The Sun.
London, England, 1861-09-20 00:00:00

(FROM A PASSENGER.)

QUEENSTOWN HARBOUR, CORK,
TUESDAY, SEPT. 17.
To the great delight of ourselves and to the great
surprise of everybody else we find ourselves safely
here, after having been six days at sea, and having
during that period encountered disasters which will
be memorable in the history of the Great Eastern,
although her name has been too much associated
with disaster already.
We sailed from the Mersey on the afternoon of
the 10th inst., and steamed steadily down to the
Channel, amid the cheers and good wishes of thou-
sands of spectators, not one of whom could have
imagined how small was the chance of their ever
seeing her again.
The fact of her having twice made the passage of
the Atlantic in safety had opened up a brighter
prospect for her; but within 48 hours of her com-
mencing this passage to New York she was in
greater peril than she had ever been previously, not
omitting the fearful explosion on her first trial trip.
We had nearly 400 passengers on board, including
an unusual number of ladies and children. With
the crew we made up a total of 800 sculs. We pro-
ceeded very satisfactorily during Tuesday night and
Wednesday, our speed averaging from 12 to 14
knots per hour. We last sighted land soon after
noon on Wednesday, and later in the day the wind
changed from south-east to north-west, blowing
fresh.

I can render the events of the next few days more
distinct by adopting the form of a diary.

THURSDAY.
This morning we have a fresh gale, with a gold
sea. Noon—A heavy gale ; wind, from north to
west; sea, tremendous. We roll very heavily, and
ship many seas. I now begin to understand the
true meaning of a gale iu the Atlantic. The cap-
tain looks anxious, but the passengers have faith in
the big ship. The rolling is fearful, and quite up-
sets all persons' notions of the steadiness of the
Great Eastern. One of our cows has her leg broken ;
in a short time they are both "rolled" to death.
2 o'Clock.—Things look worse. The captain tries
to put our head to the wind. The port paddle gives
way with a great crash in the attempt. The jib is
set, I presume to aid in steering, but it is blown to
ribands in a few moments. The rolling increases;
the deck presents an angle of 45 degrees, and none
but experienced seamen can walk about. Attention
is suddenly drawn to the boats ; they are suspended
on either side, but mostly on fixed davits. The
heavy rolling brings the boats in violent contact
with the waves. The tackling of the longboat be-
comes deranged; a man and a boy enter it to re-

medy the evil, but the wind strikes the boat, and
gives the occupants forcible ejectment—happily
upon deck, and in a moment it is floating far away
from us. Four other boats share a similar fate in
rapid succession. Continued efforts are made to
bring the ship to the wind. I watch the men at the
wheel—there is almost an army of them. They are
contending with an element whose power they are
indeed familiar with, but cannot fully estimate.
They still stand to their post, and we still have
hope. 5.45.—0ur position is becoming indeed cri-
tical. A tremendous sea has just struck our stern.
It has broken her rudder-head and done serious
damage to her stern-post. Still, we are not quite
at the mercy of the waves ; we have our screw, and
we have our starboard paddle. The wind is no w
getting to the south-west.
I now leave the deck, where I have been study-
ing the great lesson of the deep, and feel anxious to
know how matters are progressing below. As I
descend the staircase I hear a crashing which even
deadens the roaring of the wind and waves. I pass
the store-room; its shelves are empty, and the
crockery which filled them fighting a fierce b tttle
on the floor below. I pass into the grand saloon,
but a change has come over the scene. Every one
who has visited this ship must have been struck
with the gorgeous magnificence of her saloons, her
easy lounges, her brilliant chandeliers, her nume-
rous and extensive mirrors, the regard to comfort and
elegance in every shape. But the lounges are now
overturned, the tables are thrown down and broken,
the chairs are franticly chasing those who but a
few moments before had been their fair occupants,
The stove from the centre of the room is adrift ; it
has wreaked its vengeance upon a large mirror, but
has mischief in it yet. Books leave their shelves
without the slightest solicitation, and present them-
selves to the mental development in a manner not
calculated to aid reflection. But the ladies and
children !—where can they seek protection ? Some
have, indeed, sought their cabins, but the majority
are huddled in corners on the floor, and terror is
strongly marked on their faces. The stewards are
capturing the various articles of furniture, and
binding them down as they would so many wild
and svag
forsavage beasts.
my
I venture in to assist, and art
rewarded
indiscretion by being hurled vio-
lently whichthhoandsabnede ni").
pieces,
:ter,
and
a
by the stove.
against thelt
fallsmiro
intorr'
a inflicts injury upon many. I am, perhaps, ti e
greatest sufferer. I have my head cut, my little
finger dislocated, and a tooth knocked out. Every
and the damage.
fresh lurch adds to the destruction
I leave the grand saloon,
the day a more complete wreck in
appearance than it wasafter the explosion
on the first trial trip.
There is much more to see below, but lam anxious
to know how all is going on on deck. The ship, I
unmanage-
able. The snapping of the rudder-head is a double
now learn confidentially, is considered
misfortune. It allows the rudder to swing round
upon the screw, and entirely prevents it from being
worked. The ship has begun to drift into the
trough of the sea. Another effort is made with the
remaining paddle to turn its head. The effort is too
much—this paddle now gives way, and at last we
are (10 p.m.) at the entire mercy of the waves.
Happily, but one or two on board know of the full
extent of the misfortunes, or there would be very
few beds occupied. May the great Ruler of the
waves have mercy upon us this night! The trysail
just set is blowing in ribands before the wind.

FRIDAY, 6 A.M.

I rise from a feeble attempt to sleep. The gale
is still furious. We are drifting before the wind
at the rate of three or four knots an hour. We have
never been more than 300 miles from land. We are
drifting eastward now; but, even if the wind does