At seven o’clock on Tuesday morning an unusually heavy sea broke into the lifeboat stowed on the port-quarter, filling the boat and carrying her away, with all her gear. This was deemed a most melancholy occurrence, and a series of minor disasters followed. At nine o’clock the ship gave a tremendous pitch forward, as if she were about to bury herself, prow foremost, and in a moment afterwards the sea, with a force that made the hardiest seaman quail, tore away the jib and flying jibboom, which carried away with them the foretopmast, the foretopgallantmast, foreroyalmast, and mainroyalmast, with all their spars and sails, and other gear. Portions of the wreck fell clattering on the deck, or hung suspended by the rigging: the topmast was swinging in the rigging and the foreroyalmast was hanging down and swinging with the motion of the ship. The jibboom was lying on the starboard bow, right over in the water! Thus, at one fell stroke, the beautiful vessel had been dismantled, and received damage which, in the storm that then raged, it was next to impossible to repair. Captain Martin was cool and self-possessed in the midst of the untoward occurrence, and efforts were at once put forth to remedy the disaster, but to little purpose. The masts which had fallen on board, and which hung suspended by their rigging, and the jibboom, which was fastened to the ship by stays of wire, could not be got clear; and thus it was, with the ship in this dismantled condition, with the gale still increasing in fury, and with a sea that kept constantly washing all forward, that the passengers and crew of the _London_ steamed slowly ahead through the awful night.