ere it is still to be seen, perplexing the
beholder to guess its meaning and exciting our deepest sympathies over
the tragedy of which it remains the sole sad memorial.

Above and beneath the figure of a couchant dog gnawing the thigh bone
of a man is graven the weird inscription, cut deeply in the stone, as if
for all future generations to read and ponder over its meaning:

"Je suis un chien qui ronge l'os,
En le rongeant je prends mon repos.
Un temps viendra qui n'est pas venu
Que je mordrai qui m'aura mordu."
1736.

Or in English:

"I am a dog that gnaws his bone,
I couch and gnaw it all alone--
A time will come, which is not yet,
When I'll bite him by whom I'm bit."

The magazines of the Bourgeois Philibert presented not only an epitome
but a substantial portion of the commerce of New France. Bales of furs,
which had been brought down in fleets of canoes from the wild, almost
unknown regions of the Northwest, lay piled up to the beams--skins of
the smooth beaver, the delicate otter, black and silver fox, so rich
to the eye and silky to the touch that the proudest beauties longed for
their possession; sealskins to trim the gowns of portly burgomasters,
and ermine to adorn the robes of nobles and kings. The spoils of the
wolf, bear, and buffalo, worked to the softness of cloth by the hands of
Indian women, were stored for winter wear and to fill the sledges with
warmth and comfort when the northwest wind freezes the snow to fine dust
and the aurora borealis moves in stately possession, like an army of
spear-men, across the northern sky. The harvests of the colonists, the
corn, the wool, the flax; the timber, enough to build whole navies,
and mighty pines fit to mast the tallest admiral, were stored upon the
wharves and in the warehouses of the Bourgeois upon the banks of the St.
Lawrence, with iron from the royal forges of the Three Rivers and heaps
of ginseng from the forests, a product worth its weight in gold and
eagerly exchanged by the Chinese for their teas, silks, and sycee
silver.

The stately mansion of Belmont, overlooking the picturesque valley of
the St. Charles, was the residence proper of the Bourgeois Philibert,
but the shadow that in time falls over every hearth had fallen upon
his when the last of his children, his beloved son Pierre, left home to
pursue his military studies in France. During Pierre's absence the home
a