“So are all nations at the present time, don’t you see;” remarked the doctor.
“Not in the manner which existed at the age to which I allude;” rejoined his antagonist. “Every man dwelt in his own tent, surrounded by his children and his children’s children, and wandered with his herds and flocks, to wherever he could find them sufficient pasturage. He governed as a monarch with power of life and death, and the rules he found necessary to preserve his government he transmitted to his successor; till, the family increasing, it was found necessary that they should separate into distinct divisions, each having its own father or ruler, and, residing for mutual protection near each other, they constituted tribes. The rules, which the experience of the first father had found necessary for maintaining his authority, had been conveyed with modifications and additions through his successors, till they became possessed by the elders of the tribe, in whom all wisdom and government resided; until the increase of their numbers, and the want of sufficient accommodation, induced them to invade the more desirable territory of other tribes; and then it was that he who distinguished himself most in this warfare obtained supremacy over the rest, and having conquered other tribes, and rendered himself by his superior bravery the object of fear and admiration, he became king of all the people who acknowledged his rule, and governed them by the laws that had existed previously in his own particular family or tribe.”
“A very plausible hypothesis, but nothing more, don’t you see;” replied the doctor. “Doubtless all societies originated in one family, the supreme head of which did what he thought fit; but I doubt much whether he exercised such an authority as could sacrifice a life for an offence real or imaginary; or created any code of laws for the government of his relations. He did only what he thought necessary for the time; and whether that constituted a precedent or not, it is not easy to determine. The punishment which would be necessary at one time, might not be thought necessary at another, don’t you see. Where the judge is absolute, and has no constitution to guide him, it is the mood in which he may be when called upon to judge, that makes the sentence severe or mild; and every judge, being independent of any higher authority, and liable to act from prejudice or partiality, would create nothing but inconsistent decisions, which could never be tolerated as a code of laws. It is opinion that creates law. The heterogeneous mass of absurdities that the few promulgate to hold the many in subjection would not be tolerated except in a state of perfect slavery. Where there is any intelligence among the people, and intelligence must make its appearance sooner or later, every law that is found existing passes the ordeal of public opinion, and if it be unwise or unjust, it will not be regarded or its abrogation will be enforced. The multitude have a better notion of the difference between right and wrong, than is generally supposed; and nothing is so productive of a clearness of distinction in these things among the people than a proper simplicity and applicability of the laws by which they are governed. It is intelligence that produces opinion, don’t you see—and opinion that creates law—and law cannot long exist in opposition to opinion.”
While the disputants were intently engaged in their argument, Oriel Porphyry and Zabra had walked to another part of the deck, where the captain and his lieutenant were giving orders about the management of the vessel.
“Fine old country, this, captain;” said the young merchant.
“Yes, sir,” replied Hearty: “fine old country, certainly. They do say it’s as old as Methusalem; but I never was in sight o’ that coast, therefore can’t say what difference there may be between ’em.”
“You have been in this part of the world before, I should suppose?” inquired Oriel.
“Many times,” responded the old man: “I knows the place well. I’ve been afloat ever since I was a small craft as could hardly steer without capsizing; and there arn’t many seas in the world as I haven’t been over. John Chinaman and I are ’ticular acquaintances, because I’ve seen a good deal on him. He’s rather smart in his own notions o’ himself, but he makes a good reefer when aboard, and he’ll carry like a steam engine when ashore. Often when I’ve landed at this port from one or other o’ your father’s ships, I’ve seen him bearing sich loads as ’ould make a horse’s back bone unkimmen ticklish. We’re enterin’ the river now; and after sailing a few points west of north, we shall be nigh upon the first bar, from whence we must steer due west to Whampoa, where we shall cast anchor. You’ll have then to go about ten miles to the Factories, to which you must proceed in boats.”
“What strange looking ships these are;” remarked Zabra, pointing to several vessels they were passing.