Historians of Latin American slavery will find de la Fuente's article to be a particularly trenchant and learned essay on familiar historiographic controversies. The archival research awakens anticipation for the author's in-depth study of the earlier period of Cuban slavery, much neglected in favor of the heyday of the sugar complex of the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Concentrating on the law and “slaves' claims-making” (341) allows for an important entry into the subject, complementing recent studies of slavery in Spanish America that have focused on how slaves used the institutions of Spanish colonialism to gain freedom or greater autonomy. However, reviving the Tannenbaum thesis, even in the limited form of the law, inspires less enthusiasm. De la Fuente's interpretation of Cuban slavery, through his rereading of Tannenbuam, does not produce misrepresentations in his treatment of historiography or sources; rather, I sense in this work the static conception of New World slavery created by Tannenbaum's dichotomous vision, both among and within particular colonial and national slave societies.

I have come to learn that unless one does it in unabashedly critical terms, including “slavery” and “Tannenbaum” in the same sentence is an intellectual exercise fraught with perils. The sole mention of Tannenbaum elicits images of benevolent Spanish and Portuguese masters in contrast to cruel Anglo-Saxon slaveowners, or of rigid dichotomies between racist North America and racially harmonious Latin America. These images clearly influence the comments of my critics, even though they have limited relevance for the central arguments of my article.

As both James Oldham and Joshua Getzler show in their perceptive and helpful comments, much work remains to be done on the history of both the nineteenth-century Chancery and the wider law reform movement. My discussion of the inconclusive nature of the political debate about Eldon's arrears leads Oldham to ask whether the Chancellor was really overburdened and whether the appointment of the Vice Chancellor was as counterproductive as many contemporaries claimed. On the first of these issues, the data show that while Eldon was in general able to deal with the caseload before him, it was in the 1810s—when “by a series of most important decisions, [he] systematized the law of bankruptcy”—that a dramatic arrear in appeals developed (see Figure 5), which contributed to the political pressure on him in the following decade. Oldham shows from a survey of his notebooks that Eldon heard roughly fifty cases a year from 1801–13; while according to official returns, in the 1820s, he heard more than forty appeals each year. But between 1813 and 1819, the number fell to about twelve cases a year. On the second issue, the data show that the creation of a Vice Chancellor did have an impact, but a relatively modest one. Lacking the distractions of the Great Seal, he could hear more original business; and cases set down and heard in Chancery increased by about 40 percent in the decade and a half after his appointment. While the number of appeals also increased, both numerically and proportionally, they remained at manageable levels.

I am glad that the Review has provided a Forum for advancing discussion of the “rapidly evolving field of Second Amendment scholarship,” as Richard Uviller and William Merkel so aptly describe it. The field is evolving so rapidly, in fact, that I had no chance to consult their excellent book on the subject when writing this article. Having now had the luxury—and great benefit—of reading it in preparing my reply to their comments, I can only cheer them on for the way that book and their remarks in the Forum advance the common goals we seek: to replace an ahistorical quotation-hunting with a meticulous examination of “the collateral expressions of the founders and their contemporaries to find the most likely purposes and assumptions underlying the text” of the Second Amendment.

The attitudes of medieval people toward Sundays and Holy Days have always been of interest to historians. They have been studied from at least five different perspectives. Max Levy, for instance, explained how Sunday developed from a day that commemorated Christ's resurrection, but was originally a working day (dies dominica), to a day of worship, contemplation, and rest. Initially no (servile) work was allowed, but exceptions were accepted because of necessity, like harvest work, or because of good intentions, like concern for the common good or for a pious cause. Others looked at the stance of the Church, analyzing the protests against the non-observance of Holy Days as well as the objections raised to the observance of Holy Days from the clergy or from laymen, or concentrated mainly on the work ban and its implications for working life in the Middle Ages. Willard and Haskett studied the observance of Sundays and Holy Days in government departments like the Lower Exchequer or the Chancery to see to what extent the working of the English government was affected. Legal historians, however, have not shown much interest in how the courts observed Sundays and Holy Days, mainly because everything seemed to have been settled since the late thirteenth century. Paul Brand recently stated that it had “clearly become the general practice by the second half of the reign of Edward I for the Common Bench and King's Bench not to sit on Sundays,” or on All Saints Day (1 November), All Souls Day (2 November), the feast of the Purification (2 February), Ascensiontide, and the feast of the Nativity of St. John the Baptist (24 June), all of which fell within term time.

In 1850, William Carpenter, a reform-minded journalist, called the court of Chancery “an instrument of oppression” and noted that “[t]he madhouses, the workhouses, and the gaols, in all parts of the kingdom, have within their walls the melancholy and heart-broken victims of the evil it does.” The image of the nineteenth-century Chancery as a ruinously expensive and slow court is familiar and was given its most famous expression in Charles Dickens's Bleak House. Yet the court was also a prime focus of attention for law reformers throughout the nineteenth century, until its incorporation into the Supreme Court of Judicature in the reforms of 1873–75. The process of reform was slow and complex, driven at different times by different parties, who had often divergent notions of the problems to be addressed.