HIS FUNERAL. 
241 
the question how far I erred; but I now sent them to 
their village under pretext of obtaining birds, and lent 
them our dogs to insure their departure. 
The body of Mr. Ohlsen was sewed up, while they 
were gone, in his own blankets, and carried in pro¬ 
cession to the head of a little gorge on the east face of 
Pekiutlik, where by hard labor we consigned his re¬ 
mains to a sort of trench, and covered them with rocks 
to protect them from the fox and bear. Without the 
knowledge of my comrades, I encroached on our little 
store of sheet-lead, which we were husbanding to mend 
our leaky boats with, and, cutting on a small tablet his 
name and age,— 
CHRISTIAN OHLSEN, 
AGED 30 VEABS, 
laid it on his manly breast. The cape that looks 
down on him bears his name. 
As we walked back to our camp upon the ice, the 
death of Ohlsen brought to my mind the strange 
parallel of our story with that of old William Barentz, 
—a parallel which might verify that sad truth of his¬ 
tory that human adventure repeats itself. 
Two hundred and fifty-nine years ago, William 
Barentz, Chief Pilot of the States-General of Hol¬ 
land,—the United States of that day,—had wintered 
on the coast of Novaia Zemlia, exploring the northern¬ 
most region of the Old Continent, as we had that of the 
New. His men, seventeen in number, broke down 
during the trials of the winter, and three died, just as 
Vol. ir._ is 
