In August 1677, the Genevan consistory, a church court preoccupied with regulating sexual sin, summoned Louise Bouffa. Louise was a single woman recently hired by the wealthy Sarasin family as a wet nurse, an occupation that signaled to the consistory that she had recently given birth. The pastors and elders wanted to know who the father was and where the child was now. Louise was at first evasive. She claimed not to know the name of the father, although she did admit that the man with whom she had had sex was “very well dressed.” She said that she had given birth not far from Geneva, in the village of Gy, where the baby had been baptized and then had died. These claims turned out to be false. The Genevan consistory contacted the pastor in Gy who denied that her child had been baptized there. Summoned to tell the truth, Louise admitted that she had given the baby away to a man named Bertet to present as his own child for baptism, although she added that she was aware he had not done so. She also revealed that the father of the infant was a well-respected Genevan citizen and lawyer, Léonard Revillod, in whose household she had been working when she became pregnant. The consistory admonished Louise for lying about the baptism and sent her and her master to the criminal court to be prosecuted. This court, an elected body called the Small Council, duly fined Léonard for having had sex with his servant and for having “obliged her to give the baby to a stranger.” As for Louise, she was merely sent back to the consistory, which excluded her from participating in communion. No further investigation of the fate of the infant ensued.

Scott focuses on the conflicts in the state of Louisiana over a provision in the post-Civil War Louisiana Constitution of 1868 that guaranteed “public rights” to all regardless of race. While we still live with shockingly high levels of racial discrimination in public accommodations, front and center today are claims that the Constitution's guarantee of religious liberty requires exemptions from state laws that prohibit discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity. To understand the historical context within which we confront this issue today, it will help to understand how public accommodations law has changed over time through the course of United States history.

Unlike Professors Fernandez, Banner, and Donahue, I am not a legal historian; like them, however, I am much interested in the comings and goings of the famous old case about the fox. It figures significantly in my course on property and in my co-authored book on the subject. The background of the case is noted in the book and will be updated in the next edition to take account of Fernandez's discovery of the hitherto lost judgment roll in the case. Her find yields many facts, but, in my judgment, virtually no information. Facts are necessary to information, but not sufficient. A fact without purpose is useless; coupled with purpose, it becomes information. The information itself might be trivial, as it is in trivia games. Suppose you are playing a game, a trivia game, where stating the right fact wins you points. Suppose the name of William Blackstone's tailor was Jonas Maybird, and this is a fact you happen to know. Suppose you are asked, What was the name of William Blackstone's tailor? You answer correctly and win points. Outside the game, the name of Blackstone's tailor is just a fact; inside the game, it is information. Change the game to a scholarly one concerned with illuminating Blackstone's Commentaries on the Laws of England, and we are back to the name of Blackstone's tailor being just a worthless fact. For purposes of understanding Blackstone, I presume that to know the name of his tailor is to know a fact that carries no information; it has no purpose in the enterprise. Change the game again, to a study of famous tailors in eighteenth-century England, and then once again the Maybird-Blackstone connection is not just a fact, but a piece of information. So it all depends on the game.

This paper revises current understandings of judicial edicts in ancient Rome—the annually published texts in which Roman magistrates set out the formulae according to which they would institute trials during their year in office. While standard accounts see these edicts as the work of legal specialists, heretofore neglected sources for how contemporaries talked about these texts suggest that they were indeed the work of the magistrates that issued them. At times these magistrates formulated new provisions; for the most part they selectively drew on past edicts, not least to accommodate the demands of their friends and clients. These patterns in compositional practice can only be understood within the framework of Roman political culture. More importantly, in their annually changing published form judicial edicts emerge as crucial objects in the construction of time in ancient Rome. Arguably, they constituted a legal practice that could encompass revolution—at least for a year.

The 1830s was Nova Scotia's “Age of Reform.” Although historians have documented the growing tensions between elected Assembly and appointed lieutenant governor and Council, the concomitant attacks on the established economic elite, and the rise of a distinct party in colonial politics, little attention has been paid to the role played by the colony's courts and judges in this crucial decade. This lacuna is surprising, because reformers were convinced that the judges of the Nova Scotia Supreme Court (NSSC) were bulwarks of the old order and barriers to progress, and as their movement gained influence in the 1830s it brought the judges and the court system to the fore. This period saw numerous proposals for reform to the colony's laws and legal system, some effected and others not. Here we examine those aspects of the reform platform that were most hotly contested precisely because they exemplified the ways in which controversies about the legal system both reflected and exacerbated broader political and social change. The most important issues were judicial fees and the role of the chief justice as head of the Tory-dominated lieutenant governor's Council. We also examine two other matters in which the judicial system was directly linked to reformers' general demands for a system of government more responsive to the needs of ordinary Nova Scotians: judicial salaries and the role of the lower civil courts.

On January 24, 1885, at 9:30 in the morning, a woman from the small rural village of Saint Laurent in East Flanders entered the Palace of Justice of Ghent. Pregnant with her eighth child, she had fled from her husband and was filing for a divorce. That morning, she was led to a small room—the office of the judge of the Regional Court—and was standing alone with four men whom she barely knew and did not understand because they spoke French. Her husband had only sent a lawyer to represent him. As the woman's “avoué” presented her complaints—abuse, threats, and finally her fear for the life of her unborn child that had forced her to leave the marital home—she could only hope he had correctly recorded her story and was representing it convincingly enough to take her case to the next level. Until then, her divorce had been a game between jurists in which she was not much more than a prop. After this reading of her complaints, however, the whole neighborhood was alerted to her failing marriage. Some neighbors even entered the courtroom with her to act as witnesses. Not only the judge, but the whole local community took up the task to decide if she had been the victim of a derailed husband, or had failed as a wife. And accordingly, it was decided if she was to become a “divorced woman,” with all the social stigmatization attached to that notion, or if she would be forced to return to her abusive husband again.

Much excellent work has been done on the colonial Act X of 1891. Yet, three important contexts have largely gone missing. One is the framework of colonial Personal Laws where the practice of infantile marital cohabitation was embedded till it migrated to criminal laws. Unless we comprehend how the framework constrained judicial decisions and legal interventions, no single law can possibly make full sense. There were highly acrimonious public debates, too, especially in Bengal and Bombay Presidencies, that significantly shaped the Act. Legal reform in the field of gender, I argue, grew more out such debates than from colonial initiatives.

On May 17, 1853, a court sentenced Francis Prout of East Stonehouse, Devon, to six months' hard labor for receiving £1 15s. in stolen money. Prout's “lodger,” a Mary Ann Foss, had stood charged with the theft at the local quarter sessions, but during her trial she denounced Prout as a brothel keeper who profited from crimes committed in his house. With no real warning, Prout found himself tried and convicted. An even more alarming surprise followed a few days later, when the local authorities decided to pursue Prout's property. They invoked the ancient practice by which felons forfeited their possessions, claiming not just Prout's moveable goods, as was common, but also his ninety-nine-year leases on two local pubs and the profits from his freehold on a pub and houses in Plymouth. The latter constituted an unusual decision, in part because the inquisition necessary to seize the property would cost about £150, and in this case no interested party stepped forward to pay the fees. But as the chairman of the quarter sessions argued, Prout's property was “chiefly acquired by the wages of prostitution.” Underneath his talk of “fallen women” and “unfortunate creatures” lay a very modern concern with the illicit proceeds of criminal activity. In such a case, the chairman opined, the property in question should be forfeit.

What are we comparing when we compare law and race across cultures? This was once an easier question to answer. If we take “races” to be real categories existing in the world, then we can compare “race relations” and “racial classifications” in different legal systems, and measure the impact of different legal systems on the salience of racial distinction and the level of racial hierarchy in a given society. That was the approach of the leading comparativist scholars at mid-century. Frank Tannenbaum and Carl Degler compared race relations in the United States and Latin America, drawing heavily on legal sources regarding racial definition, manumission of slaves, and marriage. They were studying relations between “white people” and “Negroes,” as well as the possibility of an intermediate class of “mulattoes.” But once we understand race itself to be produced by relations of domination, through several powerful discourses of which law is one, we are up against a more formidable challenge. We must compare the interaction of two things—legal processes and ideologies of race—in systems in which neither is likely to have a stable or equivalent meaning. Because “law” is likewise no longer as clear-cut a category as it once was; in addition to the formal law of statute books and common law appellate opinions, we now understand “law” to encompass a broad set of institutions, discourses, and processes produced by a larger cast of characters than solely jurists, legislators, and appellate judges.

Married at the age of eleven, Rukhmabai refused to go and live with her husband who had filed a suit for restitution of conjugal rights against her in 1884. This paper analyses the transplantation of the notion of restitution of conjugal rights into Hindu personal law in India at a time when child marriage was rife and there was no minimum age of marriage. Within this context Rukhmabai's case symbolises an important interjection in its attempt to posit lack of consent to an infant marriage as a defence against suits for restitution of conjugal rights. This marked a shift from female consent being understood as a question of physical maturity alone, to a claim of intelligent consent and the capacity to withhold such consent within an unconsummated marriage arranged in the girl's infancy. While analysing these notions of consent within colonial law the paper also closely scrutinises Rukhmabai's public writings to recover one of the earliest published Indian female views on the need for marital consent.

In 1794, the Russian Empire convened the first high admiralty court for appeals to review petitions of merchants and privateers embroiled in the second Russian–Ottoman war of Catherine II's reign (1787–91). The Commission for Archipelago Affairs, as this admiralty court was called, decided more than 170 cases on the basis of Russian maritime law and its interpretation of the law of nations concerning commercial navigation and privateers. A year into its work, the commission determined that one case sat at the center of most disputes that pitted merchants against Russian-flagged privateers: the affair of Lambros Katsonis. The commission's decisions for most of the cases on its docket rested on its determination of Katsonis's standing in the Russian Empire. Once decided, the outcome of the matter went on to define the distinction between Russian privateers and naval officers in Russian law: precedents that shaped Russian naval practices for the next 50 years.

In 1795, a disgruntled George Wythe published his own edition of decisions from Virginia's newly formed High Court of Chancery, of which he was the sitting judge. Wythe's volume was replete with rebukes of his fellow justices in the court system for their lack of erudition and grounding in the distinctive principles and procedures of common law and chancery jurisdictions. His own copy of the volume, which, like many of his books that found their way into the library of his prize pupil, Thomas Jefferson, includes Wythe's handwritten appendix to the series of references he had made to classical literature and rhetoric in his own remarks, including several to the legal arguments of Demosthenes, and most strikingly to Sophocles' Antigone. Like much of their correspondence, their respective legal arguments as attorneys, and Thomas Jefferson's own massive commonplace books of common law and equity jurisprudence, Wythe's extensive commentaries signify not only the continued appeal and display of an early modern humanist legal and intellectual culture, but also the centrality and power of the idea of equity in that culture and for its successors acting in the Atlantic and imperial constitutional crisis of the second half of the eighteenth century.

“The Contradictions of Reform” analyses the complications of reform of legislation regulating punishment for women convicted of infanticide in Connecticut between 1790 and 1860, within the context of broader social, cultural, and legal understandings of the crime within the US. These changes are investigated through a close reading of petitions for clemency to Connecticut's General Assembly in which women convicted of the crime petitioned the state legislature seeking reduced sentences. The article argues that although the nineteenth century opened with legislation that promised death to all women convicted of infanticide, in practice courts and juries never imposed the penalty. Instead, juries proved reluctant to convict and/or death sentences were not imposed, even if juries found women guilty. In the early decades of the nineteenth century, the Connecticut Assembly reformed existing infanticide law in response to a number of social debates about the merits of the death penalty, particularly for women. The article argues, however, that these reforms counter-intuitively resulted in less favorable outcomes for those convicted of the crime, as they found themselves facing lengthy prison sentences. Such an outcome was unlikely in the early decades of the nineteenth century. The article, therefore, demonstrates, the “contradictions of reform.”

The central institutions of the Florentine criminal law system in the early fifteenth century were still the medieval courts of the three foreign rectors, the Podestà, the Captain of the People, and the Executor of the Ordinances of Justice, just as they had been throughout the fourteenth century. Similarly, criminal trials were conducted using inquisition procedure just as they had been from the late thirteenth century. Important changes, however, had taken place and were continuing to take place in the offices of the rectors and in inquisition procedure that greatly enhanced the effectiveness of this system. The fortuitous confluence of a strong state with improvements in inquisition procedure and the court system led to a strongly self-reliant court system that could, for the first time in the early fifteenth century, fully implement inquisition procedure by arresting criminals in flagranti, initiating cases through public initiation, gathering evidence independently, compelling witnesses, and successfully convicting. Because the political and social atmosphere influenced the effectiveness and the philosophies of prosecution of the criminal law system, a study of this system must include some consideration of political and social influences. Conversely, a study of the judicial system supplies a great deal of evidence about the government and society. When this interrelated sphere is regarded as a whole, the early fifteenth century is seen to be dominated by three closely related developments: the full implementation of inquisition procedure; the continued development of the territorial state, which made this possible; and the struggle between republican institutions and the nascent oligarchy.

Ever since Charles Beard published his seminal work, An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution of the United States, in 1913, a vigorous debate has ensued among historians over the purpose and design of the Constitutional Convention. Was it, as Beard claimed, a Thermidorean counterrevolution, a reaction to the leveling propensities unleashed by the Revolution, or was it a conclave of patriots dedicated to the preservation of the Union and intent on strengthening the federal government so as to overcome the centrifugal forces tearing the confederation apart? For about forty years after its appearance, Beard's interpretation reigned supreme. It became the accepted wisdom that the Founders had acted out of selfish class interests in fashioning a constitution that would serve to protect the forms of property with which they were particularly associated. Subsequently, however, during the 1950s, Beard's analysis was subjected to more exacting scrutiny and found wanting. Vigorous challenges against his methodology and conclusions were raised by such writers as Douglass Adair, Cecelia M. Kenyon, Robert E. Brown, and Forrest McDonald. In the wake of their analyses very little of Beard's thesis was left intact.