Ah! it was a misconception of human nature. I was but sharing it in common with others, for most mortals have, at some period of life, laboured under a similar mistake. Alas! it is too true--love _is_ affected by time and absence. It will not live upon memory alone. The capricious soul, however delighting in the ideal, prefers the real and positive. Though there are but few _lovely_ women in the world, there is no one lovelier than all the rest--no man handsomer than all his fellows. Of two pictures equally beautiful, that is the more beautiful upon which the eye is gazing. It is not without reason that lovers dread the parting hour. Was it books that spoke of lines and angles, of bastions and embrasures--was it drill, drill, drill by day, or the hard couch and harder guard _tour_ by night--was it any or all of these that began to infringe upon the exclusivism of that one idea, and at intervals drive it from my thoughts? Or was it the pretty faces that now and then made their appearance at the "Point"--the excursionary belles from Saratoga and Ballston, who came to visit us--or the blonde daughters of the patroons, our nearer neighbours--who came more frequently, and who saw in each coarse-clad cadet the chrysalis of a hero--the embryo of a general? Which of all these was driving Maumee out of my mind? It imports little what cause--such was the effect. The impression of my young love became less vivid on the page of memory. Each day it grew fainter and fainter, until it was attenuated to a slim retrospect. Ah! Maumee! in truth it was long before this came to pass. Those bright smiling faces danced long before my eyes ere thine became eclipsed. Long while withstood I the flattery of those siren tongues; but my nature was human, and my heart yielded too easily to the seduction of sweet blandishments. It would not be true to say that my first love was altogether gone: it was cold, but not dead. Despite the fashionable flirtations of the hour, it had its seasons of remembrance and return. Oft upon the still night's guard, home-scenes came flitting before me; and then the brightest object in the vision-picture was Maumee. My love for her was cold, not dead. Her presence would have re-kindled it--I am sure it would. Even to have heard from her--of her--would have produced a certain effect. To have heard that she had forgotten me, and given her heart to another, would have restored my boyish passion in its full vigour and entirety; I am sure it would. I could not have been indifferent then? I must still have been in love with Maumee. One key pushes out the other; but the fair daughters of the north had not yet obliterated from my heart this dark-skinned damsel of the south.