The seek-no-further face of loveliness, The perfect form of fawn-like springfulness, 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.
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.
’ Tis 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;
“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
“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.”
“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!
“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!”
And so’ twas 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.
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,
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.
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?”
“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.’
“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 in due time’ twas done — and further on ’ Twas in the Custom House — and thence’ twas 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.
Yea, he was in it — clad in dirty rags, A vile abomination. In his hand A monstrous rosary. The Sunday Press Said’ twas a rope of onions, meant to feed
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.
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.
Cookies on Poetry Cove