“The wonder to me is how any man could live through such a burst as Cosequina’s in San Salvador. ’Twas the 21st of January, 1835--as fine a morning as ever was seen on earth. The Bay of Fonseca was smooth as silk; never a cloud in the sky. The lazy folks of Playa Grande and Nagascolo were lying in the hammocks beside the doors, smoking and dozing, and not a soul had a notion of ill from any side on that sunny morning, which was to be the last for half of them. They lay in hammocks and smoked and dozed like worthless cusses, as they are; and most of ’em, no doubt, had full in sight the big mountain on t’other side the gulf. They’d nigh forgot to call it a volcano. Not for a thousand years, as the Indians told, had smoke or mischief come from that hill; they’d ha’ laughed silly any one as had talked danger from Cosequina. “At ten o’clock that morning that mountain burst out again, and in a fury such as never yet was known in the upper world--no, nor ever will be again, as _I_ believe, till the last day. Suddenly it burst out--not muttering beforehand, nor smoking--but crash! all on the moment, as if to remind men what evil power was yet left in nature to destroy them. At ten o’clock that day the voice of the mountain was heard after one thousand years’ silence--in such a thunderous roar was it heard that beast and bird fell dead with the sound alone, and great cliffs pitched headlong into the sea! There’s thousands still alive to witness. For a while the streets of Playa Grande and Nagascolo must have seemed like streets of the dead; for every soul was stunned. Folks were lying in their hammocks or on the floor, motionless and senseless as corpses. The sky was still bright and blue, but on the mountain side was a cloud like ink, which rolled down like a cap to the foot. Naught afterwards seemed so horrible as the sudden heaping of that jet black mound in the place of the sunny, green hill.