Mamertinus—then Lampridius and Hephæstion—waxed wroth. According to them the subject of a speech was a matter of no moment. To an orator it should be absolutely indifferent whether he undertook to attack or to defend a case. Even meaning had no interest for him. The principal thing was the orchestration of verbal sounds—the melody, the musical assonance of letters—permitting even a barbarian, witless of Greek, to feel the sheer beauty of language.
"I'll just give you an example, two Latin verses of Propertius," said Garguillus. "Notice the power of the sounds and the emptiness of the meaning. Listen—
"'Et Veneris dominæ volucres, mea turba columbæ, Tingunt Gorgonio punica rostra lacu.'"
What pure delight! Every letter sings! What does the meaning matter? All the beauty consists in the sound, in the assemblage of vowels and consonants. For that utterance I would give all the civic virtue of Juvenal and the philosophy of Lucretius! No! Just hear again! What sweetness there is in that murmur—
"'Et Veneris dominæ volucres, mea turba columbæ!'"
and he wagged that upper lip with a smack of delight.
Everybody repeated the lines of Propertius, unwearying of their charm, and embarking on a veritable orgy of quotation.
"Just listen," murmured Mamertinus in his Æolian voice—
"'Tingunt Gorgonio...'"
"Tingunt Gorgonio," repeated the master of chancery. "By Pallas!—why, it delights one's very palate. It's like swallowing a warm mouthful of wine mingled with Attic honey—