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.”

“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.”

Then stout hearts trembled with dismay, and men unused to tears turned pale and wept. As we passed vessel after vessel, we obtained further particulars of the cruel tragedy, and the feeling of gloom and indignation which prevailed was deep and indescribable. Nothing else was thought or talked of, till we arrived at the fortress. On landing, I purchased a Richmond paper, containing a full account of the assassination, the murderous attack upon Secretary Seward and his sons, with the plot to remove General Grant and the entire Cabinet. We found the entrance to the fortress draped in mourning, and the saddest reminders of all were the portraits of the departed President, deeply hung with crape, in the various offices. We made but a brief stay at the splendid fortress, with its powerful armament, where, a few weeks later, Jefferson Davis was brought and confined as a prisoner of war. We could plainly discern “the Rip Raps” and Sewall’s Point, and the locality was pointed out “in the Roads,” where the little Monitor defeated the Merrimac, in 1862, and saved the Union fleet. The story of this famous battle, and the revolution it produced in naval warfare, has been graphically recited by Comrade F.B. Butts.

But the sad intelligence from the Capital had crushed the desire for sight-seeing, and all seemed anxious to get home with the least possible delay. After taking a supply of coal and water, and landing four or five blockade-runners who had secreted themselves in our coal-bunkers at Charleston, we were again “homeward bound.”

Wednesday morning found us well on our voyage to New York, with continued pleasant weather. At half-past ten, the Sumter Club, which had been organized, held a meeting, and the rebel flag of Fort Moultrie was formally presented to the Club. It was voted to procure a suitable gold badge, with Fort Sumter engraved upon it, for each member. It was further voted that every passenger who sailed from New York for Charleston on the “Oceanus” should be entitled to membership.

Appropriate services were held on board at eleven o’clock, the hour at which the funeral obsequies of the President were being solemnized in Washington.

At three o’clock we were opposite Coney Island, and entering the Narrows. After a short detention at quarantine, we rapidly passed the light-houses and forts and the fleet of shipping, moving and at anchor about the great metropolis, and drew into the dock at the foot of Robinson street as the city bells struck five. Hasty farewells were exchanged with friends on board, mingled with greetings from friends on shore. Making my way with difficulty through the crowds of people and among teams, drays and carriages, I at length emerged into the streets of New York.

But what a change! The city was in mourning! Ten days before, every highway and avenue had been resplendent with flags and streamers; and a whole city had celebrated with joy and thanksgiving the return of peace and the triumph of loyalty over armed rebellion. We had sailed to the metropolis of the south, the Cradle of the Rebellion, and found it a city in ruins. There, where the national ensign had been first dishonored, we had seen it uplifted and restored with imposing ceremonies, amid the shouts of a race redeemed and set free. To-day we had returned to find New York as mournful as Charleston. A national calamity had filled the land with mourning. From every flag-staff the “stars and stripes,” shrouded in black, drooped at half-mast. From the houses of rich and poor alike, hung the emblems of the universal sorrow. It is estimated that not less than five hundred thousand people, the representatives of all classes, crowded the entrances to the City Hall to take a last look at the familiar features of the beloved President, who had so endeared himself to all parties by his patience, wisdom and fidelity during his long and difficult term of service. Just before the fall of Richmond he uttered those ever-memorable words, his fitting epitaph: “With malice towards none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive to finish the work we are in, and do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.” His work was finished. The nation was reunited, and at peace with all the world. As we enjoy to-day the blessings of peace and orderly progress let us never forget the name of Lincoln. Let us ever remember at what a fearful sacrifice of precious blood and treasure, Liberty and Union were maintained, and “the flag replaced on Sumter.”