red on arrival in America. I
fancy this disease was closely allied to that which attacked Admiral Von
Wrangell's party early in the nineteenth century.[29] But all things
considered, summer is the most trying season here, not only on account
of the heat, which is far greater than that of Yakutsk, but of the
mosquitoes, which make their appearance before the snow is off the
ground and do not disappear until late in the fall. The exiles said that
they were often deprived of sleep for nights together on account of
these pests, which swarm in and out of doors, and inflict a nasty
poisonous bite. Children had died from the fever produced from the
irritation and consequent sleeplessness. This, and continual (and
therefore distressing) daylight, made the advent of winter, even with
all its cold and darkness, a welcome one. For this season also brings
another blessing to these poor outcasts, news from home, which reaches
here once a month by reindeer-sledge, whereas in summer a mail is only
once despatched from Yakutsk, and frequently fails to arrive at its
destination.[30]

[Footnote 29: In 1820 Von Wrangell wrote: "During my stay in Verkhoyansk
a kind of epidemic catarrhal fever prevailed throughout the district;
the symptoms were violent depression of the chest, noise in the ears,
headache, etc.... A Cossack whom I had previously sent forward with my
papers died of the epidemic; every one was more or less ill."]

[Footnote 30: The telegraph wire ceases at Yakutsk.]

In addition to his literary pursuits Mr. Abramovitch had kept a record
of the temperature during his term of exile, and the result of his
careful observations for a period of twelve years was as follows: Mean
temperature for the whole year, 4 deg. below zero Fahrenheit. In hard
winters the thermometer was frequently 75 deg. below zero, and once
touched the almost incredible point of 81 deg. below zero. During our
stay only 65 deg. below zero was registered, but at the first _stancia_,
two hundred miles north of Verkhoyansk, we experienced 78 deg. below
zero, a cold so intense that the breath froze as it left our lips and
fell in a white powder to the ground. And yet, I can assure the reader
that I have suffered more from cold in Piccadilly on a damp, chilly
November day than in the coldest weather in this part of Siberia. For
the atmosphere here is generally dry and does not permeate the frame
like that of our sea-girt, foggy island. Also, during extreme cold t