At length there was another stir; and the king descended from the rear of his pavilion, attended by his ministers, and moved about among the people, who made way for him, and uncovered at his approach.  He spoke with one and another, and strolled about as his fancy took him.  I suppose this is called mingling with the common people.  After he had mingled about fifteen minutes, he returned, and took his place on the steps in front of the pavilion; and the distribution of prizes began.  First the horses were led out; and their owners, approaching the king, received from his hands the diplomas, and a flag from an attendant.  Most of them were peasants; and they exhibited no servility in receiving their marks of distinction, but bowed to the king as they would to any other man, and his majesty touched his cocked hat in return.  Then came the prize-cattle, many of them led by women, who are as interested as their husbands in all farm matters.  Everything goes off smoothly, except there is a momentary panic over a fractious bull, who plunges into the crowd; but the six white jackets are about him in an instant, and entangle him with their ropes.

This over, the gates again open, and the gay cavalcade that has been so long in sight approaches.  First a band of musicians in costumes of the Middle Ages; and then a band of pages in the gayest apparel, bearing pictured banners and flags of all colors, whose silken luster would have been gorgeous in sunshine; these were followed by mounted heralds with trumpets, and after them were led the running horses entered for the race.  The banners go up on the royal stand, and group themselves picturesquely; the heralds disappear at the other end of the list; and almost immediately the horses, ridden by young jockeys in stunning colors, come flying past in a general scramble.  There are a dozen or more horses; but, after the first round, the race lies between two.  The course is considerably over an English mile, and they make four circuits; so that the race is fully six-miles,—­a very hard one.  It was a run in a rain, however, which began when it did, and soon forced up the umbrellas.  The vast crowd disappeared under a shed of umbrellas, of all colors,—­black, green, red, blue; and the effect was very singular, especially when it moved from the field:  there was then a Niagara of umbrellas.  The race was soon over:  it is only a peasants’ race, after all; the aristocratic races of the best horses take place in May.  It was over.  The king’s carriage was brought round, the people again shouted, the cannon roared, the six black horses reared and plunged, and away he went.

After all, says the artist, “the King of Bavaria has not much power.”

“You can see,” returns a gentleman who speaks English, “just how much he has:  it is a six-horse power.”