It may be comforting for all rogues to know that he left behind him no note of that vast amount of statistical knowledge which he possessed, whether appertaining to crimes or criminals in general or in particular, or more especially to the band of robbers,—­and that with him perished all knowledge of this organization as such, and the names of all the parties therewith connected.  They also have the consolation, if there be any, of knowing that he was sent prematurely to his grave by a subtle poison, administered by unknown hands and in an unknown manner and moment, and that he died in the firm faith of immortality.

THE CUMBERLAND.

  At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,
  On board of the Cumberland sloop-of-war;
  And at times from the fortress across the bay
  The alarum of drums swept past,
  Or a bugle-blast
  From the camp on the shore.

  Then far away to the South uprose
  A little feather of snow-white smoke,
  And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
  Was steadily steering its course
  To try the force
  Of our ribs of oak.

  Down upon us heavily runs,
  Silent and sullen, the floating fort;
  Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
  And leaps the terrible death,
  With fiery breath,
  From each open port.

  We are not idle, but send her straight
  Defiance back in a full broadside! 
  As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
  Rebounds our heavier hail
  From each iron scale
  Of the monster’s hide.

  “Strike your flag!” the rebel cries,
  In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
  “Never!” our gallant Morris replies;
  “It is better to sink than to yield!”
  And the whole air pealed
  With the cheers of our men.

  Then, like a kraken huge and black,
  She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! 
  Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,
  With a sudden shudder of death,
  And the cannon’s breath
  For her dying gasp.

  Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
  Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head. 
  Lord, how beautiful was thy day! 
  Every waft of the air
  Was a whisper of prayer,
  Or a dirge for the dead.

  Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! 
  Ye are at peace in the troubled stream. 
  Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,
  Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
  Shall be one again,
  And without a seam!

THE FOSSIL MAN.

The greater part must be content to be as though they had not been:  to be found in the register of God, not in the records of men.  The number of the dead long exceedeth all that shall live.  The Night of Time far surpasseth the Day, and who knoweth the Equinox?—­Sir THOMAS BROWNE.