In November 1806, Nottinghamshire magistrate Sir Gervase Clifton was visited at his house by one of his poorer neighbours, “a pauper of the village of Wilford.” (Wilford is about three miles from Clifton village and Clifton Hall.) William Kirwin was attempting to sort out complicated domestic arrangements within the framework of the law that governed his family's life. He told the magistrate about his mother-in-law, a widow, currently living in Tollerton. “She is in a very distressed state,” he said; he and his wife wanted her to come and live with them, “so that she may be better taken care of & kept from want.” He had asked the Wilford overseer for permission to take her in but had been refused. The family had tried to help after her husband died: her son (with wife and children) had moved into her cottage on the understanding that “they would take care of her during her Life & allow her good victuals drinks firing & good cloathing.” Something had evidently gone wrong with that arrangement, but we are not to know what, or how, as the entry in Clifton's notebook breaks off here (as is the case with many pieces of magisterial business he recorded). Kirwin was aware of local ratepayers and tensions between parishes in regard to their financial responsibilities under the old Poor Law: what he proposed would keep his mother-in-law from “troubling the … parish of Wilford,” he said. She was financially independent, or at least on marriage she had “brought a many good with her & such as a beds & other goods.” He knew that a justice of the peace was a point of appeal in the vast, complex edifice of ancient statutory law (poor and settlement law) that dictated the way he lived his life. We can discern something of William Kirwin's understanding of these matters from the fragmentary, incomplete account of what he said, and the strategies he used in telling his story; we can discern some of Sir Gervase's from the action he did not take in this case, and what he did not have his clerk record.

At the close of World War II (WWII), Winston Churchill suggested summarily executing the remaining Nazi leadership. Franklin Delano Roosevelt disagreed, insisting on prosecuting them in an international military tribunal. This is considered the “birth” of International Criminal Law (ICL), following a consensus that “[t]he Nazi atrocities gave rise to the idea that some crimes are so grave as to concern the international community as a whole.” A few earlier instances of penal action against violators of the laws of war are acknowledged, but they are dismissed as unrelated to current ICL, because (presumably) these cases are sporadic domestic legal actions that lack a common doctrine.

In 1858, Catharine Barr wrote to the Pension Commissioner in Washington, D.C., seeking reinstatement of her widow's pension. Barr explained that she had been married to two men who had died in the service of the United States: first to George Bundick, “a young and beloved husband” who had died in the War of 1812; then to William Davidson in 1835, who had died in 1836 of injuries sustained while serving on the USS Vandalia. She acknowledged that she was not, strictly speaking, a widow, as her current husband, James Barr, was still living and they were still married. She nevertheless sought reinstatement of the pension she had been granted as Davidson's widow. Pursuant to the terms of the relevant pension statute, Barr's pension had terminated upon her remarriage to James. However, as Barr explained to the commissioner, James “has neither been with me or given me one Dollar for my support since 1849, and I know not his whereabouts.” Having also lost her father in the War of 1812, Barr saw herself as particularly deserving of the federal government's assistance and believed that she and other widows in her position had a claim on the national coffers. “I for one,” she implored, “have no Dependence on Earth only what comes through my relations.”

Less than two years after the United States occupied New Mexico, Acoma Pueblo accused its neighbors in Laguna Pueblo of misappropriating a painting of Saint Joseph. The Indians of Acoma claimed that they had loaned the picture to the pueblo of Laguna for the purpose of celebrating Holy Week, but Laguna had subsequently refused to return it. The large oil painting on canvas, which portrayed the standing figure of Joseph holding the baby Jesus, was said to have been sent to New Mexico by Carlos II, king of Spain from 1665 to 1700. Both pueblos claimed rightful ownership of the picture, both said that missionaries with the early Spanish conquerors had brought them the oil painting from Spain, and both asserted that the painting was necessary for their religious worship. It was believed that the painting of Saint Joseph, or San José, as he was referred to throughout the legal documents, worked miracles for its possessor. Most important to the pueblos was the belief that the painting brought life-sustaining rain to the parched agricultural lands that provided their main source of food.

Prigg v. Pennsylvania (1842), has puzzled scholars for generations. Law professor David Currie has called it “perplexing.” It is a case over which scholars have come to a wide array of conflicting conclusions.

This paper is an account of the development of marine insurance in Scotland. The topic has not been previously investigated by either legal or economic historians. While providing a general history of the development of insurance, this paper will also undertake three more specific tasks, (1) to increase knowledge about the use of marine insurance during this time, particularly during the period 1700–1750; (2) to explain why insurance was not commonly used by merchants during the seventeenth century; and (3) to correct one very serious and misleading error relating to the chronology of development.

Two generations of legal historians have debated the question of the reception and evolution of common law and equity in England and America by jurists of the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries. Briefly, one school argues that jurists of these years employed a “doctrinal method” to discover, through deduction, the principles of the law in a particular case. Such a jurist, in the words of the late Lon Fuller, “does not consider that it is the primary function of judges or legal scholars to weigh the practical consequences of deciding a particular case one way or the other. Rather [he] regards them as having a purely deductive function. The starting point for the deciding of any case is to be found in certain premises dictated by the nature of law and legal relationships. Each relationship or transaction has its ‘essential nature.’”

This article tries to answer two questions about the writ of covenant that have perplexed legal historians. Maitland noticed that the common law courts adopted a requirement that plaintiff produce a writing of the covenant under defendant's seal as proof of the covenant. When and why royal officials adopted this requirement continue to be the chief unanswered questions about covenant. Second, there is the matter of remedy. Some legal historians believe that the remedy in covenant changed from specific performance to damages. But what was the remedy in covenant? Did it change? If so, when and why did it change?

Though I corresponded with Willard Hurst over the last twenty-five years, I met him only once. Hurst did not often attend events or meetings outside of Madison, but in 1971 he appeared at a legal history conference at the Harvard Law School to herald the renaissance in the field of American legal history, a renewal in many ways directly traceable to Hurst's own work and influence. I had just graduated from law school and was beginning my apprenticeship as a legal historian. With great trepidation I walked up to him to introduce myself at a reception on the first day of the conference. I was surprised when he seemed to recognize my name (I think a list of conference participants may have been circulated in advance), but even more astonished when he said, “Let's go find a quiet corner, I want to talk to you about your father.” My father, Samuel J. Konefsky, had died less than a year before, and Hurst's brief conversation with me was the first of the many kindnesses of his that I experienced.

Convicted felons at the Old Bailey and on assize in nineteenth-century England had no right of appeal. They had either to submit to their fate or, if they had the means, petition the Crown for a pardon. The legal avenues for redress were limited. A writ of error would lie to a superior court for legal errors that appeared on the face of the record but by the nineteenth century this was seldom used. More significantly, it was open for the trial judge to reserve questions of law for the informal and private consideration of all the common law judges. In their illuminating studies of this practice in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, James Oldham and Randall McGowen elucidate the ways in which the judiciary used reserved cases to develop legal doctrine and to shape the operation of criminal justice. The trend toward increased formalization of procedure that they identify, culminated in 1848, when Parliament created the Court for Crown Cases Reserved (CCCR). The new court adopted the existing method of reserving cases, but was a court of record that sat and gave judgment in public. It became the highest judicial forum for the determination of questions of criminal law until 1908, when it was superseded by the Court of Criminal Appeal.

Reports of the Strange Death of Liberal America are greatly exaggerated. James Henretta's essay of that title offers a shrewd and insightful portrait of Charles Evans Hughes. But the liberalism whose death Henretta reports did not die. And the “statist,” “centralization,” “economic planning,” and broad “social insurance” minded liberalism he reports as prevailing did not prevail. From a certain lofty altitude (and rueful attitude), all “big,” “modern” “welfare states” look the same. That is Henretta's viewpoint. His wonderfully suggestive comparative framework has as one of its premises that America and England proceeded along the administrative-and-welfare-state-building path at different paces but arrived at the same destination. For me, a comparison of the law and politics, processes and outcomes of twentieth-century state-building in the U.S. and England prompts different conclusions. There were conspicuous differences between the New Deal state that was fashioned in 1930s and '40s America and the welfare state England created in those decades. More interestingly, the ideology and institutional contours of this new American state were deeply influenced by that ambivalent (and lawyerly) brand of American liberalism Henretta rightly attributes to figures such as Hughes and Roscoe Pound—poised between “progressive” commitments to social reform, social provision, and administrative-state-building, on the one hand, and older, “classical” liberal commitments to limited (and decentralized, dual federalist) government and the primacy of courts and common law and traditional legal and constitutional niceties, on the other. My notion is that this “transitional” and “forgotten” liberalism and its champions won more important battles than they lost against their “statist” rivals. A “strange death,” indeed!

In 1824, the American schooner Fox sailed into Charleston harbor with seasoned mariner and Rhode Island native Amos Daley on board. When officials boarded the ship, they interrogated the captain and crew before cuffing Daley and hauling him off to the Charleston jail, where he remained until the Fox was set to leave harbor. Daley's detainment occurred because 16 months earlier the South Carolina General Assembly had enacted a statute barring the entrance of all free people of color into the state. Unlike other antebellum state statutes limiting black immigration, this law extended further, stretching to include in its prohibition maritime laborers aboard temporarily docked, commercial vessels. This particular section of the law was passed on the assumption that such sailors inspired slave insurrection and thereby posed a direct threat to the safety and welfare of the citizenry. Over the course of the next four decades, the states of North Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas would join South Carolina in passing statutes, commonly referred to as the “Seamen Acts,” which limited the ingress of free black mariners. Amos Daley was only one of ~10,000 sailors directly affected by these particularly Southern regulations.

In December 1993, the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council ruled in Pratt and Morgan v. The Attorney General for Jamaica that excessive delay in the enforcement of death sentences—defined with some caveats as more than 5 years from the time of conviction to execution—was “inhuman” and therefore unconstitutional. The Judicial Committee also reversed earlier rulings in finding that the 5 year time frame for appeals should include those delays that resulted from legal proceedings initiated by prisoners themselves. The result was to clear death row cells across most of the British Caribbean, with the capital sentences of more than 100 condemned prisoners commuted in Jamaica alone. Pratt also ushered in a new era of Judicial Committee activism in Caribbean death penalty cases that resulted in a series of further safeguards against executions, including the abolition of mandatory death sentences. The cumulative effect of these judgments is that there has not been an execution in Jamaica since 1988, even though capital punishment remains legal and, amidst persistently high rates of violent crime across the region, political support for a resumption of hanging is strong.

We are living in an age of political turbulence, social division, and resistance. The resistance that formed in reaction to the election of Donald Trump styles itself a force to defend constitutional rights, democratic norms, and the rule of law in the United States. Perhaps the New Republic best explained its advent: the Resistance had been born of partisan—that is, Democratic—fury after “liberalism had been dealt its most stunning and consequential defeat in American history.” “For the first time in decades, liberalism has been infused with a sense of energy and purpose,” with millions of people devoted to a singular cause: resisting Trump.

In the mid-1700s, the town of Mompox flourished in the Spanish viceroyalty of the New Kingdom of Granada, today part of the Republic of Colombia. Built on the banks of the northern Magdalena River, an important waterway connecting the Andean interior with the Caribbean Sea, Mompox constantly buzzed with travelers and trade alike. Mompox was home to a community of merchants who profited handsomely from both legal trade and smuggling, their networks reaching places as far away as Lima in Peru and Cádiz in Spain. These merchants were frequently also slaveholders and landowners. On haciendas outside of town, slaves cultivated the land and tended large herds of cattle. They gathered wood and resins and hunted for game and jaguars (panthera onca) that preyed on livestock. Along with free people of color, slaves also worked as artisans, journeymen, and oarsmen on boats transporting goods and people up and down the river (see Figure 1).

Slavery and the slave trade were fundamental institutions in Ethiopian history. Their abolition was a protracted process that involved developing, debating, passing, and applying multiple anti-slavery and anti-slave trade edicts and decrees under successive rulers. While slavery existed in various societies that were later integrated in the Abyssinian empire since the second half of the nineteenth century and took different forms based on different legal traditions, this article focuses specifically on the Christian kingdom and its successor empire. It analyzes changes and continuities in legal approaches to slavery and its suppression through consecutive Ethiopian governments starting with a discussion of slavery's regulation in the ancient Christian law code, the Fetha nagast (“The Law of the Kings”). The article then considers how successive Christian emperors developed anti-slavery policies in response to both local and global dynamics.

The United States Constitution established a federal system, not a national government. States continued necessarily and by design as active and important centers of governmental activity. States were institutions of inherent authority, while the federal government by original intent and then explicitly by amendment, was a government of only delegated powers. Since the federal government derived its power directly from the people and acted directly on individuals, it was decisively more powerful than the pre-Constitution Confederation. But the Bill of Rights itself is evidence of the continued worry, pervasive until modified by the Reconstruction Amendments, that the federal government might, but should not, overwhelm the states.

The legal treatise called Glanvill is proof that by the end of Henry II's reign men capable of shaping the custom of the English curia regis into a systematic law book were present at Westminster. Glanvill is “the first textbook of the English common law.” This treatise was written near the end of Henry II's reign and since the thirteenth century, it has borne the name of his justiciar, Ranulf de Glanvill, although not many scholars today accept his authorship. Why, then, should we raise once more the question: Who was the author of Glanvill? It remains a valid question because it affords an opportunity for reflection on questions concerning schools, learning, and twelfth-century English society. It forces us to consider the connections among the emerging English common law, the schools, the Scholastic method, and the study of Roman and canon law. It requires us to consider the contributions of Roman and eccesiastical law to Henry II's legal reforms.

In an obscure aside, the well-known English working-class radical, Francis Place, remarked in his Autobiography that even when “in deepest poverty” he had tried to serve other artisans. Some he had helped to train up as small masters or foremen while others he aided by working to settle their problems and disputes. “I had many matters brought to me for adjudication, arbitration or arrangement,” he wrote. “I hardly know the time when for three months together I have been free from this kind of interference.” Most matters it seems had to do with debtors and their creditors, but others appear to have concerned the settlement of estates or even affairs “related to an association or large body of men.” While he may have been justly proud of his service to the working-class community, Place's comment provides an insight into working-class life that is rarely glimpsed. He did not choose the word arbitration accidentally. By the nineteenth century, life and work in England had been penetrated by forms of dispute resolution that were meant to secure “order without law.”

John Locke worried that the common law was bad for business. Although he recognized the political importance of common law institutions such as juries, he also thought that the cumbersome procedures of English courts might hamper economic development in England and its colonies. The Fundamental Constitutions of Carolina, which Locke helped draft in 1669, tried to reconcile these competing political and economic concerns. Although the Constitutions guaranteed “Freemen” a right to trial by jury, the document also provided for specialized judges in port towns to “try cases belonging to [the] law-merchant.” These commercial judges would allow merchants to settle their disputes “as shall be most convenient for trade,” rather than by the expensive formality of the common law.