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51
THE LEGEND OF SAINT ANTHONY
The seek-no-further face of loveliness,
The perfect form of fawn-like springfulness,
And rich as a bonanza just unbound.
Catherine Van Peyster, of Fifth Avenue.
The perfect form of fawn-like springfulness,
And rich as a bonanza just unbound.
Catherine Van Peyster, of Fifth Avenue.
She lived a year in Europe—but for aye
In all the hearts of all who met her there;
And then her pa allowed her boundless cash,
Which she laid out in glorious works of art.
In all the hearts of all who met her there;
And then her pa allowed her boundless cash,
Which she laid out in glorious works of art.
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Such as the dream-like dresses made by Worth,
And heavenly hats by Virot, and all things
Refined, æsthetic, swell, and classical;
Yea, even a picture—she bought everything.
And heavenly hats by Virot, and all things
Refined, æsthetic, swell, and classical;
Yea, even a picture—she bought everything.
'T is true it was a picture of herself,
And when she ordered it she simply said,
“I know that I am very beautiful,
My mirror tells me that—distinctively;
And when she ordered it she simply said,
“I know that I am very beautiful,
My mirror tells me that—distinctively;
But I am also very clever too,
For I am of a clever family,
Papa and sisters all are awful smart;
Now you must make it somehow sparkle out
For I am of a clever family,
Papa and sisters all are awful smart;
Now you must make it somehow sparkle out
“In what you paint. And as for me, I guess
I'll show you how to fix it—wait a bit.
Ain't there a saint they call Saint Catherine?
One of my beaux, I think, once called me that.”
I'll show you how to fix it—wait a bit.
Ain't there a saint they call Saint Catherine?
One of my beaux, I think, once called me that.”
“Si, Illustrissima,” the artist said,
“Dere is a Santa Catarina, who
Is beautiful most of the oder sants,
Vitch giusto suit so lovely mad as you!
“Dere is a Santa Catarina, who
Is beautiful most of the oder sants,
Vitch giusto suit so lovely mad as you!
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“And she do always hold opon a vheel.”
“I see!” cried Miss Van Peyster—“just the thing
The wheel of fortune—and the loveliest saint;
That 's me exactly What a perfect fit!”
“I see!” cried Miss Van Peyster—“just the thing
The wheel of fortune—and the loveliest saint;
That 's me exactly What a perfect fit!”
And so 't was painted, and the painted pair,
Saint Catherine and Miss Catherine, went across
Unto New York; and many people came
To call and worship—or to make believe.
Saint Catherine and Miss Catherine, went across
Unto New York; and many people came
To call and worship—or to make believe.
And with the rest came Mr. Anthony,
A blooming broker, and a mighty man,
Who did not think small brewings of himself,
Albeit his studies had been very small,
A blooming broker, and a mighty man,
Who did not think small brewings of himself,
Albeit his studies had been very small,
And very few i' the heap. His face and form
Were greasiness and grossness well combined,
With sneeriness and nearness in the eyes;
He seemed a kind of coarsest Capuchin.
Were greasiness and grossness well combined,
With sneeriness and nearness in the eyes;
He seemed a kind of coarsest Capuchin.
And much he did admire the quaint conceit
Of being taken as a holy saint,
And said, “I'd like to try that thing myself.
How could a feller fix it—Catherine?”
Of being taken as a holy saint,
And said, “I'd like to try that thing myself.
How could a feller fix it—Catherine?”
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“Easy enough,” replied the beautiful:
“You've only got to send your photograph
Out to my man in Florence, and to say,
‘Vous peignez moi comme le Saint Anthony.’
“You've only got to send your photograph
Out to my man in Florence, and to say,
‘Vous peignez moi comme le Saint Anthony.’
“I'll write it for you if you have a card,
And he will fix it for you comme il faut.”
That very hour the heavy shaver wrote,
And sent the order for his portraiture.
And he will fix it for you comme il faut.”
That very hour the heavy shaver wrote,
And sent the order for his portraiture.
And in due time 't was done—and further on
'T was in the Custom House—and thence 't was sent
To the Spring Exhibition in New York,
There was no time to send it to “the House.”
'T was in the Custom House—and thence 't was sent
To the Spring Exhibition in New York,
There was no time to send it to “the House.”
And Anthony himself beheld it not
Till it had hung a week upon “the walls,”
And all the newspapers had served it up,
And all the world had merry made withal.
Till it had hung a week upon “the walls,”
And all the newspapers had served it up,
And all the world had merry made withal.
Yea, he was in it—clad in dirty rags,
A vile abomination. In his hand
A monstrous rosary. The Sunday Press
Said 't was a rope of onions, meant to feed
A vile abomination. In his hand
A monstrous rosary. The Sunday Press
Said 't was a rope of onions, meant to feed
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The monstrous hog which filled the canvas up,
So vast in its proportions that it seemed
As Anthony were waiting on the hog,
And not the hog upon Saint Anthony.
So vast in its proportions that it seemed
As Anthony were waiting on the hog,
And not the hog upon Saint Anthony.
In it and in for it. Just as the Saint
Of Padua is painted, with his pig,
Only a little more so. And thus ends
The tale of the great hog and Anthony.
Of Padua is painted, with his pig,
Only a little more so. And thus ends
The tale of the great hog and Anthony.
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