“Time the supreme!  Time is eternity,
   Pregnant with all eternity can give;
   With all that makes archangels smile
   Who murders time, he crushes in the birth
   A power ethereal.”

   Young.

A year had passed away.  “How paradoxical is the signification of the term!” How vast, when we consider that each hour hastens the end of our pilgrimage!  How insignificant in comparison with futurity!  A single drop in the boundless deep of eternity!  Oh Time! thou greatest of all anomalies!  Friend yet foe, “preserver and yet destroyer!” Whence art thou, great immemorial?  When shall thy wondrous mechanism be dissolved?  When shall the “pall of obscurity” descend on thy Herculean net-work?  Voices of the past echo through thy deserted temples, and shriek along thy bulwarks—­Never, no never!

Season had followed season in rapid succession, and the last rays of an August sun illumined a scene so beautiful, that I long for the pencil of a Claude Lorraine.  It was a far-off town, in a far-off state, yet who has gazed on thy loveliness, oh, San Antonio, can e’er forget thee!  Thine was the sweetness of nature; no munificent hand had arranged, with artistic skill, a statue here, a fountain there.

The river wound like an azure girdle round the town; not confined by precipitous banks, but gliding along the surface, as it were, and reflecting, in its deep blue waters, the rustling tule which fringed the margin.  An occasional pecan or live-oak flung a majestic shadow athwart its azure bosom, and now and then a clump of willows sighed low in the evening breeze.

Far away to the north stretched a mountain range, blue in the distance; to the south, the luxuriant valley of the stream.  The streets were narrow, and wound with a total disregard of the points of the compass.  Could a stranger have been placed blindfold in one of them, and then allowed to look about him, the flat roofs and light appearance of most of the houses would have forced him to declare that he had entered a tropical town of the far east.

Many of the buildings were of musquit pickets, set upright in the ground, lashed together with strips of hide, and thatched with the tule before mentioned.  There were scarce three plank-floors in the town; by far the greater number being composed of layers of pebbles, lime, and sand, rolled with a heavy piece of timber till quite compact; daily sprinkling was found necessary, however, to keep down the dust, produced by constant friction.

The wealthy inhabitants built of sun-dried bricks, overcast with a kind of stucco.  Yet, unfortunately, the plastering art died with the Montezumas, for the most vivid imagination failed to convert this rough coating into the “silver sheen” which so dazzled Cortes’s little band.  The reader will exclaim, “I can fancy no beauty from so prosy a description.  Thatched roofs and dirt floors, how absurd!”

Although a strict analysis might prove detrimental, I assure you the tout ensemble was picturesque indeed.