THE LEGEND OF SAINT ANTHONY
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.
A RUSSIAN LYRIC
Air—“Denkst du daran mein tapfre Lagienka.”
“Saltokoff Skupchirofsky,” said the ruler
Of Russia to his captain of the guard,
“I will retire; the night is growing cooler
Have all the troops been posted in the yard?”
“They have, my liege, and in the tower o’er you
The watchman, with an opera-glass, afar
Looks out to see that no one comes to bore you:
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”
“What have you done with him who came this morning,
And wanted me to buy a lightning-rod?”
“He sleeps beneath the Neva, as a warning
To others like him, not as yet in quod.”
“The girl who bored us for a contribution
To send her blessed clergyman afar?”
“She’s strangled by the Seventh Resolution:
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”
“And where is he who gave us the conniptions,
That cheeky man from the United States,
Who came unto my bedside for subscriptions
To—what was it?—the ‘Life of Sergeant Bates’?”
“Upon a special train that man is flying
Unto Siberia in a third-class car;
Thou badest him ‘dry up!’ and he is drying:
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”
“And where is he who bored us for insurance
On life or fire, who down the chimney came?”
“My liege, beneath our feet in deepest durance
He pays with penance for his little game.”
“And, after him, the pedlar who came plungin’
Into the parlour, smoking a cigar?”
“Ask of the vipers in the palace dungeon:
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”
“And that young man who always kept a-saying,
‘That is the kind of hair-pin that I am’?”
“My liege, the strychnine in his vitals playing
May tell you how I stopped that kind of flam.
“And he who at this day is still repeating,
‘What, never, never?’ ” “In a butt of tar
We coopered him. His heart’s no longer beating:
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”
“And where is he who on the imperial fences
Inscribed Pop’s Bitters, and Take Fooler’s Pills?”
“My lord, his medicines were no defences,
In Hades he atones for earthly ills.”
“And that confounded nuisance of a Scotch Guard
Who played the bagpipes up and down the car?”
“My lord, the imperial headsman wears his watch-guard:
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”
“Captain, ’tis well. Now telegraph to London
That every Nihilist has had his dose,
And that a fresh conspiracy is undone,
And keep the gum-drop, corn-ball peddlers close
Who spread sedition in the trains to ’stress me;
And keep the gates of anarchy ajar;
So may Saint Feoderskidobry bless thee!
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”