Over thirty years ago Douglas Hay began his influential essay, “Property, Authority and the Criminal Law,” with the unsettling claim that “the rulers of eighteenth-century England cherished the death sentence.” He went on to offer a major reinterpretation of eighteenth-century justice, one with wide-ranging implications for how we understand English society in that period. The gallows, Hay argues, was meant to inspire terror. The passage of a large number of capital statutes spoke of the resolve of the ruling class to defend its property with the most extreme of measures. Yet the ultimate sanction was used sparingly. Hay's most important insight was to note the role of discretion in the operation of eighteenth-century justice. The choice not to impose death was as important as the occasions when offenders died. The elite deftly exploited these opportunities. The mercy dispensed by the Crown not only presented a more benign image of authority, it also taught the lessons of patronage and deference that instructed the lower orders in the proper attitude to take toward their social superiors. Thus justice worked more powerfully than religion to create legitimacy for the existing order.

This article revisits the debates on the question of slave marriage that were carried on for roughly two centuries, both back and forth across the Atlantic and on the local terrain of the British West Indian plantation colonies. These debates came into critical focus during the fifty-year showdown over “amelioration,” which ended—though only in a manner of speaking—with the British Abolition Act of 1833. For a long time the lines were starkly drawn, but, in the context of laissez-faire political imperium or “indirect rule,” seldom tested. The metropolitan authorities felt some obligation to uphold the grand moral and civilizational integrity of the as-yet imperfectly imagined British Empire, as well as of Western Christendom. They, therefore, were inclined to see the slave as a species of imperial subject, still vaguely conceived within the emerging terms of reference of their global trusteeship and presumptive legal jurisdiction. They felt that, to honor the dignity of the latter, and sustain and nurture its moral legitimacy, the slaves—their subjects, ultimately—should be encouraged to marry, and their marriages should be formally marked, if only symbolically or by summary Christian rite. The planters, for their part, were unshaken in their certitude that the slaves were a species of property, their property no less, and that the idea of any kind of formal marriage among them was preposterous, a great impertinence, an attack on their authority and rights of property, a threat to public safety, and a dangerous intrusion upon the sacrosanctity of European racial exclusivity and superiority.

The history of race in the nineteenth-century United States is often told as a story of black and white in the South, and white and Indian in the West, with little attention to the intersection between black and Indian. This article explores the history of nineteenth-century America's “little races”—racially ambiguous communities of African, Indian, and European origin up and down the eastern seaboard. These communities came under increasing pressure in the years leading up to the Civil War and in its aftermath to fall on one side or the other of a black-white color line. Drawing on trial records of cases litigating the racial identity of the Melungeons of Tennessee, the Croatans/Lumbee of North Carolina, and the Narragansett of Rhode Island, this article looks at the differing paths these three groups took in the face of Jim Crow: the Melungeons claiming whiteness; the Croatans/Lumbee asserting Indian identity and rejecting association with blacks; the Narragansett asserting Indian identity without rejecting their African origins. Members of these communities found that they could achieve full citizenship in the U.S. polity only to the extent that they abandoned their self-governance and distanced themselves from people of African descent.

The writs of entry are of interest chiefly because they offer an example of how, in the first century of its history, the common law grew by the creation of new writs. The first writs of entry were among the earliest writs to be invented after the legal reforms of Henry II. Further writs of entry were created after 1217. The distinctive feature of a writ of entry was that it challenged what plaintiff thought was the basis of defendant's claim to the land in dispute. A writ of entry alleged that defendant “had no entry” into the land other than by a transaction or taking that did not authorize him to hold the land.

John Fielding succeeded his half-brother, the novelist Henry Fielding, as the leading magistrate in Westminster in 1754 in the midst of a crime wave in London. Over the previous six years, since the peace that had brought the war of Austrian Succession to an end, frequent reports of highway robberies around London and muggings on the streets of the capital had provided constant reminders, along with the high levels of executions at Tyburn, of the depth and seriousness of the crisis. Substantial rewards for the prosecution and conviction of robbers had failed to stem the tide. Nor had new legislation, deriving from the first enquiry ever held by a parliamentary committee into the problem of crime, diminished the danger on the streets. By the fall of 1753, with crime still apparently at an alarming height and a winter approaching that could only make things worse, the central government was ready to try new measures. It was in these circumstances that the Duke of Newcastle, the secretary of state, asked Henry Fielding to suggest what might be done.

In her work on the bourgeois male of the nineteenth century, Carol E. Harrison argues that “Although French law made no distinction between male and female associations, administrative practice ignored women in groups.” Most historians accept this point of view—that French administrators generally ignored the associational activities of women, and, indeed, most female groups appear to have garnered little notice from authorities. While Annie Grange suggests that this may be because so few female as-sociations existed throughout much of the nineteenth century, Catherine Duprat has uncovered numerous female societies, especially sociétés de bienfaisance, many of which received more generous treatment from municipal and national officials than their male counterparts. However, she suggests that their official “silence”–the absence of general assemblies and frequent publications, as well as their careful cultivation of the traditional, non-threatening image of dames de charité—kept these associations largely out of public view. Furthermore, for the most part, those female associations that did exist lacked visible political and financial clout.

Over the last few decades, scholarship on early medieval conflict has been driven and shaped by the kinds of sources that scholars have used. The different source genres offer their own characteristic pictures of the ways that people processed disputes in the early Middle Ages. Narrative sources, for example, such as chronicles or saints' lives, tend in the process of achieving their narrative orhagiographic goals to highlight violence, extra-judicial settlement, and the ritual or symbolic expression of disputes and disputeresolution. Normative sources, such as law codes or royal legislation (for example, the capitularies issued by Carolingian kings), naturally emphasize institutional tools for handling conflict, such as formal judicial assemblies and judicial procedures, royal judicial officials, and laws. Archival sources from the period consist primarily of charters, that is, records of rights or privilege ranging from diplomas issued by kings and emperors to the property records of churches andmonasteries. These tend to blend the images produced by the first two source genres. Often they record the formal resolution of propertydisputes in judicial assemblies headed by kings, counts, or their representatives; often they refer to laws or imply that the cases theydeal with were covered by some generally recognized set of norms. Charters also, however, provide a great deal of evidence for extra-judicial negotiation and settlement, as well as for ritual and public symbolic communication as a part of dispute processing.

Three decades ago, John Langbein published an influential book on medieval and early modern judicial torture. Before Langbein, Enlightenment philosophers such as Beccaria and Voltaire had traditionally been credited with the final abolition of judicial torture in the leading European states during the latter part of the eighteenth century. Langbein dismissed the traditional explanation as a “fairy tale,” claiming that the use of torture had in fact declined in major European countries since the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, well before its formal abolition. In the medieval statutory or Roman-canon theory of proof, judicial torture was originally designed to produce confessions in cases of serious crime in which “full proof” in the form of confession or two eyewitnesses was needed to convict. The argument that Langbein advanced is that the emerging new modes of punishment for serious crime, such as forced labor, transportation, and imprisonment, enabled European criminal courts to take full advantage of the medieval legal institution of extraordinary punishment, poena extraordinaria, which could be imposed without confession if the evidence was otherwise convincing. Extraordinary punishment was by definition something else than the ordinary punishment, usually less than capital punishment. In practice this meant milder punishment on less evidence. Langbein's pivotal point is that the rise of the extraordinary punishment rendered torture unnecessary in many cases, although it still remained legal. Causing a revolution in the law of proof, free judicial evaluation of evidence thus in fact developed alongside the old statutory theory of proof, which now lost its monopoly.

Shortly after two o'clock on the afternoon of Saturday, 19 September 1789, the last act of the sessions at Justice Hall in the Old Bailey began. London's accused capital offenders were tried here eight times yearly. Those who were convicted and received sentence of death or transportation remained in nearby Newgate Prison until their sentences could be carried into execution. So, too, did the capital respites: those convicts who were to be spared execution but who would not actually be pardoned until the Recorder of London, the chief sentencing officer at the Old Bailey, had decided what condition should be imposed. The vast majority of pardoned capital respites were transported to New South Wales. Before that condition of pardon could be put into effect, however, the respites had first to be brought back into the court at the end of another sessions in order to be formally notified, and to signal their acceptance, of the condition of their pardon—that is, to “plead their pardon” at the bar of the court. Although it is unclear from the sources whether or not the respites were still obliged, as they had been down to the 1690s at least, to present the most overt symbol of deference—kneeling while pleading their pardon—the symbolic significance of this procedure seems still to have been thought important, even if it had become largely a formality.

During the first decade of his tenure as dean of Harvard Law School (HLS) from 1870 to 1895, Christopher C. Langdell (1826–1906) produced closely related works on contracts and sales that exercised great influence pedagogically and jurisprudentially. Pedagogically, the casebooks on contracts and sales introduced case method teaching into American legal education. In jurisprudential terms, these works placed Langdell with Frederick Pollock and William R. Anson in England and Oliver W. Holmes, Jr., in the United States, as the leading theorists of contract during its “golden age” of “overwhelming predominance” in Anglo-American law.

In his inaugural lecture as Downing Professor of the Laws of England at the University of Cambridge, delivered in October 1888, Frederic Maitland offered a set of provocative and now familiar reflections on “Why the history of English law is not written.” According to Maitland, although English archives possessed “a series of records which for continuity, catholicity, minute detail[,] and authoritative value” had “no equal…in the world,” the “unmanageable bulk” of these sources had “overburdened” aspiring historians of English law. As a result, “large provinces” of English legal history remained to be “reclaimed from the waste.” With few willing to undertake such reclamation efforts, the historiography of English law remained as bleak and barren as the bogs from which Maitland's Cambridgeshire had itself only reluctantly emerged.

On April 19, 1775, the town of Concord, Massachusetts was the scene of an interesting confrontation. After the militia of Concord and the surrounding towns had driven the British back from the North Bridge, some of the militiamen began to disperse. The wife of Nathan Barrett, captain of one of Concord's militia companies, spotted one of her husband's men skedaddling home. She went out of her house to confront him, and when he explained that he was feeling ill, she responded that he must not take his gun with him. When he replied simply, “Yes, I shall,” she exclaimed, “No, stop, I must have it.” The militiaman refused and began to walk off. Mrs. Barrett gave chase, but her quarry was too quick.

Just as Virgil linked “arms and the man” in his epic history of Rome's origins, Americans have linked the bearing of arms with their own national origins. Regardless of other uses to which his image has been put, the Minuteman who stands guard at Concord reminds us that he stood his ground in 1775 to stop British regulars from seizing assembled weapons at Concord and disarming the Middlesex County militia. Robert Churchill provides us with an entertaining anecdote of a young man to illustrate his claim that such men actually believed that they were protecting their personal right to keep and bear arms. Asserting that he had become ill, the militiaman was “skedaddling home” after his company's engagement with British regulars at Concord in 1775. Though his captain's wife told him that “you must not take your gun with you,” he retorted, “Yes, I shall.” His refusal to yield his gun, explains Churchill, “transcended its importance in allowing him to meet his communal obligation. The gun was his, and he believed he had a right to keep it.” But this anecdote, though charming, demands closer examination. Like much in Churchill's essay, it reveals that items or statements taken out of context can be misinterpreted and misleading.