Common law was an all-male system, with one glaring exception: juries of matrons. If a convicted felon requested a reprieve from execution on the grounds of pregnancy, it was the responsibility of a group of twelve matrons to perform an inspection in order to determine if she was in fact pregnant. Matrons were in a position of great authority. Their verdicts were definitive: if they decided a woman was pregnant, then she was sent back to prison. Despite the significance of their role, little is known about medieval matrons and what qualified them to sit on a jury. Were they mothers? Honorable wives? Midwives? The goal of this paper is to argue that matrons had training in obstetrics. This was particularly important for medieval matrons because the quickening (that is ensoulment, signaled by the first fetal movements) did not become the focal point of the matrons' assessment until at least 1348. Before this, the diagnosis was much more medically challenging as matrons had to determine whether a felon had conceived. Overall, the medieval records demonstrate great confidence in medieval matrons and their obstetrical expertise.

Sometimes we are least aware of that which most affects us. So it seems with respect to legal categories. Lawyers do not take legal categories very seriously today. But they should. Legal categories are central to legal reasoning; indeed it is almost impossible to imagine legal reasoning without the use of categories. Categorical thinking affects every area of law. In constitutional law, for example, equal protection analysis turns crucially on categories of affected interests. Specialists in landlord-tenant law debate whether the implied covenant of habitability is a property doctrine or a contract doctrine. And if the public/private distinction is dead, as some reports have suggested, it rules us yet from its grave. Legal categories are not simply housekeeping devices. They inhibit our imagination of what is acceptable, indeed, of what is possible. They take on a quality of givenness and thereby disempower us. We can retain control over categories, and ultimately over our own legal imagination, only by reminding ourselves that we have created them and are capable of remaking them.

Few aspects of post-structuralist literary criticism have garnered as much attention and provoked as much controversy as the move to challenge the idea of a fixed literary canon of great texts. The implications of deconstructing the canon extend well beyond the study of fiction. All fields of scholarship have a canon of established texts, methodologies, and questions. Critiques of the literary canon resemble the challenge to conventional history posed by the new social history and its efforts to write a history from the bottom up that would supplant traditional historical scholarship. A similar revisionist effort is now only just beginning to emerge in constitutional historiography. Proponents of “a new constitutional history” are seeking to challenge the canon of traditional constitutional history. While this revisionist project has not been cast in post-structuralist terms, the perspective provided by recent critical theory can refine the practice of the new constitutional history.

In the history of English law and the Puritan Revolution, the Levellers are generally considered opponents of the common law, who increasingly used natural law arguments in their revolutionary propaganda. John Lilburne, one of the foremost Leveller leaders, in the tract The Legall Fundamentall Liberties of the People of England published in June 1649 and at his trial for treason in October 1649 used the common law as presented in Sir Edward Coke's The Institutes of the Laws of England and his report of Dr. Bonham's Case, to support his attack on the Rump Parliament. This was only the second use of Dr. Bonham's Case in public controversy as opposed to in a private law matter. Lilburne's reliance on The Institutes and Dr. Bonham's Case also reveals how Coke's legal thought could be integrated into revolutionary thinking, i.e., the limitation of the powers of parliament, not just through judicial review, but through individual citizens' interpretation of statutory law and their individual judgment of the validity of laws. The tenet of radical Protestantism, the supremacy of individual judgment, finds expression in Lilburne's interpretation of statutes and his belief in the limited powers of Parliament. The idea that radical Protestantism led to democratic theory and shook the foundations of established institutions is given additional support by Lilburne's propaganda and defense of himself.

In 1953 a musical titled The Adventures of Nasseradin opened in Tel Aviv. One of its tunes, the “Song of Law,” had music and lyrics so appealing that overnight it became the most popular song in Israel. The subject of the lyric was a tyrant, the Emir of the Kingdom of Buchara. Two brothers were arguing over a pot, and the Emir in his capacity as judge, presided over their trial. His decree: plaintiff and defendant should be executed and the pot thrown into the royal treasury.

In the parliament held at Leicester in the spring of 1414, King Henry V was confronted with a long list of grievances on the part of the common folk of Northumberland, Cumberland, and Westmorland. A formal petition decried the contempt with which the terms of truces made with Scotland and royal letters of safe conduct were treated. The commons further complained that men of the liberties of Tynedale, Redesdale, and Hexham daily committed “many murders, treasons, homicides … robberies, and other misdeeds,” and that “some of the said persons shelter and support many people of Scotland, counselling and comforting [them] in their robbery and despoiling.” Finally, they said, in contravention of the terms of the truce, men of Scotland “also take them prisoner, keeping them … until they make ransom of their own volition, all this with the aid, assent and comfort of the said persons so enfranchised.”

In August 1945, Karl Loewenstein began work as senior expert advisor to the Legal Division of American Military Government (AMG) in Berlin. An eminent German-born and educated political scientist and jurisprudent, Loewenstein had come to assist in the “democratization” of his homeland's Nazified law and legal institutions. It was soon obvious, however, that in its crucial first phase the American legal mission in Germany was in disarray. The development and implementation of American law reform policy was being undercut by ill-prepared leadership, poor planning, and the scarcity of learning about German laws, lawyers, and legal history. By Loewenstein's reckoning, many American officers had been “set to work on problems of which they have not the slightest idea and very little professional qualification.” Critical law reform initiatives had been based upon expedient “over-simplifications” of Nazism and its eradication. By January 1946, his initial misgivings having given way to mordant despair, Loewenstein concluded that the American program for the democratization of the German legal system was irrevocably “lost,” a “failure which stinks to high heaven.” This article sets forth the theoretical and observational bases of Loewenstein's assessment and evaluates its cogency.

In April 1929, an unremarkable man—a local entrepreneur and defendant in a minor lawsuit—entered the High Court of Nyasaland (contemporary Malawi) and made a remarkable gesture. The son of an Indian immigrant and an African woman, Suleman Abdul Karim declared himself a “non-native” and that he should consequently be tried as such. The lawsuit brought against him concerned the ownership of a Ford truck for which he had failed to complete payment. Approximately ten months earlier on June 28, 1928, Ernest Carr of Blantyre, Nyasaland—a local auctioneer and businessman who frequently ran advertisements in The Nyasaland Times during the 1920s—had sold the Ford to Karim with a written agreement that it would be paid for with £30 as a down payment, £20 on July 31, 1928, with the remaining £50 to be paid in monthly installments of £10 starting August 31, 1928. All told, this business transaction was intended to be resolved expeditiously, with its completion by the new year of 1929. However, the minor expectation that this contract had promised was not fulfilled. Two payments were made, an initial one on the day of sale for £30 and a second several months later on November 16, this time for £8. Karim defaulted on the remaining amount. Furthermore, he failed to make an insurance premium payment of £10 to the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co. Ltd., for which Carr was a local agent. Despite these defaults, Karim had not returned the Ford. Consequently, after several more months elapsed, a claim against Karim came before the High Court on April 11, 1929.

In 1813, James Stephen, Jr., a twenty-four-year-old lawyer, was appointed part-time by the British Colonial Office to write legal opinions on the validity of colonial laws. In 1825, he began working full-time as legal advisor to the Colonial Office and held this position until 1836 when he was promoted to the top-ranking post of permanent under-secretary of the Colonial Office, which he held until 1847. During these years, Stephen frequently played a key role in influencing the direction taken by policies and reforms initiated through the Colonial Office. In particular, his important role in shaping Colonial Office “native policy” after the mid-1830s has been documented by several historians, and much has been written about his connection—through his anti-slavery father, Stephen, Sr., and his uncle William Wilberforce—to the famous Evangelical “Clapham Sect” that took a leading role in promoting a number of different humanitarian and social reform causes in the first half of the nineteenth century.

Law and the Conditions of Freedom in the Nineteenth-Century United States, the slim volume that emerged from Willard Hurst's 1955 Rosenthal Lectures at the Northwestern School of Law, has attained an iconic status in American legal history. In his 1994 interview of Willard Hurst, for example, Hendrik Hartog mentions that both he and Robert Gordon were led to legal history as a result of reading Hurst's little book. A good deal of the magic of Law and the Conditions of Freedom stems from its undeniable vitality. Certainly, Hurst was after vitality in legal history, surprising Hartog in the 1994 interview by his fondness for Albert Beveridge's life of John Marshall because of its “magnificent job of bringing history to life.”

In 1847, Raymond-Theodore Troplong, one of France's most distinguished legal minds, presented his recently finished work on debt imprisonment to Paris's prestigious Académie des sciences morales et politiques. He started his narrative with an imaginative reconstruction of debt imprisonment's origins in the “barbaric law” of “primitive peoples.” In such societies, Troplong explained, “the person responds corporally, and principally, to contracted engagements. On one hand, insolvency is assimilated to crime. The debtor who dishonors his word in not paying his creditor differs little from a thief. In dishonoring his word, he has dishonored the gods whom he has taken as witnesses of his oath; his body is therefore engaged by his offense; it belongs to its expiation. On the other hand, in order to make him pay with his possessions, the creditor must seize, first of all, his person.”

A fixed legal age of consent is used to determine when a person has the capacity to consent to sex yet in the late Victorian period the idea became a vehicle through which to address varied social concerns, from child prostitution and child sexual abuse to chastity and marriageability of working-class girls. This article argues that the Criminal Law Amendment Act (CLAA) 1885, the Act that raised the age of consent from thirteen to sixteen, and its application were driven by constructions of gender in conjunction with those of social class and working class family. The article firstly argues that CLAA 1885 and related campaigns reinforced class boundaries, and largely framed the working class family as absent, thereby, requiring the law to step in as a surrogate parent to protect the girl child. Secondly, the paper focuses on narratives emerging from the archives and argues that while narratives of capacity and protection in particular were key concepts behind reforms, the courts showed limited understanding of these terms. Instead, the courts focused on notions resistance, consent, and untrustworthiness of the victim, even when these concepts were not relevant to the proceedings due to victims' young age.

As I understand it, Susan Reynolds's article is meant to address the longstanding habit among legal historians of equating professional approaches to the law with the emergence of a school-based study of Roman law. In the course of the twelfth century, she argues, legal practitioners developed their own kinds of expertise that, though less bookish, might have had a practical significance equal to, if not greater than, the learning produced in the schools. Although these observations seem on the mark for Europe north of the Alps, Reynolds errs, I think, in assimilating Italy to this chronological and conceptual schema. Already by the ninth and tenth centuries, there existed in northern Italy a corps of royal notaries and judges who possessed both literacy and legal expertise unparalleled elsewhere in Europe. Distinguished from other laymen by their titles, learning, and even their handwriting, the legal experts already appear to have met the criteria of professionalism generally proposed for the late twelfth century in the rest of Europe.

In September of 1953, eight months before Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas would be decided, the Topeka Board of Education voted to abolish segregation in its schools. Some Topekans thought it curious that the school board would vote to abolish segregation when its case defending segregation was pending in the U.S. Supreme Court. When Edward Goss of the Topeka Civic Club asked the board why it hadn't waited for the Court's decision, board member Harold Conrad responded: ‘We feel that segregation is not an American practice.’

The Geneva Conventions of 1949 are often seen as the product of Western European design and liberal humanitarianism. Based on a collection of Western and Soviet archival materials, this article reveals the Soviet delegation's mixed but critical legacy in developing the Conventions. The Soviets, acting in surprisingly close cooperation with the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), were essential for supporting a range of groundbreaking plans to end ‘inhumane’ measures in war, from unrestrained colonial warfare to inhumane treatment. They made however some of these protections vulnerable due to their opposition to accepting stronger enforcement mechanisms, such as allowing the ICRC and Protecting Powers to visit their Gulag archipelago. By doing so, the Soviets helped to create the foundations for both the successes and failures of the Geneva Conventions.

Historians have argued that sixteenth and seventeenth century English colonial charters claimed the lands of indigenous people on the basis of their discovery by Europeans. Examination of these charters, however, demonstrates that a charter authorized acquiring land from the indigenous population in a specific region, not seizing indigenous it, and regulating the entry of other potential settlers. Charters also regulated overseas relations among the European nations to reduce or prevent international conflict by recognizing similar claims to monopoly of access to lands claimed by other developing empires. Charters were rooted in a medieval legal tradition that included canon law commentaries that recognized the legitimacy of infidel dominium and papal bulls that sought to regulate fifteenth-century Iberian expansion in the Atlantic. English charters built on this legal tradition and were a stage in the creation of a European legal order for overseas expansion. The fundamental issue was regulation of the sea and sea routes to Asia and to the New World, not the acquisition and possession of indigenous land. The English charters should be understood as elements of the long-running debate about whether access to the sea was open to all or could be closed to outsiders.

The legal and social implications of Hardwicke's Marriage Act, passed in 1753, were of the utmost importance in England. From 1754 onwards a marriage, in order to be recognized as legal, had to be carried out in a very specific, circumscribed manner, ending a period during which “irregular” or clandestine marriages proliferated. Although Lord Hardwicke had been agitating for such legislation for years, it was one case in particular, a Scottish action, which had been appealed to the House of Lords, that precipitated the Act.

Restrictions in law upon the power of testators to devise chattels were the norm in the days both of Glanvill and of Bracton. As Holdsworth put it:

If he [the testator] left a wife alone she took a half; if a wife and children they took, the wife a third, and the children who had not received an advancement from their father in his lifetime a third; … it was only the half or the third which remained over that a man was free to dispose of as he pleased.