Nor hope nor dream apart!

A NIGHT ON THE ICE.

BY SOLITAIRE.

A love for amusement is one of those national peculiarities of the
French people which neither time nor situation will ever eradicate,
for, be their lot cast where it may, amid the brilliant _salons_ of
Paris, or on the outskirts of civilization on the western continent,
they will set apart seasons for innocent mirth, in which they enter
into its spirit with a joyousness totally devoid of calculation or of
care. I love this trait in their character, because, perhaps, my own
spirits incline to the volatile. I like not that puritanical coldness
of intercourse which acts upon men as the winter winds do upon the
surface of the mountain streams, freezing them into immovable
propriety; and less do I delight in that festivity where calculation
seems to wait on merriment. Joy at such a board can never rise to
blood heat, for the jingle in the mind of cent. per cent., which rises
above the constrained mirth of the assembly, will hold the guests so
anchored to the consideration of profit and loss, that in vain they
spread a free sail--the tide of gayety refuses to float their barks
from the shoal beside which they are moored. In their seasons of
gayety the French are philosophers, for while they imbibe the mirth
they discard the wassail, and wine instead of being the body of their
feasts, as with other nations, it is but the spice used to add a
flavor to the whole. I know not that these remarks of mine have aught
to do with my story, but I throw them out by way of a prelude to--some
will say excuse for--what may follow.

In the winter of 1830 it was my good fortune to be the guest of an old
French resident upon the north-western frontier, and while enjoying
his hospitality I had many opportunities of mingling with the
_habitans_ of Detroit, a town well known as one of the early French
settlements on the American continent. At the period of which I write,
the stranger met a warm welcome in the habitation of the simple
residents--time, progress and speculation, I am told, have somewhat
marred those friendly feelings. The greedy adventurer, by making his
passport to their hospitality a means of profit, has planted distrust
in their bosoms, and the fire of friendship no longer flashes up at
the sound of an American's voice beneath their roof. To the all
absorbing spirit of Mammon be ascribed the evil change.

While residing with my friend Morell, I recei