The ways of the hour

by James Fenimore Cooper

“’Tis the wisest way, upon all tender topics, to be silent; for he who takes upon himself to defend a lady’s reputation, only publishes her favours to the world.”—Cumberland.

The wing of “Horton’s Inn” that contained the room of Dunscomb, was of considerable extent, having quite a dozen rooms in it, though mostly of the diminutive size of an American tavern bed-room. The best apartment in it, one with two windows, and of some dimensions, was that appropriated to the counsellor. The doctor and his party had a parlour, with two bed-rooms; while, between these and the room occupied by Dunscomb, was that of the troublesome guest—the individual who was said to be insane. Most of the remainder of the wing, which was much the most quiet and retired portion of the house, was used for a better class of bed-rooms. There were two rooms, however, that the providence of Horton and his wife had set apart for a very different purpose. These were small parlours, in which the initiated smoked, drank, and played.

Nothing sooner indicates the school in which a man has been educated, than his modes of seeking amusement. One who has been accustomed to see innocent relaxation innocently indulged, from childhood up, is rarely tempted to abuse those habits which have never been associated, in his mind, with notions of guilt, and which, in themselves, necessarily imply no moral delinquency. Among the liberal, cards, dancing, music, all games of skill and chance that can interest the cultivated, and drinking, in moderation and of suitable liquors, convey no ideas of wrong doing.[doing.] As they have been accustomed to them from early life, and have seen them practised with decorum and a due regard to the habits of refined society, there is no reason for concealment or consciousness. On the other hand, an exaggerated morality, which has the temerity to enlarge the circle of sin beyond the bounds for which it can find any other warranty than its own metaphysical inferences, is very apt to create a factitious conscience, that almost invariably takes refuge in that vilest of all delinquency—direct hypocrisy. This, we take it, is the reason that the reaction of ultra godliness so generally leaves its subjects in the mire and sloughs of deception and degradation. The very same acts assume different characters, in the hands of these two classes of persons; and that which is perfectly innocent with the first, affording a pleasant, and in that respect a useful relaxation, becomes low, vicious, and dangerous with the other, because tainted with the corrupting and most dangerous practices of deception. The private wing of Horton’s inn, to which there has been allusion, furnished an example in point of what we mean, within two hours of the adjournment of the court.

In the parlour of Mrs. McBrain, late Dunscomb’s Widow Updyke, as he used to call her, a little table was set in the middle of the room, at which Dunscomb himself, the doctor, his new wife and Sarah were seated, at a game of whist. The door was not locked, no countenance manifested either a secret consciousness of wrong, or an overweening desire to transfer another’s money to its owner’s pocket, although a sober sadness might be said to reign in the party, the consequence of the interest all took in the progress of the trial.

Within twenty feet of the spot just mentioned, and in the two little parlours already named, was a very different set collected. It consisted of the rowdies of the bar, perhaps two-thirds of the reporters in attendance on Mary Monson’s trial, several suitors, four or five country doctors, who had been summoned as witnesses, and such other equivocal gentry as might aspire to belong to a set as polished and exclusive as that we are describing. We will first give a moment’s attention to the party around the whist-table, in the parlour first described.

“I do not think the prosecution has made out as well, to-day, all things considered, as it was generally supposed it would,” observed McBrain. “There is the ace of trumps, Miss Sarah, and if you can follow it with the king, we shall get the odd trick.”

“I do not think I shall follow it with anything,” answered Sarah, throwing down her cards. “It really seems heartless to be playing whist, with a fellow-creature of our acquaintance on trial for her life.”

“I have not half liked the game,” said the quiet Mrs. McBrain, “but Mr. Dunscomb seemed so much bent on a rubber, I scarce knew how to refuse him.”

“Why, true enough, Tom,” put in the doctor, “this is all your doings, and if there be anything wrong about it, you will have to bear the blame.”

“Play anything but a trump, Miss Sarah, and we get the game. You are quite right, Ned”—throwing down the pack—“the prosecution has not done as well as I feared they might.[might.] That Mrs. Pope was a witness I dreaded, but her testimony amounts to very little, in itself; and what she has said, has been pretty well shaken by her ignorance of the coin.”