One day I do remember,—one day fit to be named with the days of old. Stay a moment, and think what was in those days. Imagine the concourse of people from all ends of the world; a small world it was then, and yet how great in men, aye, and in coming men. There, under the shadow of the great towering crag of Delphi—the centre or “navel” of the earth, as the Greek poets termed it—with the world-renowned temple glowing in lily whiteness in the blue air, there the great games were held,—duty, religion, race, patriotism, drew all men of Greek birth or parentage to witness or to share in them. Week after week, from every state and colony, from isle and creek and dented bay, the flower of Hellas gathered in national pride to swell the host of spectators at these Panegyreis, called by them “universal gatherings.” Hither came statesmen and philosophers, merchants and traders, poets and priests, and people of every degree; streaming up through gorge and defile, up through groves of pine and laurel and cypress, up to the broad, bright plain,
Around the spot where trod Apollo’s foot.
In that great day when Midas stood forth to meet the gaze of the vast assembly, there were, as visitors, some of those who have written their names indelibly on the pages of Time, some of those who have made history. Who were they? Pindar, we know, was there,—what other? At that day, Pythagoras walked upon the earth, and Æschylus was then in the prime of manhood; Sophocles, a babe but one year old, nestled in a mother’s arms; and Phidias, a child of seven summers, not yet dreaming of his great fame, tripped over the grass, gathering garlands of hyacinth, saffron, and asphodel; and fancy may picture him there listening to the flutes of Midas, hearing the shout of victory, and seeing the bestowal of the laurel crown. Imagine him—one of the young immortals—lifted up in the exciting moment, his little heart throbbing in sympathy with the pulse of the grand enthusiasm that ran through that sunsmitten multitude!
Aye, those were glorious days! One such day I do remember, one worthy to rank with those days of Grecian festivals; the day when our vast city for a whole day welled out from every street and alley its thousands, tens of thousands, mile upon mile, from morn to sunset, to welcome Garibaldi. Then we knew what it was to feel the thrill of genuine fervour. Then, for one day at least, we rejoiced in being of human race, and believed in the wide kinship of patriotism. Men and women counted themselves happy if they could touch but the folds of his grey cloak. They who had looked into the depths of his calm grey eyes felt themselves dwellers under a loftier sky and went away, comforted; and to gaze upon his serene face was to receive into the heart a new sense of the service of life. He was one of those
Men whom we
Build our love round, like an arch of triumph,
As they pass us on their way to glory
And to immortality.
Since glorious Midas won, 2397 years have come and gone, and Pindar’s verse each year has kept the laurels green. Perhaps in after years he personified the ideal or master flute player to the popular imagination, for the statue here represented dates from the time of Hadrian—that is six hundred years later—and is believed by the archæologists to be a copy or adaptation of an earlier work, when a pseudo-archaic style was in fashion. The original they say may, like other earlier representations of deities, have been clad in actual drapery. According to Pliny, Midas was the original inventor of the plagiaulos or side blown flute; but it was so customary to assign to their heroes the origin of things considered benefits to the people, that we may class this as a mythical reminiscence.
The figure is draped in a chiton, with sleeves which are fastened down with studs; a circlet rests upon the head, and the hair falls in long tresses over the shoulders; the beard is long, and of the peculiar shape commented upon by ancient writers. The marble is beautifully worked, the details very graceful, and the expression given to the face remarkable. The statue was found in the villa of Antoninus Pius, near Civita Lavinia. The right arm, left hand, the mouthpiece, and part of the middle of the pipe are restorations; but the artist, being in the dark as to the actual kind of flute originally represented, made up a shape of mouthpiece from the fragments, for which his inner consciousness alone is responsible.