By the close of the nineteenth century, most continental Europeans tacitly accepted, if they thought about it at all, the notion that a civil code governed multiple personal and familial relationships in their daily lives. Like so many legislative structures, intellectual suppositions, and cultural artifacts, what was once regarded as a novel or even a major break with the past came to be understood as one of the many requisites of modernity. Contemporary historians have adopted a similarly indifferent posture, their curiosity only piqued when encountering specific provisions entangled with other political issues. In a strikingly dissimilar approach to that adopted toward penal law, they have been disinclined to explore the relationship between civil legal endeavor and political culture or the history of ideas. Only with respect to Germany have scholars considered these topics worthy of in-depth analysis; in so doing, they have demonstrated that understanding juridical culture is fundamental to appreciating the textures and peculiarities of the liberal nation state.

“As punishments become more cruel, men become more ferocious.” That contention, voiced in this instance by a contributor to The Gentleman's Magazine in 1786, had been a respected tenet of Enlightenment penal theory since its articulation by Cesare Beccaria twenty years earlier. In the interim, commentators on both sides of the Channel had continued to theorize about the impact of public physical punishments on the temper of society. Repeated public executions, thought one contributor to The Times, led only to “a shameless apathy”; another cautioned that, “When the wantonness of oppression is made familiar to the eye, the sensibility of the people…degenerates into despondency, degeneracy and stupidity,…” and he repeated Montesquieu's sinister simile likening the tranquility of such a state to the mournful silence of a city that the enemy is about to storm. In the aftermath of the French Revolution, however, such speculation took on the chilling force of prophecy fulfilled, and for the next fifty years a chorus of increasingly alarmed English voices warned of the potential for insurrection inherent in physical punishments. Continued recourse to public executions, a “festival of blood, [was] calculated to shock or brutalize the feelings of man, [to] encourage ferocious habits in the people.” “Revolutions,” trumpeted the Morning Herald in 1835, “are always most bloody in countries whose laws have most familiarized the people with spectacles of vengeance.”

Two legacies vie to take the measure of the work of Willard Hurst. The first understands Hurst primarily in his formal role as the “founding father” of an academic sub-specialty known as “American legal history”—the author of a canonical text Law and the Conditions of Freedom, and the coiner of interpretive phrases like “legal instrumentalism” and “the release of energy” that established the boundaries of disciplinary debate for two generations of acolytes and dissenters. The second legacy flows from the substantive range of Hurst's research and writing as a whole—the depth and breadth of an intellectual project that tears at and transcends the very disciplinary borders being constructed by his texts and phrases. In this essay, I will ignore the first perspective, which tends to dominate hagiographic and commemorative commentaries.

In 1884, the University of Berne celebrated its fiftieth anniversary with ceremonies spanning three days, attended by delegates from the international diplomatic corps and many of the universities of Western Europe. As part of the ceremonies, the university awarded honorary doctorates in theology, philosophy, medicine, and law. Along with a number of Swiss and German scholars, one American was honored: Joel Prentiss Bishop. He was, the university thought, among those “who by their learning and their works rendered great service to their land and to the science of the law.”

The mid-1960s witnessed a landmark change in the area of civil rights policy in the United States. After a series of tortuous internal battles, with Southern legislators using all available procedural tools to maintain their states' discriminatory Jim Crow legal systems, the United States Congress adopted two statutes—the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965—which insured civil and political equality for all Americans. The Acts of 1964 and 1965 were the culmination of a decade-long struggle by black Americans to secure the citizenship rights that had been denied to them for more than a half century. Beginning with the Brown v. Board of Education (1954) Supreme Court decision, the civil rights movement built momentum, as formal organizations like the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) grew in strength and informal (grass roots) organizations spread throughout the South and the Nation. As national public opinion shifted increasingly toward providing new civil rights guarantees for blacks, Congress responded with new legislation: the Civil Rights Act of 1957 (the first civil rights law since 1875), the Civil Rights Act of 1960, and a legislative proposal to prohibit the poll tax in 1962 (which would be ratified by three-quarters of the states in 1964 and become the 24th Amendment to the United States Constitution).

The widow Drouillard de Volunbrun and her household boarded the brig Mary & Elizabeth in November 1796, only after many failed attempts to leave the French colony of Saint-Domingue. Like many others, they sought refuge from the violence and deprivation of the Haitian Revolution. In the party were the widow, her mother, a male companion, Marie Alphonse Cléry and, at best count, twenty enslaved people. Catastrophe struck November 18 when the Mary & Elizabeth wrecked on the west end of the Miguana Reef, off the Bahamas. The vessel and cargo were “totally” lost, but the captain, crew, and twenty-nine passengers, including the Volunbrun household, were “saved.” By the following April of 1797, the household was again at sea, bound for New York City. New York was, Shane White explains, “the center of the heaviest slaveholding region” in the North. Slaveholdings were small, with slaves a shrinking minority of the overall population. Still, one in five households held at least one slave. The household maintained a modest profile during their first four years in the city, moving to what was then the city's northeast periphery, Eagle Street near Bowery. Their neighbors were skilled workers, including butchers, masons, and men working the maritime trades. The widow put most of those she termed slaves to work manufacturing cigars.

The business development that took place during the nineteenth century fouled America's waters. It also caused smoke, soot, stenches, noise, jarring vibrations, solid wastes and other forms of industrial pollution. These problems drove people to the courts for injunctive relief. Their suits raised a dilemma of fundamental importance to all industrialized societies: how best to reconcile the often conflicting goals of environmental quality and business growth.

This article looks at how nineteenth-century American judges grappled with this quandary by examining their use of balancing doctrine in pollution nuisance cases.

Christopher Columbus Langdell (1826–1906) is arguably the most influential figure in the history of legal education in the United States, having shaped the modern law school by introducing a number of significant reforms during his tenure as dean of Harvard Law School (HLS) from 1870 to 1895. Langdell's innovations—including the admission requirement of a bachelor's degree, the graded and sequential curriculum, the hurdle of annual examinations for continuation and graduation, the independent career track for professional faculty, the transformation of the professional library from a textbook repository into a scholarly resource, and the inductive pedagogy of teaching from cases—became the characteristics gradually adopted by university law schools after 1890 and, eventually, schools of other professions. Langdell thus transformed legal education from an undemanding, gentlemanly acculturation into an academic meritocracy.

Morton Horwitz once posed the question, “Law and Economics: Science or Politics?” highlighting what has been a contentious issue for legal historians and the general legal academic community. A common historical accounting for the emergence of the law and neoclassical economics movement is that it provided theoretical ammunition for right-of-center politics following the collapse of 1960s progressive politics. Simultaneously, it has been viewed as a continuation of the legal realist moment and a response to the need for a scientific foundation for private law. In short, the consensus seems to be that law and neoclassical economics is about either science or politics. Little thought has been given, however, to its political and scientific formation and, in particular, to how the two in fact intersect. This article attempts to remedy the situation.

When the State of Israel was established and the Supreme Court inaugurated in Jerusalem, dozens of Christian clerics implored President Smoira to allow the Supreme Court, as the successor of the Great Sanhedrin, the supreme Jewish court during the time of Roman rule, to retry Jesus Christ and thereby rectify the injustice caused to him.

As the fields of digital humanities and digital history have grown in scale and visibility since the 1990s, legal history has largely remained on the margins of those fields. The move to make material available online in the first decade of the web featured only a small number of legal history projects: Famous Trials; Anglo-American Legal Tradition; The Proceedings of the Old Bailey Online, 1674–1913. Early efforts to construct hypertext narratives and scholarship also included some works of legal history: “Hearsay of the Sun: Photography, Identity and the Law of Evidence in Nineteenth-Century Courts,” in Hypertext Scholarship in American Studies; Who Killed William Robinson? and Gilded Age Plains City: The Great Sheedy Murder Trial and the Booster Ethos of Lincoln, Nebraska. In the second decade of the web, the focus shifted from distributing material to exploring it using digital tools. The presence of digital history grew at the meetings of organizations of historians ranging from the American Historical Association to the Urban History Association, but not at the American Society for Legal History conferences, the annual meetings of the Law and Society Association, or the British Legal History Conference. Only a few Anglo-American legal historians took up computational tools for sorting and visualizing sources such as data mining, text mining, and topic modeling; network analysis; and mapping. Paul Craven and Douglas Hay's Master and Servant project text mined a comprehensive database of 2,000 statutes and 1,200,000 words to explore similarities and influence among statutes. Data Mining with Criminal Intent mined and visualized the words in trial records using structured data from The Proceedings of the Old Bailey Online, 1674–1913. Locating London's Past, a project that mapped resources relating to the early modern and eighteenth century city, and also made use of the Old Bailey records. Digital Harlem mapped crime in the context of everyday life in the 1920s. Only in the past few years has more digital legal history using computational tools begun to appear, and like many of the projects discussed in this special issue, most remain at a preliminary stage. This article seeks to bring into focus the constraints, possibilities, and choices that shape digital legal history, in order to create a context for the work in this special issue, and to promote discussion of what it means to do legal history in the digital age.

Medieval and early modern rulers commonly proclaimed that protecting the legal entitlements of the personae miserabiles, who included widows, orphans, the chronically ill and “the poor,” was among their principal duties. The entitlement of the poor to legal services was not a matter of grace but was in fact their “good right.” For example, widows, orphans, and other personae miserabili had the privilege of being heard in first instance before high courts, so as to save time and costs in pursuing their legal claims. Another example of manifest commitment to legal entitlement for the poor was the refusal of Philip II of Habsburg to consent to measures that would limit the jurisdiction of his Castilian chanceries; the measures had been proposed so as to limit the chanceries’ ever-increasing workload, but, because they could also restrict indigents' access to such courts, were rejected by the monarch. At first glance, such inclusiveness appears to have been achieved, particularly in view of the large numbers of petty conflicts brought before formal law courts during the long sixteenth century, leading to a so-called “legal revolution.” Historians generally acknowledge that broad layers of early modern society made abundant use of civil adjudication in arranging their social and economic relations and interests.

Drs. L.R. Poos and R.M. Smith have strongly criticized the uses made of manorial court rolls for demographic analysis. They have argued that the data obtained from the court records are inadequate in measuring the demographic trend and in making observations about replacement rates, expectation of life, marriage and illegitimacy. It seems to me, however, that although their criticism is partly justified, on the whole it is unduly negative. First, the claim that the demographic trend cannot be measured from court rolls will be examined; and thereafter the other issues raised by Poos and Smith will be discussed.

When Milsom enrolled Maitland among the British Academy's Master-Minds, he drew attention to a number of rather strange things about him. Other than Rhys and Keynes, unfairly advantaged in so far as they are commemorated by whole lecture series, Maitland is the sole Academy Fellow to have been the subject of one lecture, let alone (as is now the case) of two. He is also one of very few historians. Alongside Maitland are ranked only Thucydides, Bede, Gibbon, Kemble, Carlyle, Burckhardt, and Bémont—an assortment that would have bemused him as much as the eminence he was thus assigned. But, oddest of all, his repute is of a wholly different order from that of his fellow founders of the Academy, or of the historians it has dignified. It is not just that he is consulted and recycled, unlike Cunningham or Pollock (his joint venture with Maitland apart). They, like Gibbon, Bede, and the rest, are now a chapter in historiography, historical phenomena themselves requiring explanation. We may seek information, even (in some cases) entertainment from them. We do not debate with them as we argue with Maitland. That is what Milsom went on to do. It was, of course, a far greater compliment than that conveyed by the title of Academy Master-Mind. It is also one that would beyond question have been more congenial to Maitland himself. He would have been appalled by his canonization, as Milsom has repeatedly stressed. To adumbrate a motif that will recur in these remarks, he had a Millite faith in the creativity of dissent. The honor done him was to treat a scholar who had been in his Canary Islands grave for the best part of a century as if he were a contemporary colleague.

In 1788 the Court of Common Pleas, after lengthy deliberations, came to a judgment in Steel v. Houghton et Uxor, concluding that “no person has, at common law, a right to glean in the harvest field.” Gleaning was of considerable importance to many laboring families in the eighteenth century; therefore, both the provincial and the London-based newspapers reported the 1788 judgment at length, as well as covering the 1786 case of Worlledge v. Manning on which it was partly based. The 1788 case not only stimulated a widespread public debate over the gleaners' rights, but also established an important legal precedent. From 1788 onward, every major legal handbook from Burn's New Law Dictionary of 1792 to the early twentieth-century editions of Wharton's Law Lexicon used it as the standard caselaw reference. It is quoted in a wide variety of law books written for farmers such as Williams's Farmers' Lawyer and Dixon's Law of the Farm, as well as inspiring long footnotes in the post-1788 editions of Blackstone's Commentaries. By 1904, it was being referred to in the law reports as “the great case of gleaning.”

In the last third of the twentieth century, the Progressive historians' account of Gilded Age law was overthrown by three interrelated strands of revisionist scholarship. One strand, which originated in work by Alan Jones, Charles McCurdy, and Les Benedict, thoroughly revised our understanding of Gilded Age constitutional development. Another strand, led by Robert Gordon, Thomas Grey, and Morton Horwitz, reformed our view of Gilded Age private law. The final strand, first elaborated by Duncan Kennedy, explored the unity of Gilded Age public and private law.

Like many nineteenth-century travelers, Iqbal al-Daulah, a cousin of the Nawab of the Indian princely state of Awadh, navigated multiple legal systems as he migrated across Asia, Europe, and the Middle East. Living through the absorption of Awadh into the expanding British Empire, he eventually joined a community of Indian Shias in Ottoman Iraq, who regularly used British consular courts. While still in India, Iqbal al-Daulah composed a tribute in Persian and English to British justice. He described British courts in the following laudatory terms: “What Ease is afforded to Petitioners! The Doors of the numerous Courts being open, if any by reason of his dark fate, should be disappointed in the attainment of his desire, in one Court, in another he may obtain the Victory and Succeed.” Iqbal al-Daulah secured a sizeable pension and knighthood from the British government. However, at the end of his life, he had lost faith in British courts. In his will he lamented: “British courts are uncertain, stock in trade of bribery, wrong, delay…the seekers of redress, are captives of the paw of the Court officials; and business goes on by bribery not to be counted or described.” Despite Iqbal al-Daulah's words of caution, his friends and relatives became enmeshed in legal battles over his inheritance in British courts in India and Ottoman Iraq. In doing so, they joined the crowds of colonial subjects who flooded the courts, enduring expense and annoyance despite the prospect of uncertain outcomes.

Nineteenth-century American judges and lawyers often claimed that Christianity was part of the common law. From Kent and Story in the early part of the century, to Cooley and Tiedeman toward the end, the maxim that “Christianity is part and parcel of the common law” (or some variant thereof) was heard so often that later commentators could refer to it as a matter “decided over and over again,” one which “[t]ext writers have reiterated and courts have affirmed.” The maxim even received an endorsement of sorts from the Supreme Court, which in 1844 affirmed that “the Christian religion is part of the common law of Pennsylvania.”