WILLIAM, born March 7, 1792.[21]

* * * * *

The house at Datchet became more and more unfit for the needs of the
family, and in June, 1785, a move was made to Clay Hall, in Old Windsor.
The residence here was but short, and finally a last change was made to
Slough on April, 3d, 1786.

The ardor of the work during these years can be judged of by a single
sentence from CAROLINA HERSCHEL'S diary:

"The last night at Clay Hall was spent in sweeping till daylight,
and by the next evening the telescope stood ready for observation at
Slough."

From 1786 until his death, HERSCHEL remained at Slough; his life, truly
speaking, was in his observatory.

It is indeed true, as ARAGO has said in his eloquent tribute to him: "On
peut dire hardiment du jardin et de la petite maison de Slough, que
c'est le lieu du monde ou il a ete fait le plus de decouvertes. Le nom
de ce village ne perira pas; les sciences le transmettront
religieusement a nos derniers neveux."

HERSCHEL'S first contribution to the _Philosophical Transactions_ was
printed in the volume for 1780, his last in that for 1818. Of these
thirty-nine volumes, there are only two (1813 and 1817) which contain no
paper from his hand, and many volumes contain more than one, as he
published no less than sixty-eight memoirs in this place.

And yet it must not be thought that his was an austere and grave
existence. Music, which he loved to enthusiasm, was still a delight to
him. All the more that his devotion was free. The glimpses which we get
of his life with his friends show him always cheerful, ardent, and
devoted. Even in his later years, he had not lost a "boyish earnestness
to explain;" his simplicity and the charm of his manner struck every
one.

"HERSCHEL, you know, and everybody knows, is one of the most pleasing
and well-bred natural characters of the present age," says Dr. BURNEY,
who had opportunity to know.

The portrait which is given in the frontispiece must have been painted
about this time (1788), and the eager, ardent face shows his inner life
far better than any words can do.

Even in his scientific writings, which everything conspired to render
grave and sober, the almost poetic nature of his mind shows forth. In
one of his (unpublished) note-books, now in the Royal Society's library,
I found this entry:

"640th Sweep--November 28, 1786.--The nebula of _Orion_, which I saw
by the front view, was