Whilst the power of the police to release a person on bail prior to trial has existed for centuries, the power to release on bail a person suspected of but not charged with a criminal offence has been available to the police only since 1925. The power to attach conditions to pre-charge bail is of very recent origin, having been introduced for the first time in 2003 but rapidly expanded since then. Whilst imposing restrictions on the liberty of a person should, constitutionally, be reserved to the judiciary, the fact that it was originally conceived, in part at least, as a mechanism for enhancing liberty reduced the constitutional tension created by allowing members of the executive such powers. However, the changing role of arrest in the investigation of crime and the granting of extensive powers to the police to impose bail conditions means that the police now have the ability to place controls on people not charged with a criminal offence for extended periods of time. It is argued here that this is in breach of the right to liberty under Article 5 of the European Convention on Human Rights and, in practice, may also breach other Convention rights.

The modern legal framework for the protection of the mentally ill was conceived and developed in the nineteenth century. A substantial growth in the numbers of the mentally ill revealed an absence of effective and accessible legal protection for the property of patients with small estates. This challenge was met through the retention and reform of the ancient jurisdiction of the Lord Chancellor in the Lunacy Court as the sole instrument of protection. The judicial solution was adopted in preference to bureaucratic regulation, despite the strong forces of state intervention and the reform of the legal system and its processes.

There are two themes that recur in previous Sir David Williams lectures. First, that it is a considerable honour to be invited to give the lecture. Secondly, that it is a daunting task to do so in the presence of Sir David, particularly in a field in which he has expertise. Since that covers most of the law there is no escape from this dilemma. Let me then acknowledge the privilege of having been asked to give this year's lecture, and confess that it is with some trepidation that I do so. The subject, terrorism and human rights, is not exactly uncharted territory. When I looked into the internet for some guidance on what might be relevant to terrorism and human rights, the response to my Google search informed me that in .03 seconds 32,900,000 references had been found. This seemed to indicate that it was unlikely that I would be able to say anything that has not already been said. But there are some subjects that are of such importance that there is value in reminding ourselves of the issues that are at stake, and if necessary for that purpose, repeating what others have said. And it is with that in mind that I approach my chosen topic.

The starting point for any rule of remoteness of damage is the familiar notion that a line must be drawn somewhere: it would be unacceptably harsh for every tortfeasor or contract breaker to be responsible for all the consequences which he has caused. We could, of course, just abandon any attempt to formulate rules for this area, and look to the judge's pragmatic discretion as to what is “fair” in the circumstances of the particular case: let it be simply a question of fact. Certainly, the question of where to draw the line on recoverability of consequential losses cannot be answered by a mathematically precise formula, and occasionally the judges are quite explicit that they are drawing the line on the facts of a case because they regard that as a “fair” solution.

The recent patriation of the Canadian Constitution has been a fascinating process for constitutional lawyers. The role of the Canadian Supreme Court, in adjudicating on the legality and the constitutional propriety of the proceedings, has raised issues of great interest and importance. In accepting jurisdiction to pronounce on the existence of convention, the court removed a traditional barrier between law and convention: the former being applied and articulated in the courts, the latter being a matter of political practice, without authoritative definition. The majority judgments nevertheless place great weight on the orthodox distinction between law and convention, and the separation of legal and political principle which that distinction assumes. My purpose here is to question the court's reasoning as regards both law and convention. I shall argue that recent developments in public law cast doubt, even if only indirectly, on the utility of the orthodox distinction. The view that courts do not “enforce” conventions, though adequate for some purposes, may frustrate constructive thought. In any particular case in which convention is pleaded in aid of law, there are more useful and important questions to ask.

The beginning of the sixteenth century saw a grave constitutional conflict, ending in a revolution—a conflict and revolution in which lawyers became principal actors. “In the hands of Coke the Common Law forged the axe which beheaded Charles I.” Dr. Cowell, Master of Trinity Hall from 1598 to 1611, played a leading part in that conflict—though on the losing side.

In the Preface to his recent book, Samples of Lawmaking, Lord Devlin rather sadly doubted “whether judges will now of their own motion contribute much more to the development of the law. Statute,” he said, “is a more powerful and flexible instrument for the alteration of the law than any that a judge can wield.” Since those words were written Lord Devlin has himself contributed to some substantial judicial reforms of the law, notably in Rookes v. Barnard and Hedley Byrne & Co. Ltd. v. Heller & Partners Ltd., but it does, of course, remain true that it is very much easier for the legislature than for any court, however strong, to bring changes to the law. It is also true, generally at least, that when we speak of law reform we mean reform by statute and we try to formulate in a draft Bill the rules of law that we should like to see. To my mind, however, it is unfortunate that we so often try to find a formulation which provides in some detail for the particular situations we have in mind and which is designed to give the court the minimum opportunity for what is sometimes called creative interpretation. With a few exceptions—the Contributory Negligence Act and the Occupiers’ Liability Act are examples—we do not legislate in such a way as to give the judges a new principle expressed in general terms and leave it to them to work out the application of that principle in the cases that arise.

Students interested in the concepts of cause and consideration must, surely, have been struck by two things. The first is the extraordinary tenacity which has enabled these concepts to survive the attacks of eloquent critics who have doubted their utility. The second is their equally remarkable ability to accommodate the most divergent comparative theories. For the study of the two notions has led some to argue that they are, in reality, the same; others to insist that they are totally different; while yet another school of thought could be taken to doubt whether there is “any point in comparing cause and consideration, even to contrast the two.”

The study of the legal systems of many countries—notably of the systems of West Germany, and Switzerland—reveals that there can be built a theory of contract which ignores the concepts of cause (as the French understand it) or consideration (as the Common lawyers have come to apply it over the years).

I propose in this article to examine two questions: the original system of government of the Inns of Court and the original relationship between call to the bar and the right of audience in the Royal Courts. Primarily I shall be concerned with the first question: I shall deal with the history of call to the bar only incidentally, and I do so because the two subjects are intimately connected with each other.

Historically, English and Irish Law were both distinctly protective of marriage (still understood as an exclusively heterosexual institution)1 as compared to other forms of adult relationship. In the 1950 English case of Gammans v. Ekins, it was famously deemed an “abuse of the English language” to say that an unmarried couple “masquerading” as husband and wife were members of the same family.2 In its Constitution, meanwhile, the Irish state “pledges itself to guard with special care the institution of Marriage, on which the Family is founded, and to protect it against attack”.3 The powerfulness of this “pledge” can be seen from the fact that divorce was not possible in Ireland until a 1995 referendum resulted in a constitutional amendment.4

There is at present something of a schism between restitution scholars. There are those who maintain that restitution may arise as a response, inter alia, to rights in rem and there are those who maintain that it may not. At one level, this is a debate about the internal boundaries of the law of restitution, principally about whether restitution arises exclusively as a response to the principle of unjust enrichment, or whether it may also arise as a response to a number of other causes of action. More fundamentally, however, the schism rests on a difference of view as to whether it is logically and conceptually possible to say that a right in rem is an event that gives rise to or generates other rights, such as to have the asset restored, to have restitution made, or to be compensated for loss suffered, or whether a right in rem can only ever arise as itself a response to other events.

This article considers how third parties may be held personally liable for harm inflicted by, and upon, the intoxicated. It charts the development of ‘alcohol liability’ in Canada and Australia and then goes on to demonstrate how this novel category of liability for the acts of others is beginning to work its way into the English law of tort.

IN the 2001 census, nine per cent of the population of England and Wales were not classified as white. Racial tensions undeniably exist and it is probable that amongst the individuals randomly selected from the electoral roll to serve as jurors there will be some with race-related prejudices. By this we mean the inclination to prejudge others using pejorative stereotypes based on perceptions of “race, colour, descent or national or ethnic origin”.