On the morning of Sunday, the sixteenth of April, 1865, the good steamer "Oceanus," gay with crowds of passengers, and proudly waving flags and signals, steamed slowly down Charleston harbor homeward bound. As she passed the fleet, parting salutations were exchanged with the monitors, men-of-war, and the smaller boats passing to and fro. We turned to take a last survey of the city in the distance, the forts, and shores thickly studded with now peaceful batteries. As we passed abreast of Fort Sumter, where, as at Lexington a hundred years ago, "was fired the shot heard 'round the world," every head was uncovered, while we reverently sang, the band accompanying: "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow," followed by the sweet strains of: "My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty." Immediately the colors on the fort were dipped, and the sentinels on the walls waved their adieus with caps and bayonets. At length we crossed the bar and took leave of the pilot. As the shores of South Carolina faded in the distance, and the walls of the storied fort sank below the gray horizon, we bade farewell to scenes which, however changed by the ceaseless march of time, must always possess a charm indescribable. Religious services were held in the cabin at eleven o'clock, and again during the evening. The sound of merriment was hushed, and all seemed to realize that it was the Sabbath. Indeed, it was observed by one of the speakers, that he had not heard a word of profanity or seen any one under the influence of intoxicating beverages during the voyage. Monday followed without important incident, save that at five o'clock in the afternoon we safely rounded Cape Hatteras with a gentle reminder of the old couplet: "If the Bermudas let you pass, You must beware of Hatteras!" Tuesday morning, when about thirty miles south of Fortress Monroe, and while most of the passengers were at breakfast, a steamer was observed in the distance with her flag at half-mast. Various were the conjectures for whom it could be. We had been without news from the north for more than a week; what could have happened? Presently a pilot-boat, with her colors also at half-mast, appeared within hailing distance. "What's the news?" was eagerly shouted from the "Oceanus." [Illustration: ABRAHAM LINCOLN.] "The President is dead," came faintly back, with startling effect, over the water. Immediately the breakfast tables were deserted, and the passengers gathered in astonished groups on deck, exclaiming, "It cannot be!" "We do not believe it!" But a second pilot-boat could now be seen with her flag, half-hoisted, drooping from the halyards. Again the earnest inquiry, "What's the news?" "President Lincoln is dead." "How did he die?" "He was assassinated in Washington."