The politics of war severely divided the Virginia Southside during the American Revolution. Laborers, ship pilots and other landless men and women bitterly resented the efforts of the patriot gentry to stop trade with Great Britain and to establish a military force. Planters feared that the presence of the British Navy would encourage slaves to flee or attack their masters. What role did law play in the patriot response to these conditions? This essay uses the case of Josiah Philips, who led a banditti residing in the Great Dismal Swamp, to show how law intersected with class and race in patriot thinking. The gentry's view of the landless as dependent and lacking in self-control and its view of black slaves as posing a constant threat of violence supported the application of special legal regimes suited to these dangers. In particular, Philips was “attainted” by the General Assembly, a summary legislative legal proceeding traditionally employed against offenders who threatened government itself. While the attainder was uncontroversial when it passed, the significance of the Assembly's intervention changed over time. By the late 1780s, some among the state's legal elite regarded the Assembly as having unnecessarily interfered in the ordinary course of justice, which they were then seeking to reform. This opened the way to recharacterize the Assembly's extraordinary legal jurisdiction as an arbitrary exercise of lawmaking power.

This article analyses domestic law cases brought by former slaves during the decade following the Civil War. It argues that ending slavery was a long and complex process that included not only granting rights to freedpeople, but also subtracting the incapacities previously imposed by bondage and applying certain rights retroactively. Reconstruction-era judges, throughout the era and across the South, overlooked the realities of slavery as a lived institution. Instead, they reimagined slavery as a collection of legal disabilities that could simply be subtracted and summarily resolved. This is how they would carry out abolition. The notion that slavery had to be undone stands in contrast to prevailing scholarship that emphasizes the acquisition and exercise of rights as demonstrative of consummate freedom. Instead, this article shows that even when positive law and judicial rulings were used to deconstruct the peculiar institution, slavery, as a legal construct, could not be fully demolished. Judges and freedpeople alike were left to face troubling legacies for which there was no remedy. No performance of legal acrobatics could alter, undo, or fully resolve the myriad ways slavery continued to affect many former slaves and influence the direction of their free lives. Abolition would remain incomplete.

Malka presents convincing evidence in support of the claim that the rabbinic list is not indigenous but borrowed from the Roman legal institution of infamia, which was also attached to certain professions and also deprived persons of their eligibility for testimony. More important, she shows that this structural parallel is bolstered by a deeper conceptual parallel, for underlying both the rabbinic and the Roman disqualification is a wider Greco-Roman discourse on self-control (with Plutarch providing a four-fold list parallel to the tannaitic list in substance).

This symposium essay contends that the image of the common law drawn by the Supreme Court in the Confrontation Clause context is both distorted and incomplete. In particular, the Court and scholars defending originalist positions rely almost entirely on English sources in their reconstruction of the common law basis for the Confrontation Clause, thereby neglecting the diversity of American common laws from the time of the Founding, a diversity that has already been unearthed by a number of legal historians. By drawing on hitherto untapped sources to furnish a bottom-up reconstruction of how testimony was treated in local criminal courts within mid- to late-eighteenth-century New Jersey, this essay demonstrates that, in at least some jurisdictions, the originalist vision of common law did not apply. The common law cannot, therefore, furnish a univocal answer to questions about the original meaning of the Confrontation Clause.

This article argues that the juror franchise became more restrictive in the years immediately after the Sex Disqualification (Removal) Act 1919 had broadened the jury franchise so as to include some women. It argues that the subsequent restrictions on the jury franchise have not standardly been discussed in the literature on the twentieth century jury because of the lengths taken at the time to present these reforms as merely technical in nature. Only six months after the 1919 Act was passed, a dispute broke out at the Western assize circuit regarding the practice–apparently sanctioned in the Juries Act 1825–of towns which “possessed” their own assizes summoning jurors according to custom, rather than statute. In practice, this meant that the ten “assize boroughs” had not always observed the property qualifications when summoning their jurors. The judiciary eventually prevailed over the Home Office and a series of local officials, ending the assize boroughs' ability to ignore the property qualifications (which kept a disproportionate number of women off the jury). This reform brought its own problems, however, and brought into focus the expense involved in following the burdensome rules for identifying jurors as set out in the 1825 Act. The solution–basing juror qualification on electoral registration–excluded from jury service conscientious objectors, foreigners, and women who satisfied the property qualification rules but lived elsewhere with a male relative.

In 1816, the mostly-American crew of a slaving brig bound from Cuba staged a mutiny before reaching West Africa, and then sailed on (without a captive cargo) to the antislavery republic of Haiti. Their voyage culminated in a remarkable prize case before the admiralty court at Port-au-Prince. The sailors claimed indignation at the “diabolical” slave trade, hoping to win profits from the condemnation of the vessel and to avoid future prosecution for enlisting in a slaving voyage that was illegal under U.S. federal law. Haitian prosecutors invoked the agreements of the Congress of Vienna, arguing that the trade had been prohibited by the laws of nations. It fell to the admiralty court to reconcile such aspirational claims with Haiti's ongoing struggle for political survival. The brig's journey between the United States, Cuba, Spanish Florida, Cape Verde, and finally Haiti reveals the ways in which slave traders calculated the relative risks of legal penalties against the possible gains from the trade. The records of the adjudication of the case show how Haitian officials developed their own legal strategies for the suppression of the trade, laying the foundations for an escalating campaign to police slaving traffic off of their shores.

Although constitutional originalism has attracted a remarkable degree of public and professional attention over the past several decades, little research has been conducted on the intellectual roots of modern originalism. This Article finds that American law schools housed few originalist theorists through much of the 1970s and early 1980s. However, after Edwin Meese III became U.S. Attorney General in 1985, the Department of Justice constructed a vibrant academy in exile, with government lawyers leading the way in the early development, theorization, and exercise of originalism. In addition to becoming the official mode of constitutional interpretation for Meese and the DOJ, originalism started to gain followers on the federal bench and within conservative social movements during the second half of the 1980s. As constitutional originalism grew in influence and professional use, academic interlocutors began engaging with and reimagining originalism more intently.

Eugenius Aristides Nisbet played a critical role in Georgia's secession from the United States. Elected as a delegate to Georgia's 1861 secession convention, Nisbet introduced a resolution in favor of severing ties with the Union, and he led the committee that drafted his state's secession ordinance. Nisbet was a trained lawyer who had served on the Georgia Supreme Court, and his legal training shaped the way that he viewed secession. He believed that the Constitution did not give states the right to dissolve the Union; instead, this power rested solely in the people, and he framed the resolution and ordinance accordingly. Thanks in part to Nisbet, it was the “people of the State of Georgia” who “repealed, rescinded and abrogated” their ratification of the Constitution in 1788.

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.

Originalism has long been criticized for its “law office history” and other historical sins. But a recent “positive turn” in originalist thought may help make peace between history and law. On this theory, originalism is best understood as a claim about our modern law--which borrows many of its rules, constitutional or otherwise, from the law of the past. Our law happens to be the Founders' law, unless lawfully changed. This theory has three important implications for the role of history in law. First, whether and how past law matters today is a question of current law, not of history. Second, applying that current law may often require deference to historical expertise, but for a more limited inquiry: one that looks specifically at legal doctrines and instruments, interprets those instruments in artificial ways, and makes use of evidentiary principles and default rules when the history is obscure. Third, ordinary legal reasoning already involves the application of old law to new facts, an inquiry that might otherwise seem daunting or anachronistic. Applying yesterday's “no vehicles in the park” ordinance is no less fraught--and no more so--than applying Founding-era legal doctrines.

This article explores the legal and judicial vulnerability of male youth in Buenos Aires, Argentina between 1853 and 1912, years that correspond to the codification of criminal law and the passage of the first age of consent laws. Using 65 sodomy and rape cases, it traces the courts' changing treatment of males who suffered sexual assault. It argues that a traditional revulsion of sodomy, a cultural preoccupation with female sexuality, official concern with the social order, and the preoccupations of classical and positivist criminologists ensured the liminality of male youth in both the law and the courts. Judicial authorities only started to regard prepubescent boys as innocent in the first decade of the twentieth century. By highlighting how age, innocence and gender were only mutually constituted in the twentieth century, this article makes a significant contribution to literature on the emergence of modern notions of childhood and innocence. Historians have shown how categories such as class, ethnicity, filiation and natal status worked to include or exclude certain groups from this classification in modern Latin America, this work reveals how central both age and gender norms and expectations were to the belated integration of boys.

After WWII, a new form of Europeanism emerged in legal history that gained momentum from European unification. This article explores the emergence of this new narrative as part of the process of exile from totalitarianism and its connection with the reestablishment of the European intellectual and political order after the war. The purpose is to explore the parallel afterwar processes of narrative and normative change and the influences and connections between them. It focuses on a specific historical case, the turn toward Europe, its legal heritage and human rights in the post-war era writing of legal history, especially in the writings of Paul Koschaker, Franz Wieacker, and Helmut Coing, and its linkages to the simultaneous process of European integration. It explores a new argument about the interlinkage between narrativity and normativity as cognitive processes that rely on the creation and sustaining of belief, and the ideas of legitimacy and identity construction.

Moving beyond the current flaws in originalism will require developing a genuinely historical approach to reading Founding era texts that draws on the best inter-disciplinary methods available. Reading legal texts historically will require originalism adopt standard historical practices, not reject them. Scholars must get the history right before deciding if any of the historical meanings recoverable from a careful study of the original debate over the Constitution might be relevant to modern law. Determining which meanings might be probative or dispositive for modern legal issues is a separate task from the process of uncovering the legal meaning of Founding era constitutional texts. Deciding what, if any relevance, such historical meaning ought to have in contemporary law is at its core a legal question, and not one that history can answer. Still, if legal scholars are going to cite history as authority, they have an obligation to get the history right.

The first part of the article presents a six-tiered typology of conventional approaches to historical periodization in international law. The “hegemonic” approach, the “Eurocentric universalist” approach, the “state-centric” approach, the “intellectual doctrinal” approach, the “institutional” approach, and the “normative” approach to the question of periodization of the history of international law are surveyed in turn in the light of contemporary literature. The second part examines how in the wake of the recent “historical turn” in international law a new critical historiographical wave has problematized the question of periodization because of the homogenizing effects and the “teleology of progress” to which periodization is interpreted to contribute in international legal history. The third part tackles the notion of “alternative periodization” illustrating, with examples from contemporary literature in the history of international law, its value as a launching pad for the “formation of new, formerly unknown periods,” a task that is considered “an essential part of historiographical innovation.” The conclusion elaborates on the heuristic potential of a multiperspectival approach to the study of periodization in the history of international law.

There is a sharp separation between the scholarly literature of originalists and professional historians. Originalists cite one another, but regularly ignore recent work by historians. Historians are generally happy to return the favor. Engagement between the two communities is too often limited to methodological disputes and amicus briefs. As a result, historical inquiry offers less to constitutional law than it might, and constitutional lawyers offer less to history than they could. Some of this separation is due to unavoidable methodological tension, but those tensions have not always frustrated productive dialogue. Originalism, in fact, emerged as an important theory of constitutional interpretation because of developments in professional historiography. Post-Revisionist approaches to the historiography of Reconstruction inspired and legitimated the book that set originalism on its current trajectory: Raoul Berger's Government by Judiciary. The revolution in the historiography of the founding embodied in Gordon Wood's Creation of the American Republic offered originalists other opportunities. It was not methodological disagreements but technological, institutional, and disciplinary developments since the 1980s that separated history and originalism. Those trends have mostly accelerated in the twenty-first century, but the role historians played in creating originalism suggests opportunities for productive dialogue still exist and should be pursued.