_THIRD READING._
And, truly, did you ever hear of such a pitiable case, in all your
lives? Here was literally the richest breakfast that could be set
before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely good for
nothing. The poorest laborer, sitting down to his crust of bread and
cup of water, was far better off than King Midas, whose delicate food
was really worth its weight in gold.
And what was to be done? Already, at breakfast, Midas was excessively
hungry. Would he be less so by dinner-time? And how ravenous would be
his appetite for supper, which must undoubtedly consist of the same
sort of indigestible dishes as those now before him! How many days,
think you, would he survive a continuance of this rich fare?
These reflections so troubled wise King Midas, that he began to doubt
whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world,
or even the most desirable. But this was only a passing thought. So
fascinated was Midas with the glitter of the yellow metal, that he
would still have refused to give up the Golden Touch for so paltry a
consideration as a breakfast. Just imagine what a price for one meal’s
victuals! It would have been the same as paying millions and millions
of money for some fried trout, an egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a cup
of coffee!
“It would be much too dear,” thought Midas.
Nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his
situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously too. Our
pretty Marygold could endure it no longer. She sat a moment gazing at
her father, and trying, with all the might of her little wits, to find
out what was the matter with him. Then, with a sweet and sorrowful
impulse to comfort him, she started from her chair, and, running to
Midas, threw her arms affectionately about his knees. He bent down
and kissed her. He felt that his little daughter’s love was worth a
thousand times more than he had gained by the Golden Touch.
“My precious, precious Marygold!” cried he.
But Marygold made no answer.
Alas, what had he done? How fatal was the gift which the stranger had
bestowed! The moment the lips of Midas touched Marygold’s forehead, a
change had taken place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as
it had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow tear-drops
congealing on her cheeks. Her beautiful brown ringlets took the same
tint. Her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within
her father’s encircling arms. O terrible misfortune! The victim of his
insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a human child no
longer, but a golden statue!
Yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity,
hardened into her face. It was the prettiest and most woful sight that
ever mortal saw. All the features and tokens of Marygold were there;
even the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin. But, the
more perfect was the resemblance, the greater was the father’s agony
at beholding this golden image, which was all that was left him of a
daughter.
It had been a favorite phrase of Midas, whenever he felt particularly
fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in gold. And
now the phrase had become literally true. And, now, at last, when it
was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart, that
loved him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up
betwixt the earth and sky!
It would be too sad a story, if I were to tell you how Midas, in the
fulness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and
bemoan himself; and how he could neither bear to look at Marygold,
nor yet to look away from her. Except when his eyes were fixed on the
image, he could not possibly believe that she was changed to gold. But,
stealing another glance, there was the precious little figure, with a
yellow tear-drop on its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender,
that it seemed as if that very expression must needs soften the gold,
and make it flesh again. This, however, could not be. So Midas had only
to wring his hands, and to wish that he were the poorest man in the
wide world, if the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest
rose-color to his dear child’s face.
While he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger,
standing near the door. Midas bent down his head, without speaking; for
he recognized the same figure which had appeared to him the day before
in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous power
of the Golden Touch. The stranger’s countenance still wore a smile,
which seemed to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed
on little Marygold’s image, and on the other objects that had been
transmuted by the touch of Midas.
“Well, friend Midas,” said the stranger, “pray, how do you succeed with
the Golden Touch?”
Midas shook his head.
“I am very miserable,” said he.
“Very miserable! indeed!” exclaimed the stranger, “and how happens
that? Have I not faithfully kept my promise with you? Have you not
every thing that your heart desired?”
“Gold is not every thing,” answered Midas. “And I have lost all that my
heart really cared for.”
“Ah! So you have made a discovery, since yesterday?” observed the
stranger. “Let us see, then. Which of these two things do you think is
really worth the most,--the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of
clear cold water?”
“O blessed water!” exclaimed Midas. “It will never moisten my parched
throat again!”
“The Golden Touch,” continued the stranger, “or a crust of bread?”
“A piece of bread,” answered Midas, “is worth all the gold on earth!”
“The Golden Touch,” asked the stranger, “or your own little Marygold,
warm, soft, and loving, as she was an hour ago?”
“O my child, my dear child!” cried poor King Midas, wringing his
hands. “I would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for
the power of changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!”
“You are wiser than you were, King Midas!” said the stranger, looking
seriously at him. “Your own heart, I perceive, has not been entirely
changed from flesh to gold. Were it so, your case would indeed be
desperate. But you appear to be still capable of understanding that
the commonest things, such as lie within everybody’s grasp, are more
valuable than the riches which so many mortals sigh and struggle after.
Tell me, now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this Golden
Touch?”
“It is hateful to me!” replied Midas.
A fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor; for it,
too, had become gold. Midas shuddered.
“Go, then,” said the stranger, “and plunge into the river that glides
past the bottom of your garden. Take likewise a vase of the same
water, and sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change
back again from gold into its former substance. If you do this in
earnestness and sincerity, it may possibly repair the mischief which
your avarice has occasioned.”
King Midas bowed low; and when he lifted his head, the lustrous
stranger had vanished.
You will easily believe that Midas lost no time in snatching up a
great earthen pitcher (but, alas me! it was no longer earthen after
he touched it), and in hastening to the river-side. As he ran along,
and forced his way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvellous
to see how the foliage turned yellow behind him, as if the autumn had
been there, and nowhere else. On reaching the river’s brink, he plunged
headlong in, without waiting so much as to pull off his shoes.
“Poof! poof! poof!” gasped King Midas, as his head emerged out of
the water. “Well; this is really a refreshing bath, and I think it
must have quite washed away the Golden Touch. And now for filling my
pitcher!”
As he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart
to see it change from gold into the same good, honest, earthen vessel
which it had been before he touched it. He was conscious, also, of a
change within himself. A cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have
gone out of his bosom. No doubt his heart had been gradually losing its
human substance, and been changing into insensible metal, but had now
been softened back again into flesh. Perceiving a violet, that grew
on the bank of the river, Midas touched it with his finger, and was
overjoyed to find that the delicate flower retained its purple hue,
instead of undergoing a yellow blight. The curse of the Golden Touch
had, therefore, really been removed from him.
King Midas hastened back to the palace; and, I suppose, the servants
knew not what to make of it when they saw their royal master so
carefully bringing home an earthen pitcher of water. But that water,
which was to undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was more
precious to Midas than an ocean of molten gold could have been. The
first thing he did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by
handfuls over the golden figure of little Marygold.
No sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see how the
rosy color came back to the dear child’s cheek!--and how astonished she
was to find herself dripping wet, and her father still throwing more
water over her!
“Pray do not, dear father!” cried she. “See how you have wet my nice
frock, which I put on only this morning!”
[Illustration]
For Marygold did not know that she had been a little golden statue; nor
could she remember any thing that had happened since the moment when
she ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor King Midas.
Her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child how
very foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing how much
wiser he had now grown. For this purpose, he led little Marygold into
the garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the
rose-bushes, and with such good effect that above five thousand roses
recovered their beautiful bloom. There were two circumstances, however,
which, as long as he lived, used to remind King Midas of the Golden
Touch. One was, that the sands of the river in which he had bathed,
sparkled like gold; the other, that little Marygold’s hair had now a
golden tinge, which he had never observed in it before she had been
changed by the effect of his kiss. This change of hue was really an
improvement, and made Marygold’s hair richer than in her babyhood.
When King Midas had grown quite an old man, and used to take Marygold’s
children on his knee, he was fond of telling them this marvellous
story, pretty much as I have told it to you. And then would he stroke
their glossy ringlets, and tell them that their hair, likewise, had a
rich shade of gold, which they had inherited from their mother.
“And, to tell you the truth, my precious little folks,” said King
Midas, “ever since that morning, I have hated the very sight of all
other gold, save this!”
* * * * *
_Life! we’ve been long together_
_Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;_
_’Tis hard to part when friends are dear,--_
_Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;_
_Then steal away, give little warning,_
_Choose thine own time;_
_Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime_
_Bid me Good Morning._
--_Anna Letitia Barbauld._