It will readily be imagined that our young man turned his glass to the northward, in search of the group he had left that morning, with a most lively interest.  It was easy enough to see it from the great elevation at which he was now placed.  There it lay, stretched far and wide, extending nearly a degree of latitude, north and south, and another of longitude, east and west, most truly resembling a vast dark-looking map, spread upon the face of the waters for his special examination.  It reminded Mark of the moon, with its ragged outlines of imaginary continents, as seen by the naked eye, while the island he was now on, bore a fancied resemblance to the same object viewed through a telescope; not that it had the look of molten silver which is observed in the earth’s satellite, but that it appeared gloriously bright and brilliant.  Mark could easily see many of the sheets of water that were to be found among the rocks, though his naked eye could distinguish neither crater nor ship.  By the aid of the glass, however, the first was to be seen, though the distance was too great to leave the poor deserted Rancocus visible, even with the assistance of magnifying-glasses.

When he had taken a good look at his old possessions, Mark made a sweep of the horizon with the glass, in order to ascertain if any other land were visible, from the great elevation on which he now stood.  While arranging the focus of the instrument, an object first met his eye that caused his heart almost to leap into his mouth.  Land was looming up, in the western board, so distinctly as to admit of no cavil about its presence.  It was an island, mountainous, and Mark supposed it must be fully a hundred miles distant.  Still it was land, and strange land, and might prove to be the abode of human beings.  The glass told him very little more than his eye, though he could discern a mountainous form through it, and saw that it was an island of no great size.  Beyond this mountain, again, the young man fancied that he could detect the haze of more land; but, if he did, it was too low, too distant, and too indistinct, to be certain of it.  It is not easy to give a clear idea of the tumult of feeling with which Mark Woolston beheld these unknown regions, though it might best be compared with the emotions of the astronomer who discovers a new planet.  It would scarce exceed the truth to say that he regarded that dim, blue mountain, which arose in the midst of a watery waste, with as much of admiration, mysterious awe and gratification united, as Herschel may have been supposed to feel when he established the character of Uranus.  It was fully an hour before our hermit could turn his eyes in any other direction.