He
raised his arms, all shining with gold, in prayer to Bacchus,
begging to be delivered from his glittering destruction. Bacchus,
merciful deity, heard and consented. "Go," said he, "to the River
Pactolus, trace the stream to its fountain-head, there plunge your
head and body in, and wash away your fault and its punishment." He
did so, and scarce had he touched the waters before the gold-
creating power passed into them, and the river-sands became
changed into GOLD, as they remain to this day.
Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the
country, and became a worshipper of Pan, the god of the fields. On
a certain occasion Pan had the temerity to compare his music with
that of Apollo, and to challenge the god of the lyre to a trial of
skill. The challenge was accepted, and Tmolus, the mountain god,
was chosen umpire. The senior took his seat, and cleared away the
trees from his ears to listen. At a given signal Pan blew on his
pipes, and with his rustic melody gave great satisfaction to
himself and his faithful follower Midas, who happened to be
present. Then Tmolus turned his head toward the Sun-god, and all
his trees turned with him. Apollo rose, his brow wreathed with
Parnassian laurel, while his robe of Tyrian purple swept the
ground. In his left hand he held the lyre, and with his right hand
struck the strings.
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