In consternation at the unprecedented affliction, he strove to divest himself of his power; he hated the gift he had lately coveted.  But all in vain; starvation seemed to await him.  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.  Ravished with the harmony, Tmolus at once awarded the victory to the god of the lyre, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment.  He dissented, and questioned the justice of the award.  Apollo would not suffer such a depraved pair of ears any longer to wear the human form, but caused them to increase in length, grow hairy, within and without, and movable on their roots; in short, to be on the perfect pattern of those of an ass.

Mortified enough was King Midas at this mishap; but he consoled himself with the thought that it was possible to hide his misfortune, which he attempted to do by means of an ample turban or head-dress.  But his hair-dresser of course knew the secret.  He was charged not to mention it, and threatened with dire punishment if he presumed to disobey.  But he found it too much for his discretion to keep such a secret; so he went out into the meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down, whispered the story, and covered it up.  Before long a thick bed of reeds sprang up in the meadow, and as soon as it had gained its growth, began whispering the story, and has continued to do so, from that day to this, every time a breeze passes over the place.

The story of King Midas has been told by others with some variations.  Dryden, in the “Wife of Bath’s Tale,” makes Midas’s queen the betrayer of the secret: 

    “This Midas knew, and durst communicate
     To none but to his wife his ears of state.”