short, straight tails, which were extremely inconvenient, as they were inflexible, in consequence of which they were obliged to dig holes in the ground before they could attempt to sit down. For these statements we are indebted to the index to Notes and Queries. Thanks also to the same source, we find that J. H. van Lennep has (September 24th, 1860) communicated to the editor of that invaluable periodical an extract from a serious missionary magazine, entitled, Vereenizing Christelijke Stemmen, remarking that he has "no reason whatever to doubt of its veracity."

The paper contains a description of the different nations inhabiting Borneo, and notices one tribe in the following words :"The Poonangs are very shy, and reside in the most interior part of Borneo. And no wonder they are rarely met with, for, as soon as they are frightened by the appearance of something out of the way, they hide behind the trees and kill every being that comes within the reach of their blow-pipe. They have a most ugly look. In stature and colour they are much the same as the Bassaps, but their forehead is more indented, their face more prominent, and their mouth excessively wide. They speak a language that has no affinity at all with the tongues used by the other tribes, and only consists of monosyllabic sounds. But the most remarkable feature of all is that they have tails, like the animals, and which are longer in one individual than in another, whilst those of the females are very short, and of a softer kind than those of the males. The common size of this appendage is between three and five inches. On the whole, however, it is hard, stiff, and nearly immoveable, which makes sitting an impossibility.

"To remedy this defect, or rather this exuberance, the Poonangs always take with them a wooden block, with a hole, and use it as a chair, after first having carefully put their tail in the perforation. It is said this nation is spread over the inland regions of the isle, though I heard the tribe mentioned under another name in the Kootee State. The aborigines of the several dominions all relate the same tale about the Poonangs, and last year the subjects of the Sultan of GoonongTaboor had the good luck to catch three individuals of the race. Mr. van Houtrop, who just then was in the Borneo province, has seen and manipulated them, and after accurate investigation, he came to the result that their tail was neither a sham nor a diseased excres

And at

nesses, who all testified to the same. Macassar, where the existence of these tailed natives had been long held for a fable, Mr. van Houtrop did all he could to prove the truth of his relation. Moreover, the sultan offered his services to Mr. van Houtrop, and promised to exert himself as much as possible to catch some Poonangs, and to have them transported, dead or alive, to Macassar, from whence they could be transported to Holland and examined by the Royal Academy of Sciences."

While the older writers described tails on a large scale (for their tailed men had an appendage in length and shape resembling that of a dog), modern travellers draw less largely on our credulity, and the tails which they describe seldom exceed a few inches in length. Although there is not a shadow of evidence in support of a race of men with tails (for the Niam-niams* are a purely imaginary tribe), these little tails (or taillettes) seem undoubtedly to occur, although they are by no means common. To possess a tail is, however, no privilege, especially to those whose avocations compel them to be much on horseback. M. Isidore Geoffroy told M. De Quatrefages a piteous story of a French trooper with a tail, which, although it caused him serious embarrassment, was not regarded as a sufficient reason for allowing him to retire from the service. Riding on the top of one's tail (for it is never in these degenerate days long enough to curl up) cannot be an agreeable amusement; and we should strongly advise any young gentleman provided with this abnormal appendage, who may read these lines, carefully to avoid entering a cavalry regiment.

If any of our over-fastidious readers should regard Tails as a subject of too delicate a nature to be handled in these pages, I would ask such an objector if she (for I assume that the objector is of the gentler sex) was present at the Royal Institution last March, when Mr. Clifford delivered his admirable lecture on Mental Development. His concluding words are, "It is quite possible for conventional rules of action and conventional habits of thought to get such power that progress is impossible, and the nation only fit to be improved away. In the face of such a danger, it is not right to be proper."

THE SCILLY ISLES: THEIR

You

ORIGIN.

OU see, sir, it was in this fashion: there was a time when there were no Scilly Isles at all, while now, you see, there's pretty nigh a hundred of 'em. Of course, some are only bits of rocks, scattered about here and there; but the Scilly folks counts 'em all in, and can't be persuaded that their land is much smaller than other places. How those islands came to be was all through a row between the Pope and the Devil; for, as I daresay you know, in the good old times the gentleman in black had rather a hard life of it. You see, in those days there were a great many saints on earth, and every one of them red-hot with the idea that his duty was to pitch into the Devil whenever he had a chance; so that they wouldn't leave him alone even when he was quiet, the consequence being that the poor Devil had rather a bad time. You see, the Pope was always egging his saints on, and they used to give their enemy the credit of being a deal blacker than he was, when, of course, he turned spiteful, and made things worse than they would have been. There was no good to be got by stirring him up when he was quiet, and taking hold of him with red-hot tongs, and all that sort of thing, and calling it resisting temptation; but saints in those days, a good part of 'em, were chaps who never did things by halves, and right or wrong, the Devil always got the worst of it.

They drove him out of France, and he took the Pyrenees at a jump, and gave the saints a long run through Spain, when, just as they thought they'd got him, he hopped back into France. But they made that spot too hot for him, and gave him holy water basting, so that he was glad to fly over the Channel on to Dover cliffs, and take refuge among the savages who had England all their own way in those times.

Time went on, and then the Pope called a meeting, saying that it wouldn't do any longer to have the Devil doing just as he liked in such a fine little island as lay over the sea; so he started off a lot of saints into England with strict orders to turn the poor Devil out, and put a stop to burning men for sacrifices, and all that sort of thing. The saints didn't much like the job, for they knew that if they turned the Devil out of one place he'd take to another; and, besides, the Channel was rough, and they were sea-sick, and grumbled, and said, "Let well alone," when all the time they meant evil.

However, as I said before, these saints never did things by halves, but went at it savage as soon as ever they'd got over the first shock of seeing the natives so fond of going without clothes. One saint, you know, actually took off his cloak-Martin, I think his name wasand cut it in half, and gave half to one of the undressed chaps.

But that's neither here nor there. The saints went about their work like men, and hunted the Devil up till they'd driven him into Devonshire; and then they joined hands, so that he shouldn't slip by, and drove him right on and on into Cornwall, where he was with the sea all round, except on the side where the saints kept watch.

Saints want rest, though, like other people; so to keep their enemy from giving them the slip, they set up granite crosses every here and there, and so stopped him, for the devil a bit would he try to go by a spot where there was a cross set up.

Now don't you go for to doubt all this, for there's the proof of it all down in Cornwall now, where every here and there you may see the crosses by the side of the road, where they've stood for hundreds of years, in spite of rain, and frost, and wind, and looking good for to stay hundreds of years more ; and, besides, there's all the rest of his work to be seen, just as I'm going to tell you about.

For, you see, finding himself shut up in such a corner of the island, and that the whole pack of saints, St. Germain, St. Just, St. Levan, St. Paul, St. Sennen, and ever so many more, who've left their names there in the little church towns, were all on the watch to keep him there, the Devil turned savage, and did all sorts of things to show what a rage he was in. He hopped here, he flew there, and set to and shovelled and scraped all the rich soil off the hills, and threw it into the valleys. Then he split the granite about, and spit at the waves, till they, too, turned furious, and lashed about the shore. He began to burrow a cave here and a cave there to live in ; but he never finished one of them, and at last of all he sat himself down, regularly beat out, on the top of one of the hills, and cried out of pure vexation, like a great girl, till the tears ran streaming down into the cracks and crannies of the earth, hundreds of fathoms down; and this he did on hill after hill, the saints watching and chuckling the while, for every tear he dropped was so much molten tin, forming into veins amongst the rocks all ready for the Cornish miners.

Then up he jumped in a rage again, ran

down towards the shore, and began shying the great lumps of granite rock about in all directions, at such a rate, at last, that he stopped, for he felt that it was hardly safe for himself; and, besides, he was that hot that the great drops of sweat streamed off him, and they too ran down into the earth and amongst the cracks of the stone to form another metal; for every drop of sweat was so much molten copper.

"Let's stop him," says St. Levan.

"Not a bit of it," says St. Just; "he's doing no end of good, though he's under the impression that it's all mischief. Let him alone."

How the Devil did rage, and swear, and go on, till it was just like a storm; and at it he went again, picking up the biggest rocks he could find, and shying them into the sea to see the water foam up.

But the first lump he threw lodged on the top of a rock, and just balanced, so that you can move it yourself-tons weight though it is -any time you like to go down from Penzance to St. Levan, for anyone will show you the Logan Rock.

Then he picked up another piece and hurled it as far as he could, and it fell in the sea miles off, and sticks up there in such a dangerous way that many a goodly boat has been wrecked upon it; and now a lighthouse has been built to keep mariners off the Wolf rock. Lots more dangerous pieces he threw, too, all round about from St. Levan, past the Land's End to Cape Cornwall-the Shark's Fin, the Rundle Stone, the Longships Reef,ever so many, till all at once he grew more savage than ever, for he saw the saints laughing at him, and he found that he had been clearing no end of acres of barren land of lumps of granite, and making it fit for farming. "I'll be even with you yet," he says, and still crying and dropping with sweat, he flies down to the beach and amongst the rocks, so that whenever a tear or drop fell into the sea, it went fizz, and sent up a little puff of steam. "Look out there," he shouts, and then he began to send the rocks flying back again, till the saints shook their heads and said that wouldn't do; and, making a dash, they drove him right off the Land's-End, and he flew over to Ireland.

And then the Pope wasn't satisfied; tor when the saints told him what they'd done,"Follow him up,” he says, “and let him get drowned in the sea."

So St. Patrick was sent, with a score more saints, to drive the Devil out of Ireland, but

he soon found that it was not so easy a job, for their enemy dodged the saints about everywhere; and, whenever he was hard pressed, he took to the bogs, curled his tail round his neck, and sat there with the water steaming and hissing about him where the saints daren't follow.

St. Patrick was not the man to be done that way, though, for he invented sandals, which the saints strapped on their feet, and tied to their great toes, the same as you can see in any picture, and then they could follow the Devil anywhere, till he set the people against them, when there was a regular battle as to who should be best man; for sometimes the saints got the people on their side, and sometimes the Devil got them on his side, when they'd hide him, and as they said in their wild Irish, strange way, "Bothered the ould women

intirely.”

First thing St. Patrick did to please the people was to drive out all toads and serpents, and the Irish sided with him till the Devil played his first card, and showed them how to make shillelaghs and use them, when St. Patrick happening to tread on the tail of a gentleman's coat—a chief, I think he wasthe saint got his head broke; and when he threatened to excommunicate the lot, there was a regular stand-up fight, and the Devil sat and laughed, and chuckled, till he coughed so that he would have been choked if one of the saints had not patted him on the back by mistake for another saint, and only found out his error when it was too late.

And so they went on-one side trying one thing, the other the other-till the saints thought they'd done the Devil at last; for they showed the benighted Irish how to grow potatoes to eat with their butter-milk, when they feasted and rejoiced so that they said they'd have no more to do with the Devil, but would help the saints to turn him out of Ireland.

But do you think the Devil was beaten? Not he. He had made up his mind to stick to Ireland, and he was all there; so after racking his brains a bit, he invented a whiskey-still, making it out of an old tea-kettle and a buttertub, all but the worm, and that bothered him. Tobacco-pipes wouldn't bend; snake skins were not to be got, because St. Patrick had driven them all away; so he used his own tail, fitting one end to the kettle-spout, and then curling it round and round in the tub till he stuck the fang out at one side by the bottom, and there was the thing complete.

They didn't want much teaching, didn't the

CONVERSATIONS WITH ROSSINI.

These notes of Rossini's talk are in continuation of some which have already appeared in Once a Year.

"WHAT

III.

HAT a noble beginning!" cried Rossini, humming the first bars of one of Haydn's quartetts. "What spirit! what grace! They are charming works, these quartetts. How lovingly the instruments converse with one another. And what subtle modulations! All great composers have beautiful modulations; but Haydn's always have a special and peculiar charm for me."

"Surely you had never heard them in Italy?" "Yes, at Bologna, when I was a boy. I got together a string-quartett in which I played tenor. The first fiddle had very few things of Haydn's; but I was always boring him to get more, so by degrees I got to know a good number of them. I studied Haydn with great ardour at that time. You should have been in Bologna when I conducted the Creation at the Liceo. I wouldn't let the performers pass over a single thing, for I knew every note by heart. I also got up the Seasons when I gave up the Liceo, to be director of the Philharmonic Concerts."

"There's more invention, perhaps, in the Seasons than the Creation; but then they offer more scope for variety."

May be," answered Rossini; "but there is a certain lofty tone running through the Creation which makes me prefer it. How fine this air is —, and the chorus in B flat, and Raphael's air," humming the beginning of each; "and what a wonderful bit of instrumentation the chaos is! Nothing clings to one like the impressions of youth. I knew an Italian in Vienna called Calpani, who had been there for years, and was very intimate with Haydn. He was never tired of talking about the kindheartedness and modesty of the old master."

"I never caught sight of one of his operas. But is there much in them?"

"No! I looked them through in Vienna, with an enthusiastic admirer of Haydn's, who boasted that he possessed all his compositions. They are unimportant works, with scarcely a trace of the great composer. He must have written them at an early period for Prince Esterhazy and his singers. But do you know his cantata Ariadne?"

"I played it through a long time ago, but I never heard it, and don't remember any of it," I answered, somewhat ashamed.

"Except the Oratorios I like it best of

Haydn's vocal compositions. The adagio is very beautiful," said Rossini, and began to sing part of it.

"You, I declare, know more about our German composers than I do myself, and I am beginning to be jealous. Do you know as much about the old Italians?"

"I have read through a great many of them."

Many of Paisiello's operas?"

"When I was a boy they had already nearly vanished from the stage. Generali, Fioravanti, Paer, and, above all, Simon Mair, were the order of the day."

"Do you like Paisiello?”

"Pleasant music, but not remarkable either for harmony or melody. It never interested me much. His principle was to compose a whole piece on one short subject, consequently, there was but little life in it, and scarcely any dramatic effect."

"You knew him personally?"

"I saw him in Naples, after his return from Paris, where he made a great deal of money. Napoleon was very fond of his music, and Paisiello used to boast about it in the most naïve way, telling everybody that the great emperor liked his music so much because it did not prevent him from thinking of other things. A strange compliment! But every time has its taste, and his soft music used to be immensely admired."

"Was he an interesting man?”

"He was a fine-looking fellow, almost imposing; but utterly uneducated, and insignificant beyond anything. You should have seen his letters! I don't mean the hand-writing, nor the spelling; I pass over that: but the clumsy manner of expressing himself, and the platitude of his thoughts, are beyond conception! Cimarosa was very different; a refined and intellectual mind. Do you know anything