Nor did her scientific knowledge ever warp or dull the tenderness and humanity of her nature.  For birds and animals she had always a great love.  We hear of her as a little girl watching with eager eyes the swallows as they built their nests in summer or prepared for their flight in the autumn; and when snow was on the ground she used to open the windows to let the robins hop in and pick crumbs on the breakfast-table.  On one occasion she went with her father on a tour in the Highlands, and found on her return that a pet goldfinch, which had been left in the charge of the servants, had been neglected by them and had died of starvation.  She was almost heart-broken at the event, and in writing her Recollections, seventy years after, she mentioned it and said that, as she wrote, she felt deep pain.  Her chief pet in her old age was a mountain sparrow, which used to perch on her arm and go to sleep there while she was writing.  One day the sparrow fell into the water-jug and was drowned, to the great grief of its mistress who could hardly be consoled for its loss, though later on we hear of a beautiful paroquet taking the place of le moineau d’Uranie, and becoming Mrs. Somerville’s constant companion.  She was also very energetic, Phyllis Browne tells us, in trying to get a law passed in the Italian Parliament for the protection of animals, and said once, with reference to this subject, ’We English cannot boast of humanity so long as our sportsmen find pleasure in shooting down tame pigeons as they fly terrified out of a cage’—­a remark with which I entirely agree.  Mr. Herbert’s Bill for the protection of land birds gave her immense pleasure, though, to quote her own words, she was ’grieved to find that “the lark, which at heaven’s gate sings,” is thought unworthy of man’s protection’; and she took a great fancy to a gentleman who, on being told of the number of singing birds that is eaten in Italy—­nightingales, goldfinches, and robins—­exclaimed in horror, ’What! robins! our household birds!  I would as soon eat a child!’ Indeed, she believed to some extent in the immortality of animals on the ground that, if animals have no future, it would seem as if some were created for uncompensated misery—­an idea which does not seem to me to be either extravagant or fantastic, though it must be admitted that the optimism on which it is based receives absolutely no support from science.

On the whole, Phyllis Browne’s book is very pleasant reading.  Its only fault is that it is far too short, and this is a fault so rare in modern literature that it almost amounts to a distinction.  However, Phyllis Browne has managed to crowd into the narrow limits at her disposal a great many interesting anecdotes.  The picture she gives of Mrs. Somerville working away at her translation of Laplace in the same room with her children is very charming, and reminds one of what is told of George Sand; there is an amusing account of Mrs. Somerville’s visit to the widow of the young Pretender, the Countess of Albany, who, after talking with her for some time, exclaimed, ’So you don’t speak Italian.  You must have had a very bad education’!  And this story about the Waverley Novels may possibly be new to some of my readers: