"'Larumed' is a fine word," said Mr. Homer, meekly, "but I fail to apprehend your precise meaning, Brother Pindar."
"You know what 'dramatic' means, I suppose, Homer," replied Mr. Pindar, testily, "though you never had an atom of the quality in your composition. And you know what a moment is. The Dramatic Moment—I repeat it—in your life and the life of this village—has larumed, sir. Listen to it, Homer; look upon it, sir; grasp it! The old order—gone!" he swept it away. "The new—its foot upon the threshold!" he beckoned toward the door, and Mr. Homer looked round nervously. "Usher it in, to sound of trump and drum. We must celebrate, Homer, celebrate. To that end, behold me!"
Mr. Homer passed his hand across his brow and sighed wearily. "My dear brother," he said, "you must excuse me if I do not yet altogether understand,—a—comprehend,—a—accord the hospitality of the intellect, to—to the idea that you desire to convey. I feel little if any resemblance at this moment to a watcher of the skies—Keats, as I need not remind you; but I cannot feel that this is a time for rejoicing, Pindar."
"For celebration, sir! for celebration!" cried Mr. Pindar, eagerly. "The words are not synonymous, as you are no doubt aware. Let the mysteries be solemn, if you will, the sable scarf of cinerary pomp, the muffled drum, and wail of deep bassoon; but this was my idea, sir; thus the vision rose before my mind's eye, Horatio,—I would say, Homer. A procession, sir. Maidens, white-clad, flower-crowned, scattering roses; matrons, in kirtle and gown, twirling the distaff; village elders, in—in—our native costume is ill adapted, I confess, but suitable robes might be obtained at trifling cost, sir, at trifling cost. You in the midst, crowned with bays, the poet's robe your manly limbs enfolding. Following,—or preceding, as you will,—musicians, with brass instruments. You write an ode, I set it to music. Rhymes will readily suggest themselves: 'jog,' no! 'clog;' hardly! 'agog;' precisely!
"Ta-ta, ta-ta, with joy agog;
Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug! (bang!) Quahaug!
Kettledrums, you understand; cymbals; superb effect! You see it, Homer? you take it in?"
He paused, and gazed on his brother with kindling eyes, his arms extended, the little cloak fluttering from them; certainly nothing human ever looked so like a bat.
"A goblin!" said Mr. Homer to himself. "My only brother is a goblin!"
He sighed again, yet more wearily, and once more passed his hand across his brow.
"My dear brother," he said, "the hour is late. I find myself incapable of—of thought. The weary pinion of the brain—I find myself incapable even of metaphor, sir. You must excuse me. To-morrow—"