University of Virginia Library

AUGUSTUS DE SATINETT,
A TALE OF FASHION;
OR,
THE MYSTERIES OF THE PASSIONS.
Dedicated to the Thoughtful.

Augustus de Satinett was a jobber; a choicer
spirit the region of Hanover square boasted not.

Pearl street and Maiden Lane may have known
his equal, his superior never. He had risen from
junior clerk to junior partner, in one of the oldest
firms. The best blood of the revolution flowed in
his veins; his mother was a Van Buster, his father
a de Satinett; a more remote ancestry, or a more
noble, it were vain to desire. Augustus had a noble
soul, it was a seven quarter full; his virtues
were all his own, and they were dyed in the wool;
his vices were those of his age—they were dyed
in the cloth.

At the time of which I write, Augustus was perfect
in manly beauty; his teeth were white and
even, his lips were finely chiselled, a profusion of
chestnut curls clustered upon his noble brow, and
genius flashed from his hazel eyes. He lifted his
hat to all his acquaintances with an air of easy
dignity, which spoke, as plainly as an air could
speak, that Augustus had travelled in foreign parts,
for he had drummed in Arkansas, and collected
in the lithograph cities of the west.

It required no stretch of classic fancy, in those
who saw de Satinett, to believe that some fond
Pygmalion of the sex, whose existence is a sentiment,
had loved into life a marble Antinous,
which, stepping from his eternal pedestal, had put

on the habiliments with which fashion clothes her
votaries.

Eugenia Bergenville was the only daughter of a
doting mother. She, Eugenia, and not her mother,
was all loveliness and all sentiment. In her were
all the elements of beauty combined, in parts harmonious.
She was like one of those glorious visions
of light and loveliness, which sometimes visit us
when the soul is warm and plastic, and which leave
upon the tablets of memory, an impression which
time cannot efface.

Her mother had seen much of the world, for she
had once dispensed the culinary offerings of Pomona,
in the temple which bears the honored name
of Fulton; to speak plain, she used to sell kitchen
vegetables in Fulton market. But she had become
rich by the purchase of a lucky ticket in a lottery,
and retired to private life; and all the energies of
her soul were devoted to the education of the young
Eugenia, whom she determined to bring up in the
genteelest manner; with her, to determine was to
do. Eugenia was genteely brought up.

She was an accomplished performer on the piano,
and sang in the Italian style; how could she be
otherwise than accomplished—had she not taken
forty lessons of Goward? Not having a decided
taste for reading and writing, those ordinary

branches were dispensed with, they not being
deemed essentials in a genteel bringing up. But
she knew several French phrases by heart, and she
could sing an Italian song. What more could the
most fastidious desire? But, she could boast of
more. Her dresses were made by Madam Martineau,
who received the Petit Courier by the Havre
packets, direct from Paris, It was the boast of
Eugenia's mother, that her daughter dressed in the
very first style.

Augustus and Eugenia met: the Fates had designed
them for each other; there was, therefore,
no reason why they should be kept asunder. It
was at a benefit ball in St. Tammany that they first
saw each other.

It may be thought by some, that this was an
improper place for two such beings to visit. Perhaps
it was. Charruaud's might have been more
select, or Niblo's a thought genteeler. But perils
are to be encountered wherever youth and beauty
meet; and we have no desire to interfere with the
doings of those peremptory personages, the Fates;
it was by them ordained, that Augustus and Eugenia
should meet within the walls sacred to St.
Tammany.

Many and fair were the forms that graced that
benefit ball. Chatham street sent forth its beauties,

and the Bowery held not back its gay creatures
from the festive scene. Long wreaths of
greens and paper roses, were suspended from the
pillars of the hall, and the gas lights burned with a
brilliancy which made every thing short of liquid
rouge look pale. Augustus danced a pas de trois
with the Misses P., and Eugenia danced a pas de
deux with Mr. P.

Augustus had no sooner seen Eugenia, than he
felt that his time was come, and he sought for the
master of ceremonies, who wore a white riband in
his button hole, and requested to be introduced.
Now, the master of ceremonies had never seen Augustus
before; but being a perfect stranger, is no
bar at a benefit ball, to an introduction; so the
master of ceremonies took Augustus under his
arm, and introduced him to Eugenia, as his particular
friend. Augustus bowed to Eugenia, and
requested the pleasure of dancing with her in the
next quadrille. Now, Eugenia had engaged herself
for every dance that might be danced, and for
the rustic reel at the close; but feeling that her
destiny was sealed, with an ingenuousness peculiar
to the place, she suddenly forgot all her promises,
and yielded at once to the solicitations of Augustus;
and he had the pleasure, not only of dancing

the next quadrille with her, but of dancing all the
quadrilles that were danced on that eventful night.

Many months did not pass by before Augustus
spoke of marriage; but Eugenia was a child of nature,
and with an artless simplicity, peculiar only to
children of nature, and to the disciples of Madam
Darusmont, she exclaimed, “what is marriage?”

Augustus endeavored to explain to her how it
was necessary, before two souls could be made one,
that some form of ceremony should be submitted
to, although a very trifling one would satisfy the
law; very trifling indeed, compared with its enduring
effects. But Eugenia could not understand
why she could not love and be loved, as purely
and as ardently, without the aid of priests as with.
“What is marriage?” she exclaimed again, in simple
purity of soul; “if it is to love my dear Augustus
better than any other object on earth, better
even than my music master, or my mother, then
am I married already.”

But, if Augustus was satisfied that Eugenia
needed not the ties of the matrimonial statutes to
ensure her felicity, he knew that they were necessary
to ensure his, so he insisted on being married
in the old fashioned manner. Eugenia at last consented,
and one bright and pleasant moonlight
night, they were made one by a Roman Catholic

priest, in his back parlor, in Orange street. The
priest being an Irishman, his foreign accent imparted
a degree of romance to the ceremony;
which, in a measure, softened the feelings of Eugenia,
and made the requirements of the law less
odious to her susceptible soul.

The honey moon had fulled and waned, when I
received an invitation to spend a sociable evening
with Augustus. I found him seated with his wife.
He welcomed me with a cordial welcome, but she
neither looked at me nor welcomed me. An ill-natured
observer might have said she was in the
sulks, but doubtless her heart was too full; she was
too happy to speak.

Augustus was a ripe scholar, and he loved to
talk of books. His library was choice and elegant;
it contained Bulwer and Scott complete, and
the “Encyclopedia Americana,” and books of a
graver cast were not wanting; the works of Hannah
Moore held a conspicuous place on his shelves,
and their contents were familiar to his mind: he
had read Coelebs when a boy, and he had the
highest regard for its author; and when speaking
of her, he called her “his Hannah,” and his “favorite
Miss Moore.” In the course of the evening,
he frequently spoke of her by these familiar names,

which showed the warmth of his affection for his
favorite authors.

Time will pass away even when familiar friends
are discussing their favorite authors. Mrs. de Satinett,
for so we must call Eugenia, began to give
hints, which could not be misunderstood, that it
was time to retire. The rain was pattering against
the windows, and the house was far up town. Augustus
pressed me to take a bed; I could not refuse.
As he showed me to my chamber, he took
my hand, “Belville,” he said, with a solemn earnestness,
“You are not married.”

“No,” I said, “but you are.”

“Yes,” he said, “I feel that I am.”

He could say no more, and I bid him good
night.

My chamber adjoined that of Augustus and his
wife, and as it was a genteel house, the wall was
not so thick but that I could hear the conversation
that passed between them. I was unwilling to do
so, of course, but I could not avoid it.

“I wish I was dead and in my grave,” said
Eugenia.

“How can you, my dear, distress me to death,”
said Augustus to this unnatural wish of his wife.

“No danger of your being distressed to death,”
said Eugenia, sobbing.

“What on earth have I done, my dear, to deserve
this?” said Augustus.

“You have broken my poor heart,” said Eugenia.

“My dear, you will drive me mad,” said Augustus.

“No danger of your going mad,” sobbed Eugenia.

“Don't say so, dear, don't; there,” a kiss,
“there, then.”

“Let me alone,” exclaimed Eugenia.

“Oh! oh!” groaned Augustus, “what have I
done or said to offend you?”

I could hear him pacing the room with quick
and rapid strides, and I thought to myself, how
surprising it was, that he did not pursue the only
obviously proper course in such a case. I will not
name the course of action which appeared to me
proper on the occasion, for fear of giving offence;
for I am aware that there are differences of opinion
on this as well as on other subjects.

Eugenia, after sobbing hysterically a few minutes
longer, exclaimed again, “I wish I was dead
and buried.” “Don't, my dear,” said Augustus,
“tempt me to say I wish you were.” “You cruel
wretch,” exclaimed Eugenia, “you are trying to

kill me. To sit there all the evening, before my
face, and talk about that nasty Hannah.”

“What Hannah?” exclaimed Augustus, in
great consternation.

“Your old flame, Miss More, your favorite, as
you call her; to my face too.”

Augustus laughed outright. He expostulated
with Eugenia; he explained to her that Hannah
More was only his favorite author; that he had
never seen her in his life; that she was an ugly old
maid, and above all, that she was in her grave.
But it was all to no purpose, he might have rebuked
the angry sea with as much effect. Eugenia
had no conception of such a thing as a favorite
author; all books were alike to her, from a penny
magazine to a polyglott bible; and as to a book having
been written by a woman, it was something entirely
beyond the circumference of her understanding;
she would not believe a word of it. She would
have it that Hannah More was nothing more nor
less than an old flame, or something worse, of her
lord's. She sobbed, and at last he swore.

How they settled the difficulty for the night I am
ignorant to this day, for I soon fell asleep, and
heard nothing farther of their conversation.

From that memorable night I saw a great
change in Augustus de Satinett; but, why prolong

a painful tale, or dwell upon the events which
prostrated a noble nature. Thenceforth Augustus
knew no rest. Eugenia would sit for hours,
and the only words which would escape her lips,
were, “Miss More.” When he sought his home,
after a day of fatiguing toil, the first sound that
struck his ear, was, “Hannah;” and when he laid
his head upon his pillow, instead of the sweet
spirit of sleep which once closed his eye lids, the
sound of his no longer favorite “Hannah's” name
chased the kind sprite away, and he was doomed
to hear more of Miss More.

At last, Augustus took to gin; but, that old
fashioned alleviator failing to bring relief, he
sought for peace amid the din of battle, and on
the plains of Texas joined the brave spirits who
poured out their blood in the cause of liberty and
land speculations.