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of the Columbia, six miles from the city of Portland.
Ogden died and was buried under the stars and stripes.
Soon after, Dr. McLoughlin took to his bed. The chill of nearly fifty years before, in the icy Lake Superior, had never left his bones. Dr. Barclay had followed Dr. McLoughlin to Oregon City, and was his constant attendant. Mrs. Barclay, beautiful in person and character, ran over frequently from the cares of her young and growing family. Eloise was a true daughter in directing the servants, in consoling her mother, in watchings many at the bedside of her father.
"Comment allez-vous?" asked the good old wife, as his end drew near. With an upward glance and smile he answered, "A Dieu" It was his last word. In the still nights now and then a groan was heard. The long, white locks curled on the pillow, and silent tears rolled from the closed eyelids. So he died. The Father of Oregon sleeps on the banks of the Willamette within sound of the Falls he loved so well. Peace be with him.
The familiar form that had passed up and down the streets, thinking of others and never of self, had been laid to rest. Carlyle says the sceptic does not know a hero when he sees him! Five years before McLoughlin's death the Oregon legislature had pigeon-holed a resolution thanking him for his generous conduct toward the early settlers. How could they thank him while they withheld his land? In the mean time there had been a great talking and thinking among the people. Men paused when they heard his funeral knell, and women wept. The scales of party strife fell from their eyes.
"This was a good man," they said.
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