In the autumn and winter of 1648, England descended into a domestic political crisis unparalleled at any time in the country's history before or since. At Newport on the Isle of Wight, representatives from both Houses of Parliament straggled to conclude a treaty with their king that would end years of civil war and restore some semblance of political order. But many Englishmen trembled to contemplate the consequences of negotiated settlement with a man who had caused so much chaos and bloodshed, who had contrived the violent incursion of a Scottish army onto English soil in the summer of 1648, and even now continued to pin his hopes on an invasion of Catholic forces from Ireland. The officers and men of the New Model Army and their radical supporters in the country at large called for an end to negotiations. They also demanded retributive justice on all those, “from the highest to the lowest,” who had almost drowned the nation in innocent blood, lest they seize the opportunity to finish the job. When the army placed the king himself under physical restraint, MPs proceeded regardless to declare themselves satisfied that the search for peaceful settlement ought to continue. The army now purged the House of Commons of the supporters of the Newport treaty. Many of its officers were eager enough to reach some kind of an understanding with the king themselves, but rather than negotiate, they preferred to dictate terms. When the king refused those that the earl of Denbigh purportedly took to him at Windsor Castle late in December 1648, the officers and their allies in the Rump House of Commons prepared to put Charles on trial instead. Justice would at last be done, and it would be seen to be done.

Social and legal historians have long been attracted to well-publicized court cases as primary sources for illustrating the feelings and attitudes of particular historical settings. Such cases are frequently extensively documented, and the detail of their reporting often seems to provide unique insight into the thoughts, attitudes, and even the speech of a past not otherwise accessible. Use of the “famous case” as an image of its time is tempting and can be rewarding if its limitations are recognized. By definition, the “famous case” involves extraordinary events and/or extraordinary personages. Cases of this nature cannot therefore be taken as representative of all that they portray.

Recent scholarship on law and norms has emphasized that important social values are at work in the law. But nothing could prepare us for the “Red Ink Case.” Decided by an eighteenth-century French merchant court, the suit was brought by a young woman driven by poverty to prostitute herself in return for a bill of exchange, written with her lover's blood. When the person on whom the bill was drawn refused to accept it for payment, the women sued her lover, demanding that he honor it instead. Although the applicable law required the defendant to pay the bill, the merchant-court judge declined to enforce payment on the ground that “humanity is the primary law.” Instead, the judge ordered the defendant to marry the plaintiff and thereby restore the virtue he had taken. With virtue thus saved, “[t]hese poor children withdrew satisfied.”

What are we to make of this case? It appears in Le négotiant patriote, an account of Old Regime commercial life and merchant-court practice penned by a successful eighteenth-century merchant named Bedos, who claimed to have served as a merchant-court judge and president of a chamber of commerce. Although Bedos' depiction of the Red Ink Case may well be exaggerated, his professional experience suggests that it must be taken seriously—if only as an expression of what contemporary merchants believed merchant-court litigation should be like. Yet, as familiar as we have become with the notion that law shapes and expresses social values, the case remains puzzling. What commercial interests are served, we might ask, by enforcing norms of sexual virtue? And how does a court order of marriage promote the transactional efficiency that bills of exchange, as a defining feature of merchant-court jurisprudence, were presumably intended to facilitate?

By examining the workings of a merchant-run court in eighteenth-century Paris, this article seeks to make sense of the Red Ink Case and its place in merchant-court jurisprudence.

The present essay seeks to work at the intersection of law and history, a meeting point where interpretation of the Second Amendment has been more characterized by collision than confluence. Analysis brought to bear on the historical meaning of “the right of the people to keep and bear arms” has coalesced around two competing normative interpretations: either that the amendment guarantees a personal, individual right to bear arms, or that it applies only collectively to the effectiveness of the militia. It is a premise of this essay that both these models are historically unsatisfactory, the products of present-day normative agendas that have polarized the debate into two competing and largely ahistorical models—a type of historians' fallacy that David Hackett Fischer has labeled the “fallacy of false dichotomous questions.” Fischer's description aptly describes the current controversy over the historical meaning of the Second Amendment: in addition to being “grossly anachronistic,” its two opposing positions “are mutually exclusive, and collectively exhaustive, so that the there is no overlap, no opening in the middle, and nothing is omitted at either end.” It is not without challenge on just these grounds, however, as a recent call for a “new more sophisticated paradigm” attests. This essay seeks to provide that new model and to do so by grounding the “right of the people to keep and bear arms” in eighteenth-century concepts of rights, not those of the twenty-first century, and to contextualize the right to bear arms in an eighteenth-century political struggle now largely ignored but well known to constitutional polemicists framing the Constitution and the Bill of Rights: Parliament's rebuilding of an English militia while denying the Scots the right to do so, despite Scotland's history and its claimed constitutional rights according to its coequal status in Great Britain. That struggle nevertheless remains a missing context that prefigured American debates over constituting and guaranteeing local militias in the coequal states of the federal union established by the United States Constitution in 1787 and 1788. Once the time came for seeking a written guarantee of local militia effectiveness in the federal Constitution, the language and substance of this transatlantic legacy had great influence. As experience, they gave political urgency to the drafting and ratification of the Second Amendment; as a theory of rights, they embodied an eighteenth-century individual right exercised collectively.

Second Amendment scholarship has become mired in an intellectual quagmire. Contemporary debate over this provision of the Bill of Rights has been cast in terms of a simple dichotomy: either the Second Amendment protects an expansive individual right similar in nature to freedom of the press or it protects a narrow right of the states to maintain a well-regulated militia. Partisans of the individual rights view argue that the Second Amendment was designed to affirm a basic individual right to own firearms for hunting, recreation, and personal protection. The other view of the amendment, often described as the collective rights view, argues that the amendment was about the allocation of military power in the federal system. According to this view, the Second Amendment was a modest concession to moderate Antifederalists who feared the power of the new federal government. By affirming the right of the people to bear arms as part of a well-regulated militia, Federalists assuaged lingering Antifederalist qualms about the future of the state militias.

David Konig has written an important article that makes a welcome contribution to the rapidly evolving field of Second Amendment scholarship. In the essay that forms the focal piece of this forum, Konig argues that two rival, hotly contested interpretations of the Second Amendment fail to recapture the original meaning of the constitutional right to keep and bear arms. To Konig, neither the individual rights nor the states' rights model of the Second Amendment accurately reflects the conceptual universe shared by the drafters and ratifiers of the Bill of Rights. Neither model (and particularly not the individual rights model), Konig maintains, would have made sense to the persons who left behind a now familiar and much-discussed documentary record related to the call for amendments to the Constitution in 1788, the drafting of the Bill of Rights in 1789, and its ratification in 1791.

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.