The 2nd of May was the day on which we set sail for the Crimea. It was indeed a lovely day--the air was redolent with perfume and freshness; not a ripple seemed to ruffle the surface of the mighty Bosphorus, whose ever-foaming current appeared to have buried itself deep in the bed of that turbulent stream. A few caiques were seen here and there swiftly gliding over its calm surface, occasionally disturbed by the dipping of the sea-gulls. The Bosphorus gulls have a peculiar chalky colour, differing from that of the ocean bird, which circumstance, no doubt, caused Lord Byron, in his beautiful poem, to call them the ghosts of the Houris, launched to eternity in the depths of that solemn flood of romance, poetical love, and tragic reminiscence. While skimming its surface they darted now and then with the rapidity of lightning down upon a rash little denizen of the deep who had ventured too near the surface of the limpid element to bask in the warmth of the generous rays of that friend of the whole world, the sun. All was peace, love, and repose. A vaporous golden tint seemed to envelope the world-famed city of Constantinople--its mosques, forests of minarets, Golden Horn, and European and Asiatic shores, with the Oriental atmosphere so peculiar to the Bosphorus. Nature seemed to be in its most sublime humour; heaven, earth, and ocean had that day agreed to be in love with humanity. On a sudden, the report of cannon is heard, and the roar of this fatal messenger of war is echoed and re-echoed from every part of the city. Caiques of large dimensions, gorgeously decorated with gilding and rich silken hangings, manned by numerous oarsmen, leave the marble staircase of the Dolma Bachi Palace. Numbers of smaller caiques follow in the wake of this nautical procession, which directs its course towards the Moslem city of Stamboul. As the flotilla passed close to us, we perceived that it contained the Sultan and his suite, proceeding to the Mosque of Sultan Mahomet--it being Friday, and the Turkish Sunday. His Sublime Majesty is always saluted with about fifty guns at his departure, and the same number on his return from that ceremony. This startling shock awoke me from a kind of lethargy, and made me recollect that I had embarked in a caique at Tophané, and that I was then afloat. Of a sudden we were hailed several times from a large ship close at hand, with the words “Chabouk! Chabouk! Balabak!” which means, “make haste, boatman.” At the same time, the hissing of a steamer, just getting under way, was heard. In a trice we were alongside, and a minute after I was upon the deck of the _Robert Lowe_. A few words of remonstrance were addressed to me by the captain. “Indeed, Monsieur Soyer, we were going without you! You are full half an hour behind time. Mr. Bracebridge and Miss Nightingale have inquired several times after you.” “Well, captain, I assure you they told me at Major Macdonald’s office, that you would not start till noon.”