each other. Not a word was spoken. The rugged face of the
liegeman was tremulous. He looked round; yes, it was actually old
Government House, and his chief was in possession. After all the
storms and disappointments, it had actually come to this. The two men
drew near, and as hand touched hand the two heads bowed together, and
without a word they embraced as two children would. Are there many
such little wells of poetry in the arid wilderness of political life?

On the day of his arrival in Halifax a true and tried relative called.
'Well, Joseph, what would your old father have thought of this?'
'Yes,' was the answer, 'it would have pleased the old man. I have had
a long fight for it, and have stormed the castle at last. But now that
I have it, what does it all amount to? I shall be here but a few days;
and instead of playing governor, I feel like saying with Wolsey, to the
Abbot of Leicester:

An old man, broken with the storms of State,
Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;
Give him a little earth for charity.'

That was almost all that was given him. The only levee he held in
Government House was {156} after his death, when he lay in state, and
thousands crowded round to take a long last look at their old idol.

On the morning after Howe's death a wealthy Halifax merchant, one who
had been a devoted friend of his, saw as he was entering his place of
business a farmer or drover, one well known for 'homespun without, and
a warm heart within,' sitting on a box outside near the door, his head
leaning on his hand, his foot monotonously swinging to and fro, looking
as if he had sat there for hours and had no intention of getting up in
a hurry. 'Well, Stephen, what's the matter?' 'Oh, nauthin',' was the
dull response. 'Is it Howe?' was the next question, in a softer tone.
The sound of the name unsealed the fountain. 'Yes, it's Howe.' The
words came with a gulp, and then followed tears, dropping on the
pavement large and fast. He did not weep alone. In many a hamlet, in
many a fishing village, in many a nook and corner of Nova Scotia, as
the news went over the land, Joseph Howe had the same tribute of tears.

Vex not his ghost; O let him pass! he hates him
That would upon the rack of this rough world
Stretch him out longer.

{157} He sleeps in Camphill Cemetery, not far from the pines and salt
sea water of his boyhood, a column of Nova Scotian granite marking his
resting-place; and his