Now the stables are bare where once stood the proud steeds of an imperial prince. The glistening, silky backs that one time bore the heir to the British throne through many of the most brilliant hunts that the world has seen, are doomed to sigh under the weight of common people, unnoticed, ignored. The days of glory are passed and stark realism shatters the roseate glow of the skies of romance.

The fate of Black Beauty, ignominiously harnessed to a hackney cab, is not so gloomy as that of these mighty beasts of the illustrious prince. No more will they be watched by the beau monde to catch the latest developments in fashion. Traditions of the past are the sparkling and fresh witticisms which accompanied each throw they gave their master. Only in memory are the steeple chases they so nobly lost.

As in the old carol "the brightest hour must end" and the hunters par excellence, the glory of their age must leave their royal master. Sportsmen sigh, men of fashion are beginning to attend automobile shows and shop girls sob. Everywhere are heard encomiums tinctured with the sorrow of seeing the brilliance of the present fading into the obscurity of the past. Great metropolitan newspapers weep by the column for the glory that once shone on these princely steeds. The world is mourning and grimly faces the dark future.