248 OVER ON THE ISLAND

We swam. We did more than swim. We went out in a motor—boat with two young fishermen who had set out their lobster traps and now could not find them. Since early morning they had been cruising in this same locality, looking in vain for these, their means of livelihood. First, we got in line with a barn standing a short distance from the cliff—then over went the iron in search of lobster traps. Down, down it sank. Still nothing. The sky had dropped down to the water level and over all the Strait was a bluish greyness. There was no horizon. The sky and the water simply ran together in a hazy semi- circle. The stillness was eerie. Then the boat spluttered to life again and we continued the search. Far out we swung. Nearer land we came. Still no traps. The semi-circle grew more perpendicular and the search was discontinued—until later. We clambered ashore, went up to the factory, and ate lobsters.

We walked along. Off the main road, but near the old route, we looked down from our high road to a little neglected cemetery standing alone near the water.

We turned and went down. “In the sepulchre there by the sea” lay Thomas Small, a “traveller from Scotland.” I should like to know more about this

man. I want to know particularly how a traveller from Scotland managed to find his way to this par- ticular shore—and die here. The breakers thunder my questions on the shore and the answer dies away in

the distance. Did he, like Goldsmith’s Traveller, echo in his heart—-

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find that bliss which centres only in the mind. Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose to seek a good each government bestows . . .P