The method adopted at the end of the World War for dealing with the colonies and territories of Germany and Turkey which it was decided to detach from them is known as the mandate system, and is embodied in Article 22 of the Covenant of the League of Nations, which is an integral part of the treaties of peace with Germany, Austria, Bulgaria and Hungary. Under this system these detached territories are not in the owner-ship of any State, but are entrusted to certain States called ‘Mandatory States’ to administer on behalf of the League upon the conditions laid down in written agreements called mandates between the League and each mandatory. The system, which was proposed by General Smuts, is a novelty in International Law, and although the term ‘mandate’ suggests certain analogies in private law, it is doubtful whether much practical help in the understanding and application of the system can be derived from these sources.

I Propose to begin with a word or two about the growth of Appeals and then to say something about the present appellate jurisdictions in this country. I suppose, speaking generally, the man who has a decision given against him has a disposition to be discontented with it, and tries to get another decision if he is satisfied that he is in the right. But I should imagine also that in early days the private litigant had a very small say in the matter whether he should, or should not, have the right of appeal. Before the Judiciary and the Executive were distinguishable, when the act of deciding disputes was an act of government, ordinarily performed by the Chieftain or Ruler though perhaps sometimes delegated to a subordinate, in those days, of course, the judge, being also ruler, there were no appeals, and one can only hope that decisions were satisfactory to everyone concerned. Whether the same persons made good rulers and good judges in the days of the Hebrew Judges I do not know; but I do know that I should be very sorry indeed if the two functions, which are of entirely different kinds, were united nowadays. As soon as a ruler began to delegate his function to a subordinate there can be no question that he would from time to time desire to revise the decisions that were arrived at, partly from self-interest, and partly, one may assume, from a sense of justice, knowing that, or thinking that, the decision was wrong and that he could give a better one. And in that kind of way there would gradually emerge a more or less settled system by which decisions would become the subject of review.

A French jurist who seeks to explain to the English public the principles governing administrative law as they are understood in France, is beset at the same moment by conflicting feelings of uneasiness and confidence. He recollects at the outset that, according to a classical doctrine which has been true for a considerable time and which is expressed in Dicey's works in the most brilliant formula, England does not possess to any extent in its legal organization a system of ideas which could have any claim to be compared to the French droit administratif or indeed could be regarded as parallel to it with any exactness. Is it not therefore presumptuous for a Frenchman to attempt to explain to English lawyers the leading characteristics of an institution which might certainly appear to them unusual, if not grotesque? And yet when a traveller has stayed a short time in Great Britain, has talked with the recognized authorities of that country, has asked questions, has made notes, has dipped into the recent works on English law, has glanced with an unprejudiced eye at the whole trend of legal institutions at the present day, he cannot help being struck by a certain lack of harmony between the official doctrine, which for such a long time has had good reason to say that there is no administrative law in England, and the judicial practice which, owing to the creation of new jurisdictions, to the introduction of new forms of procedure, and to the needs originating in ihe obvious inadequacy of inherited views, seems to pave the way for the introduction into England of a droit administratif and the recognition of principles derogatory to the common law—principles which are adapted to playing in English law the part which droit administratif played in the French common law chiring the nineteenth century, and still plays.

Forty years ago in my old country the legal world was in a state of transition. The old order was changing in a great number of ways. The Judicature Act had just got into swing and although four Courts still opened in the hall beside the Liffey they were soon to be fused into one. These were at that time the Court of Chancery, the Court of Queen's Bench, the Court of Exchequer, and the Court of Common Pleas, and the doors of these four opened on the Central Hall and their names stood over them. The Court of Chancery stood by itself, but it was thought in those days that you had your choice of three Common Law Courts in which to have your case tried. If you had some merit on your side but thought that the law was against you, you issued your writ in the Queen's Bench, which was presided over by Mickey Morris, as he was invariably called although he was a lord, because Mickey had a good deal of common sense, a great deal of humanity, but his ideas of jurisprudence were peculiarly his own. On the other hand, if you were strongly of opinion that however iniquitous your client was, he had the law on his side, you issued your writ in the Court of Exchequer, presided over by Christopher Palles, the greatest judge before whom I have ever appeared. Christopher Palles decided according to what he believed to be the law, and would pay no attention to any other consideration that might be advanced before him.

Of all Bacon's claims to greatness, his claims as a lawyer are the least of all known. It is strange that this should be so. The law was his profession. Through the law he gained position and honour—Solicitor and Attorney-General and Lord Chancellor. Moreover, I think that those who study his philosophy should remember that Bacon was trained as a student and practitioner in a system of case law, which taught him to construct the rules and principles of law from concrete cases. It is at least arguable that this had some influence on his inductive system of experimental philosophy. Yet there is no doubt that it is as lawyer that Bacon is least known. I think that for this three reasons can be assigned. In the first place, some of his appearances as a lawyer were the least creditable parts of his career. I do not propose to defend his conduct as Lord Chancellor—he himself threw up the defence. But I think that there is more to be said in extenuation of his offence than some of his more severe critics allow—that at any rate was the opinion of Mr. Spedding, to whose great work on Bacon the Master of Trinity has alluded. In the second place, to appreciate Bacon's greatness as a lawyer we must have a considerable knowledge of sixteenth century law, of sixteenth century legal literature, and of sixteenth century lawyers. That is not very common; but it is getting more common; and as a result of this I think it is clear that among sixteenth century lawyers Bacon is pre-eminent. His only rival is Coke. As a lawyer I think that he was Coke's equal, and as a juridical thinker infinitely his superior. Thirdly, the most decisive reason why Bacon's eminence as a lawyer has been so inadequately recognised is the fact that he took the losing side in the politics of the seventeenth century, and the fact that the influence of seventeenth century politics has been immense and long lived.

As a man gets on in life he is frequently led to wonder whether his early and immature conceptions have any counterpart in the minds of the wiser young generation of to-day. At this moment I am wondering if any of you have ever thought about the Common Law of England as I did when I first made its acquaintance a good many years ago.

I Would like to preface what I have to say this evening by one deprecatory remark. I should not venture to tax your patience or reveal my own ignorance by attempting to speak of the Imperial Conference of 1926 as a whole. It was, probably, the most important of the striking series of Colonial and Imperial Conferences which have been held; and it covered an enormous area. It may be that the aspect of it with which alone I propose to deal is not the most important side of its many-sided labours, which included such matters as Inter-Imperial Trade. Defence, Air Communications, Nationality, Overseas Settlement, and Economic Resources. But it is the only one on which I am even moderately competent to speak; and therefore I beg to draw your attention to the fact that I am going to speak of the Imperial Conference only on its constitutional side.

It is perhaps true that one of the most important moral qualities of a man, especially an undergraduate, is a knowledge of where to ‘draw the line’; it is certainly true that one of the most essential parts of a lawyer's equipment is the capacity for drawing distinctions correctly. The whole framework of the law is based upon distinctions, and the drawing of false distinctions is as disastrous as is the failure to draw those that are based upon sound reasoning. It is the object of this article to consider, very tentatively, two distinctions which have been introduced into the common law relating to injury done to others by the property of the defendant: in the first place, the distinction between those things which are dangerous per se and those things which are dangerous sub modo, and in the second place, the distinction between the natural and the non-natural user of land. I shall then endeavour to consider the relation of these two problems to each other. But there will be no attempt to state the nature or extent of the liability that arises; for example, I shall not consider the true nature of the rule in Rylands v. Fletcher or the extent of the duty owed by him who deals with dangerous chattels, though some light may incidentally be thrown upon such matters.

The provisions of the Law of Property and Land Charges Acts, 1925, in regard to the registration of land charges, havt modified, almost to the extent of annihilation, the dependence of equitable interests on the question whether ihe legal estate owner had actual notice, or was affected by constnuctive notice, of their existence. The exact scope of those land charges which aro included by the Land Charges Act, 1925, s. 10, sub-s. 1, Class C (iii), under the term ‘general equitable charges’ remains to be delimited. The editors of the eleventh edition of Wolslenholme and Cherry's Conveyancing Statutes comment with characteristic caution: ‘This paragraph sweeps up the remaining equitable charges, not otherwise specifically named, which require protection.’ This does not help us very much. It is presumed that the lien which an unpaid vendor of land has for the purchase-money is a general equitable charge, and requires to be registered. But what about the charge which a cestvi quc trust has on land which has been bought out of a mixed fund consisting partly of trust money and partly of the trustee's money, for the amount of the trust money laid out in the purchase? The new rule does not seem exactly appropriate to such a case.

Where it has been sought to impose on a corporation liability for crimes committed by its agents in the course of its business and their employment, all the intellectual obstacles which had to be surmounted before imposing corporate liability for tort have been at least equally obstructive, besides the further difficulty that the criminal law knows no such doctrine as ‘respondeat superior.’ A man is criminally liable for his own acts and for them alone; and in order to establish his guilt it is necessary to show that two elements concur: the actus must be reus, and the mens, rea. Again there is the difficulty that a corporation is not susceptible to corporal punishment.

The title which I suggested for this address was prompted by some enquiries which I had recently been making into the history of my Inn—which you will forgive me for regarding as the best of the Inns of Court—the Inner Temple. In its records I had been struck with the contrast that was apparent between the life of the law student as there depicted and that of the law student of to-day. I think that in the old times for a man to come to Oxford or Cambridge, before going to London and becoming either a barrister or a solicitor, was very much less common than it is to-day. A certain number of law students no doubt went first to Oxford or Cambridge, but few of them seem to have taken a degree. I had occasion to look into the life history of seven or eight barristers at the end of the 18th century, and I found that each of them was a member of a college, either here or at Oxford, but only two of them took a degree. In those times it was much commoner for a man to spend a year or two, either here or at Oxford, and then to go on to London. The poorer ones, I think, went first to an Inn of Chancery, of which there were about ten attached to the various Inns of Court. The Inner Temple had four of the attached to it—Clement's Inn, Clifford's Inn, New Inn, and Lyon's Inn.

We all know the Old Bailey—now, by statute, the Central Criminal Court—in Newgate Street. The Old Bailey as Dr. Johnson knew it is no more, and the present building is still in its infancy—blooded, it is true, but an infant. Its predecessor—a gloomy and forbidding structure—had had a long, busy and unwholesome career before its disappearance some twenty years ago.

In the recent case, Great Western Ry. Co. v. Owners of S.S. Mostyn, Viscount Dunedin said: ‘Now, when any tribunal is bound by the judgment of another Court, either superior or co-ordinate, it is, of course, bound by the judgment itself. And if from the opinions delivered it is clear—as is the case in most instances—what the ratio decidendi was which led to the judgment, then that ratio decidendi is also binding. But if it is not clear, then I do not think it is part of the tribunal's duty to spell out with great difficulty a ratio decidendi in order to be bound by it.’ In other words, not only the judgment itself, but also the grounds on which the judgment was reached, are binding. This proposition must, of course, be understood to include the further rule that only those reasons are binding which were material to the decision of the point at issue. If they were material they constitute a precedent; if they were not material they are merely obiter dicta.

It is recorded in the annals of Ouchronia that Robinson Crusoe, shortly after his return home, met a college friend, who forthwith invited him to deliver a public lecture to his constituents on the “Principles of Political Science as exhibited in an Island State’. Ignorance, eagerness to mix once more with his fellow citizens, and an hypnotic state superinduced by the splendour of the topic proposed, concurred to make the unwary traveller accept the invitation. A very few days of reflection were sufficient, however, to reveal to him the full extent of his impotence and of his audacity; and the chronicle goes on to record that he hastily put his affairs in order, and set sail without delay. upon his second voyage. I have felt much sympathy in the last few weeks with Robinson Crusoe in his quandary; but unlike him, I propose to throw myself upon your indulgence, only asking you to make allowance for a nearly life-long absence from the atmosphere of universities, libraries, and great tribunals.

A few years ago a distinguished constitutional historian reopened what had once been a burning issue of political controversy, the question of the validity of the authority claimed and exercised by the British parliament over the American colonies. There had always been a difference of opinion respecting the oppressiveness of those acts of parliament against which Americans protested during the years preceding the Declaration of Independence, but with regard to their legality, as determined by precedent, there had come to be a virtual consensus of historical opinion, British and American alike, that parliament was right, and that those who denied its legal authority over the colonies were wrong. What may bo called the orthodox view was thus expressed by Osgood in 1907:

British lawyers and officials at home and those who represented the home government in the colonies held that, in law if not in fact, the authority of Great Britain within the dominions was complete. … They held that the colonists were in principle as completely subject to parliament … as were the local jurisdictions within England itself. In this they were technically correct and were quite in harmony with the principles of English law.

In the spring of 1925, the public fancy was caught for a moment by a Privy Council case involving the legal position of Hindu idols. The Times newspaper discussed it in a leading article. The case was fully reported in India and attracted some attention there; but, though it was also reported here, it does not seem to have interested English lawyers. Few readers of this Journal are particularly concerned with the technicalities of Hindu law, but the case seems to have for students of jurisprudence a much more general interest.

It was decided by the Court of Appeal (Bankes and Atkin I.JJ., Scrutton L.J. dissenting on another ground), in Commercial and Estates Co. of Egypt v. Board of Trade, that the Crown has by prerogative the right to requisition the goods of neutrals found in this country, on payment of compensation, where such seizure is necessary for the defence of the realm. This right corresponds to what is known in International Law as “ the right of angary.” It is proposed to examine in this paper the nature and extent of this prerogative right.