over the roof of this tunnel that we had passed, and it caused an
awesome feeling to come over one to see the water leap down its mouth to
an unseen depth with a loud rumbling noise. After a tiresome ascent of
the ravine, this hitherto inaccessible island, like a standing challenge
of Nature inviting the muscular and ambitious, was at last climbed to
the very summit; and it may be remarked, with pardonable vanity, that
the feat was never done before. The view revealed from the top of the
island was a veritable apocalypse. There was something unique about the
desolate grandeur of the novel surroundings that would cause a man of
the Sir Charles Coldstream type to say there "is something in it," and
the most hackneyed man of the world would acknowledge a new sensation.
It was midnight, and the sun shone with gleaming splendor over all this
waste of ice and sea and granite; on one hand Wrangel Island appeared in
well-defined outline, on the other an open sea extended northward as far
as we were able to make out by the aid of strong glasses. From our
position about the middle of the island the two extreme points of
Wrangel island bore southwest and west-by-south respectively. In shape,
Herald island is something like a boot with a depression at the instep,
and at the westernmost extremity, near which it may be climbed with
considerable ease, are found a number of jagged peaks and splintered
pinnacles of granite, some of which resemble the giant remains of
ancient sculpture, all the worse for exposure to the weather. On a
promontory 1,400 feet high at the northeast point of the island I placed
in a cairn a bottle containing written information of our landing and a
copy of the New York _Herald_ of April 23.[1]

Beyond the extraordinary bird life, no signs of life appeared, except a
small fox, and a Polar bear. The latter put in an appearance just after
we had returned on board at three o'clock in the morning, and the
circumstances attending his slaughter, which were about as enlivening as