have been in some measure prepared, there were others of a kind to admit of neither cure nor alleviation. The life she had led for fifty years had removed her, she little guessed how much, from the old familiar paths: her thoughts, her habits, all her ideas had been formed and moulded in a totally different world: more bitter still, she found herself alone in her great sorrow and quenchless love; pride in the distinction reflected on themselves from relationship to the illustrious astronomer was a miserable substitute for the reverential affection she had looked to find for one of the kindest and most generous of brothers. But the bitterest suffering of all was from a source which was, and ever remained, beyond the reach of help. “You don’t know,” wrote one of Miss Edgeworth’s sisters, “the blank of life after having lived within the radiance of genius;” and this was the blank in which Miss Herschel doomed herself not only to live, but to try to begin anew, when past three score and ten. The extracts from her letters bear strong testimony to the gallant struggle she made to find interests and occupations in what those about her, as well as she herself, looked upon as a kind of exile, and “Why did I leave happy England?” was often her cry, more especially as time went on, and interest in her nephew and his family came mercifully to fill the heart still so yearning and ready for affection. When she heard the news of Sir John Herschel’s intended departure for the Cape, she wrote, “Ja! if I was thirty or forty years junger and could go too? in Gottes nahmen!” her interest in the science to which she had devoted her best years never ceased, though she persisted to the end in ridiculing the bare suggestion that the Rosse telescope could by any possibility be so good as the forty-foot. The homage paid to her as a savante amused as well as gratified her. “You must give me leave to send you any publication you can think of,” she wrote to her nephew, “without mentioning anything about paying for them. For it is necessary I should every now and then lay out a little of my spare cash in that for the sake of supporting the reputation of being a learned lady (there is for you!), for I am not only looked at for such a one, but even stared at here in Hanover!” Her deprecation of the membership of the Irish Academy, conferred on one who for so many years had “not even discovered a comet,” was thoroughly sincere as well as characteristic, but she found pleasure in receiving the homage which was naturally paid to her; no man of any scientific eminence passed through Hanover without visiting her; from the Royal Family she received the most kind and graceful attentions; and it became a matter of public concern to note the presence of the well-known tiny figure at the Theatre, where her constant appearance in extreme old age was in itself a marvel. The frugal simplicity of her habits made it a positive perplexity to dispose of her income; she protested that £50 a-year was all she could manage to spend on herself, and she pertinaciously resisted receiving the pension of £100 per annum left to her by her brother, often devoting the quarterly or half-yearly payment to the purchase of some handsome present for her nephew or niece. She wrote full instructions and made the most careful arrangements for every detail of business in connection with her own burial and the disposal of her property—that is of the little she reserved, for her generosity towards her relations was as great as the expenditure on herself was small.
In these last remarks I have anticipated events, and must now return to the year 1822, when the correspondence begins.
1822. Journey to Hanover.