Like revolutionaries throughout the modern world, Americans built a new, stable legal order on property confiscated from their enemies. Early in the American War for Independence, colonial governments collapsed, British courts closed, and ordinary people took the law into their own hands. They created committees that enforced harsh, revolutionary justice. But remarkably, by the end of the War, they were able to develop the stable legal institutions of new governments.

The scholarly debate over the meaning of the Second Amendment and the scope of gun regulation has been marred by ideological distortions. Michael Bellesiles, an ardent supporter of collective rights theory, argued that state control over weapons was virtually unlimited. Now Robert Churchill, a champion of individual rights theory, stakes out an equally bold position. In his view, a distinct and separate right to keep arms evolved under American law. According to this new variant of individual rights theory, the state might regulate bearing arms, but it was prohibited from regulating the right to keep arms.

In eighteenth-century, colonial Sri Lanka, the Dutch church kept extensive registers of the local population. These “school thombos” contain individual registration of baptism, marriage, school attendance and death. This article argues that the school thombos reveal moral control over family life by the Dutch East India Company and the Dutch Reformed Church, while offering locals a legal and religious identity to employ in negotiating the Dutch colonial bureaucracy. These rarely studied registers shed new light on Sri Lankan family history and the practices of Dutch colonialism. What do they tell us about conjunctures of locals with colonial religion in eighteenth-century Sri Lanka? The school thombo was an instrument used to register and regulate family life, with specific functions and uses by different actors. This article explores the format, objectives and use of the school thombo. Why was the school thombo created and who were registered in these sources? What were the micro practices of drawing up the school thombo? The article is supported by several case studies that illustrate how the school thombo found its way into family life while demonstrating the value of written identities.

The United States Constitution established a federal system, not a national government. States continued necessarily and by design as active and important centers of governmental activity. States were institutions of inherent authority, while the federal government by original intent and then explicitly by amendment, was a government of only delegated powers. Since the federal government derived its power directly from the people and acted directly on individuals, it was decisively more powerful than the pre-Constitution Confederation. But the Bill of Rights itself is evidence of the continued worry, pervasive until modified by the Reconstruction Amendments, that the federal government might, but should not, overwhelm the states.

The legal treatise called Glanvill is proof that by the end of Henry II's reign men capable of shaping the custom of the English curia regis into a systematic law book were present at Westminster. Glanvill is “the first textbook of the English common law.” This treatise was written near the end of Henry II's reign and since the thirteenth century, it has borne the name of his justiciar, Ranulf de Glanvill, although not many scholars today accept his authorship. Why, then, should we raise once more the question: Who was the author of Glanvill? It remains a valid question because it affords an opportunity for reflection on questions concerning schools, learning, and twelfth-century English society. It forces us to consider the connections among the emerging English common law, the schools, the Scholastic method, and the study of Roman and canon law. It requires us to consider the contributions of Roman and eccesiastical law to Henry II's legal reforms.

The paper addresses the perpetual discontent evoked by the concept of legal pluralism, one which, in turn, brings about incessant efforts to “rethink” it. We suggest that one of the sources of this discontent is the erroneous view that legal pluralism is a theory, and the consequent misguided expectations that it should provide scholars of law and society with causal hypotheses and explanations. We argue that legal pluralism is not a theory but a research perspective, and, as such, is not meant to provide us with explanatory propositions, but rather to increase our awareness of the plurality and inter-relationality of socio-legal spheres and of the implications thereof. We further identify—and briefly discuss—the four core principles of a pluri-legal perspective: plurality, relationality, power, and agency. Taken together, these four premises constitute a manifesto of sorts for a pluri-legal perspective.

In 1893, legislation in the Cape Colony raised the age of consent to sexual intercourse from twelve to fourteen. Only twelve years later, however, did colonial administrators extend the law to the predominantly African districts in the eastern region of the colony. A reconstruction of the political debates surrounding the law, and its eventual extension, illuminates the relationship between understandings of childhood and race in the Cape. By the late 19th century, the comparison of Africans to children had become the governing metaphor for the “native question”; but this metaphor contained fundamental ambiguities. Debates over the age of consent forced Cape politicians to confront the racial and chronological boundaries of childhood innocence, and thus to articulate more precise theories of racial difference itself. Rural elites upheld a vision of hierarchy calibrated by wealth and social knowledge as well as race. Reformers sought to protect the innocence of white girls, in part to defend against racial degeneration, but disagreed over the inclusion of black girls. Meanwhile, even liberal social purity advocates hesitated to extend the law to the eastern districts, where “native law and custom” seemed not only to offer more protection but also to undermine claims of European superiority.

In an obscure aside, the well-known English working-class radical, Francis Place, remarked in his Autobiography that even when “in deepest poverty” he had tried to serve other artisans. Some he had helped to train up as small masters or foremen while others he aided by working to settle their problems and disputes. “I had many matters brought to me for adjudication, arbitration or arrangement,” he wrote. “I hardly know the time when for three months together I have been free from this kind of interference.” Most matters it seems had to do with debtors and their creditors, but others appear to have concerned the settlement of estates or even affairs “related to an association or large body of men.” While he may have been justly proud of his service to the working-class community, Place's comment provides an insight into working-class life that is rarely glimpsed. He did not choose the word arbitration accidentally. By the nineteenth century, life and work in England had been penetrated by forms of dispute resolution that were meant to secure “order without law.”

Many legal scholars consider the colonial period irrelevant to the subsequent history of American law. In 1936 Roscoe Pound defined the ‘formative era’ in American law as the post-revolutionary era, and legal historians have been bound by that periodization ever since. More recently, Grant Gilmore, in his book The Ages of American Law, began his first age, the ‘age of discovery’, at approximately 1800; Gilmore claimed that American lawyers had the opportunity at that time to create an American law essentially from scratch. Morton J. Horwitz further strengthened the reigning assumptions regarding the unimportance of the legal history of colonial America in his influential book The Transformation of American Law 1780–1860. In Horwitz's view, what marks the American legal system is the instrumental use of law to promote social change, particularly to further commercial interests, and this aspect of the law did not exist until the early nineteenth century.

Michael Lobban shows how dissatisfaction with the law-equity split in English civil justice predated the Judicature Act reforms by two generations at least (one could argue two-and-a half centuries or more—periodization fails quickly). Lobban links the first modern debates over fusion to high legal politics on the one hand and to the more intricate internal problems of evidence, procedure, and jurisdiction on the other. Lawyers of the earlier Victorian age found the Chancery system bequeathed to them by Lord Eldon to be intolerable on two counts: it represented Old Corruption or monopolistic private control of public offices and it exacted heavy costs in procedural inconvenience, cost, and delay. Lobban does not see ideology such as Benthamite philosophy driving the rationalization of Chancery doctrine and institutions though he does not dismiss this factor entirely.

Cardin Le Bret, councillor of state during the ministry of Richelieu, is sufficiently distinguished to have merited two monographs in modern historiography. The basis of his renown is not his official deeds, however, but his political writings. Moreover, within the large corpus of those writings (630 folio pages, published three times), one treatise alone raises him from obscurity: De la Souveraineté du Roy, first published in 1632. And finally (to allot Le Bret the least that is due him), the fame of that treatise owes less to the perspicuity of its author than to the timeliness of its subject. It is one of the first comprehensive treatments of sovereignty to appear after Jean Bodin ‘invented’ that concept in his Six livres de la République (1576). Le Bret's treatise could thus provide important evidence of the status of ‘sovereignty’ in legal and political discourse two generations after Bodin.

In both the United States and Western Europe in the mid-nineteenth century, forensic physicians engaged in bitter jurisdictional disputes with members of well-established legal professions, within the context of long-standing judicial institutions. In Russia, by contrast, the emergent medical and legal professions—both critical of the autocracy and state institutions in which they worked—joined forces in their attempts to fundamentally transform the autocratic system and its judicial institutions, based on claims of technical and professional expertise. As such, the development of forensic-medical expertise took a path that differed from the Western model. In Russia, forensic physicians reacted to and influenced the evolution of bureaucratic state structures. Consequently, medical professionals sought to increase—rather than minimize—their role within the state's legal system in order to transform an otherwise arbitrary judicial process along the lines of “scientific rationality” and “objectivity.”

As a form of social control, undercover tactics played an important state-building role during the Nineteenth Century, in both the United States and France. Yet undercover policing played this role very differently in France than in the US, which made do with a less developed surveillance capacity at all levels of government. The instability of successive French regimes encouraged French political authorities to expand their use of infiltration and to privilege high policing purposes of undercover tactics over the crime-fighting purposes favored by local elites. And while nineteenth-century France, like the United States, often governed through delegations of authority to local elites, French authorities jealously guarded undercover tactics as their exclusive prerogative. As a result, undercover tactics became a marginal crime-fighting tactic in nineteenth century France, becoming identified primarily with the state's surveillance of its political opponents. In the United States, by contrast, the private sector was able to deploy undercover tactics against suspected criminals, organized labor, political radicals, and purveyors of vice. Though the private sector readily accepted delegations from the public sector, the direction of influence also ran in the opposite direction, from the private sector to the state, as American private sector used undercover tactics to replace, bypass, and harness state institutions in ways that their French counterparts could not. In the United States, the private sector's use of undercover tactics came to shape public policing, as prominent detectives entered government and brought their tactics with them, and as Progressive era reformers took up the undercover tactics pioneered by private detectives, modeled them for the state through public-private partnership, and used them to set the anti-corruption, anti-radical, and anti-vice enforcement agenda of government. If French undercover tactics helped to build the French state from the inside out, by consolidating the state's hold over territory and attempting to control disorder and dissent, American undercover tactics became a vector of private sector influence that helped build the state from the outside in by shaping both investigative means and ends at all levels of government.

In his 1950 movie Rashomon, the famed Japanese director Akira Kurosowa presented a tale of a deadly crime that took place in a grove, which was witnessed by four individuals. Each of these individuals then proceeded to report what they saw in mutually contradictory ways. The movie has since received the ultimate honor of having a phrase coined in popular culture to describe its central message. The “Rashomon effect” is used to describe those occasions when a single event is perceived in contradictory, although perhaps equally plausible, ways by the different witnesses on hand, telling us at least as much about the internal dynamics within the witnesses to the event as about the event itself.

This article examines the East India Company's Bengal Regulation 10 of 1804, a legal statute that enabled martial law to be enforced by the in British colonial India. The use made of this little studied yet significant emergency regulation, its perceived legal deficiencies, and in particular, the discord that arose between the military and civil authorities over how and who should be administer it will be discussed with reference to the promulgation of martial law by the British during the Cuttack Uprising of 1857, the Indian “Mutiny” or Revolt of 1857, and in response to the civil unrest in the Punjab during 1919. While martial law was itself ring fenced by legislation that determined the legal grounds for its inauguration and for its cessation, the implementation of martial law by the British military forces in India was marked by the absence of law.

Scholars have long asked to what extent there was a distinctive Puritan jurisprudence in seventeenth-century Massachusetts. Purita n jurisprudenceis a shorthand that refers to those elements of seventeenth-century Massachusetts's laws and institutions designed or selected because of the early colony's religious commitments. Among the fundamentals of Puritan jurisprudence were the integrated and determined use of legal and ecclesiastical institutions to foster a godly community, the importance of the Bible as a touchstone for the legitimacy of rules, and a constitutional order restricting colony-wide voting and political office to regenerate members of covenanted churches. Some historians speak of “Puritan justice” or “Puritan legal culture” rather than “Puritan jurisprudence.” Differing in detail and emphasis, these formulations point to a core idea animating much writing about early Massachusetts: that the colony lived by a legal order distinctive by the standards of contemporary England and her North American and Caribbean colonies and strongly shaped by Puritan religious commitments and social thought.

This article adds to the growing literature about how the Supreme Court's decisions in the Insular Cases affected the residents of the U.S. territories. It focuses on the territory of Guam, which lacked juries in both criminal and civil trials until 1956–nearly sixty years after the island became a U.S. possession. Residents of Puerto Rico, Hawaii, and the Virgin Islands had limited jury trials, but Guam was left out due to its strategic military significance as well as racialized ideas about the capabilities of Chamorros, the native inhabitants of the island. This article recovers the struggle by Guamanians to gain jury trials. It argues that independence movements, like those in the Philippines and Puerto Rico, were not the only forms of resistance to American empire. Through petitions, court challenges, and other forms of activism, Guamanians pushed for jury trials as a way to assert local agency and engage in participatory democracy. For them, the Insular Cases were not just abstract rulings about whether the Constitution followed the flag; they deeply affected the administration of justice on the ground for ordinary Guamanians.

In September 1939, Fiji's Legislative Council debated a testamentary disposition bill, patterned after the English Inheritance (Family Provision) Act of 1938. The bill's introduction followed a routine procedure of the transplantation of English legislation to colonial jurisdictions. The bill empowered the court to modify wills in which the testator had deprived the spouse and children of reasonable maintenance. As debate ensued, Said Hasan, the recently nominated Muslim Member of the Legislative Council, rose to offer his support. He noted that the bill gave partial effect to “the underlying principle of Mohammedan law.” The “policy” of Mohammedan law, he argued, was to prevent the testator from interfering with the devolution of property to family members in “fixed and definite shares.” A testator was entitled to will only a “bequeathable third” of the estate beyond the fixed shares assigned to dependents. Hasan further declared that the bill was a “tacit admission” of the injustice suffered by dependents excluded from their rightful share in family property.

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.