In 1884, the University of Berne celebrated its fiftieth anniversary with ceremonies spanning three days, attended by delegates from the international diplomatic corps and many of the universities of Western Europe. As part of the ceremonies, the university awarded honorary doctorates in theology, philosophy, medicine, and law. Along with a number of Swiss and German scholars, one American was honored: Joel Prentiss Bishop. He was, the university thought, among those “who by their learning and their works rendered great service to their land and to the science of the law.”

The mid-1960s witnessed a landmark change in the area of civil rights policy in the United States. After a series of tortuous internal battles, with Southern legislators using all available procedural tools to maintain their states' discriminatory Jim Crow legal systems, the United States Congress adopted two statutes—the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965—which insured civil and political equality for all Americans. The Acts of 1964 and 1965 were the culmination of a decade-long struggle by black Americans to secure the citizenship rights that had been denied to them for more than a half century. Beginning with the Brown v. Board of Education (1954) Supreme Court decision, the civil rights movement built momentum, as formal organizations like the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) grew in strength and informal (grass roots) organizations spread throughout the South and the Nation. As national public opinion shifted increasingly toward providing new civil rights guarantees for blacks, Congress responded with new legislation: the Civil Rights Act of 1957 (the first civil rights law since 1875), the Civil Rights Act of 1960, and a legislative proposal to prohibit the poll tax in 1962 (which would be ratified by three-quarters of the states in 1964 and become the 24th Amendment to the United States Constitution).

Christopher Columbus Langdell (1826–1906) is arguably the most influential figure in the history of legal education in the United States, having shaped the modern law school by introducing a number of significant reforms during his tenure as dean of Harvard Law School (HLS) from 1870 to 1895. Langdell's innovations—including the admission requirement of a bachelor's degree, the graded and sequential curriculum, the hurdle of annual examinations for continuation and graduation, the independent career track for professional faculty, the transformation of the professional library from a textbook repository into a scholarly resource, and the inductive pedagogy of teaching from cases—became the characteristics gradually adopted by university law schools after 1890 and, eventually, schools of other professions. Langdell thus transformed legal education from an undemanding, gentlemanly acculturation into an academic meritocracy.

Morton Horwitz once posed the question, “Law and Economics: Science or Politics?” highlighting what has been a contentious issue for legal historians and the general legal academic community. A common historical accounting for the emergence of the law and neoclassical economics movement is that it provided theoretical ammunition for right-of-center politics following the collapse of 1960s progressive politics. Simultaneously, it has been viewed as a continuation of the legal realist moment and a response to the need for a scientific foundation for private law. In short, the consensus seems to be that law and neoclassical economics is about either science or politics. Little thought has been given, however, to its political and scientific formation and, in particular, to how the two in fact intersect. This article attempts to remedy the situation.

The business development that took place during the nineteenth century fouled America's waters. It also caused smoke, soot, stenches, noise, jarring vibrations, solid wastes and other forms of industrial pollution. These problems drove people to the courts for injunctive relief. Their suits raised a dilemma of fundamental importance to all industrialized societies: how best to reconcile the often conflicting goals of environmental quality and business growth.

This article looks at how nineteenth-century American judges grappled with this quandary by examining their use of balancing doctrine in pollution nuisance cases.

As the fields of digital humanities and digital history have grown in scale and visibility since the 1990s, legal history has largely remained on the margins of those fields. The move to make material available online in the first decade of the web featured only a small number of legal history projects: Famous Trials; Anglo-American Legal Tradition; The Proceedings of the Old Bailey Online, 1674–1913. Early efforts to construct hypertext narratives and scholarship also included some works of legal history: “Hearsay of the Sun: Photography, Identity and the Law of Evidence in Nineteenth-Century Courts,” in Hypertext Scholarship in American Studies; Who Killed William Robinson? and Gilded Age Plains City: The Great Sheedy Murder Trial and the Booster Ethos of Lincoln, Nebraska. In the second decade of the web, the focus shifted from distributing material to exploring it using digital tools. The presence of digital history grew at the meetings of organizations of historians ranging from the American Historical Association to the Urban History Association, but not at the American Society for Legal History conferences, the annual meetings of the Law and Society Association, or the British Legal History Conference. Only a few Anglo-American legal historians took up computational tools for sorting and visualizing sources such as data mining, text mining, and topic modeling; network analysis; and mapping. Paul Craven and Douglas Hay's Master and Servant project text mined a comprehensive database of 2,000 statutes and 1,200,000 words to explore similarities and influence among statutes. Data Mining with Criminal Intent mined and visualized the words in trial records using structured data from The Proceedings of the Old Bailey Online, 1674–1913. Locating London's Past, a project that mapped resources relating to the early modern and eighteenth century city, and also made use of the Old Bailey records. Digital Harlem mapped crime in the context of everyday life in the 1920s. Only in the past few years has more digital legal history using computational tools begun to appear, and like many of the projects discussed in this special issue, most remain at a preliminary stage. This article seeks to bring into focus the constraints, possibilities, and choices that shape digital legal history, in order to create a context for the work in this special issue, and to promote discussion of what it means to do legal history in the digital age.

Medieval and early modern rulers commonly proclaimed that protecting the legal entitlements of the personae miserabiles, who included widows, orphans, the chronically ill and “the poor,” was among their principal duties. The entitlement of the poor to legal services was not a matter of grace but was in fact their “good right.” For example, widows, orphans, and other personae miserabili had the privilege of being heard in first instance before high courts, so as to save time and costs in pursuing their legal claims. Another example of manifest commitment to legal entitlement for the poor was the refusal of Philip II of Habsburg to consent to measures that would limit the jurisdiction of his Castilian chanceries; the measures had been proposed so as to limit the chanceries’ ever-increasing workload, but, because they could also restrict indigents' access to such courts, were rejected by the monarch. At first glance, such inclusiveness appears to have been achieved, particularly in view of the large numbers of petty conflicts brought before formal law courts during the long sixteenth century, leading to a so-called “legal revolution.” Historians generally acknowledge that broad layers of early modern society made abundant use of civil adjudication in arranging their social and economic relations and interests.

The widow Drouillard de Volunbrun and her household boarded the brig Mary & Elizabeth in November 1796, only after many failed attempts to leave the French colony of Saint-Domingue. Like many others, they sought refuge from the violence and deprivation of the Haitian Revolution. In the party were the widow, her mother, a male companion, Marie Alphonse Cléry and, at best count, twenty enslaved people. Catastrophe struck November 18 when the Mary & Elizabeth wrecked on the west end of the Miguana Reef, off the Bahamas. The vessel and cargo were “totally” lost, but the captain, crew, and twenty-nine passengers, including the Volunbrun household, were “saved.” By the following April of 1797, the household was again at sea, bound for New York City. New York was, Shane White explains, “the center of the heaviest slaveholding region” in the North. Slaveholdings were small, with slaves a shrinking minority of the overall population. Still, one in five households held at least one slave. The household maintained a modest profile during their first four years in the city, moving to what was then the city's northeast periphery, Eagle Street near Bowery. Their neighbors were skilled workers, including butchers, masons, and men working the maritime trades. The widow put most of those she termed slaves to work manufacturing cigars.

In 1788 the Court of Common Pleas, after lengthy deliberations, came to a judgment in Steel v. Houghton et Uxor, concluding that “no person has, at common law, a right to glean in the harvest field.” Gleaning was of considerable importance to many laboring families in the eighteenth century; therefore, both the provincial and the London-based newspapers reported the 1788 judgment at length, as well as covering the 1786 case of Worlledge v. Manning on which it was partly based. The 1788 case not only stimulated a widespread public debate over the gleaners' rights, but also established an important legal precedent. From 1788 onward, every major legal handbook from Burn's New Law Dictionary of 1792 to the early twentieth-century editions of Wharton's Law Lexicon used it as the standard caselaw reference. It is quoted in a wide variety of law books written for farmers such as Williams's Farmers' Lawyer and Dixon's Law of the Farm, as well as inspiring long footnotes in the post-1788 editions of Blackstone's Commentaries. By 1904, it was being referred to in the law reports as “the great case of gleaning.”

Drs. L.R. Poos and R.M. Smith have strongly criticized the uses made of manorial court rolls for demographic analysis. They have argued that the data obtained from the court records are inadequate in measuring the demographic trend and in making observations about replacement rates, expectation of life, marriage and illegitimacy. It seems to me, however, that although their criticism is partly justified, on the whole it is unduly negative. First, the claim that the demographic trend cannot be measured from court rolls will be examined; and thereafter the other issues raised by Poos and Smith will be discussed.

In the last third of the twentieth century, the Progressive historians' account of Gilded Age law was overthrown by three interrelated strands of revisionist scholarship. One strand, which originated in work by Alan Jones, Charles McCurdy, and Les Benedict, thoroughly revised our understanding of Gilded Age constitutional development. Another strand, led by Robert Gordon, Thomas Grey, and Morton Horwitz, reformed our view of Gilded Age private law. The final strand, first elaborated by Duncan Kennedy, explored the unity of Gilded Age public and private law.

Sometime during the middle of the nineteenth century, a correspondent from the interior of Oman wrote to the jurist Sa‘id bin Khalfan Al-Khalili (c. 1811–70) with an observation: “The Mazru‘is have wealth on the Swahili coast [al-Sawāḥil] and wealth in Oman.” This in itself was no surprise: the Mazru‘is, along with scores of other Arab clans, included a branch that had long since established its political authority in Mombasa, on the coast of what is now Kenya, but lately, the correspondent suggested, things had been changing. Members of the Mombasa Mazru‘is were now coming to Oman armed with wakalas (powers of attorney) from unknown scribes, for the sale of their familial properties in their ancestral homeland. “He [the Mazru‘i] sold what God likes from these properties and took the value… and the yield was separated from the property owners.” The people's acquiescence to the state of affairs was of particular surprise to the questioner. Days, months, and years went by, he noted, and the property owners (arbāb al-amwāl) did not seem the least bit interested in changing the system, “and the people, as you well know, come and go via this sea, from Oman to the Swahili coast, with confidence that they know [bi-ḥukm al-iṭma'ināna annahum ‘alamū].”

Addressing an audience of medical students in 1810, the Philadelphia physician Benjamin Rush recounted a recent call he had made, in consultation with a Dr. Physick, to the residence of “a lady in this city, equally admired for her amiable virtues and elegant accomplishments.” As they were seated in the parlor, she related her medical complaint: “I am blessed with one of the best of husbands, and a family of promising children, whom I love most affectionately,” she began, “and yet, in the paroxysms of my disease, and with the perfect exercise of my reason, I wish for an ax, that I might split open their heads, and lay them all dead at my feet.” Upon hearing this terrible confession, Rush was convinced that he was faced with a case of “moral derangement.” By this, he meant “that state of mind in which the passions act involuntarily through the instrumentality of the will,” a condition he linked to an underlying physical disorder. Since this form of derangement was most clearly manifest in the commission of crime, Rush explained, it was invariably mistaken for ordinary depravity in courts of law, with tragic results. In fact, he reckoned that if his patient were to succumb to her morbid impulses, her fate would be sealed: all her virtues and accomplishments would prove insufficient to save her “from expiating her disease by an ignominious death.” Rush further observed that there was cause for concern on the civil side of the docket as well, for it appeared that the morally deranged were left free to make wholly unnatural dispositions of their estates, to the great injury of their unoffending families. In light of this state of affairs, he charged his students with broader “objects and duties” than simply caring for their patients. It was, he insisted, a physician's civic obligation to extend the benefits of his science “to the protection of property and life” through the cultivation of a distinctly “medical jurisprudence.”

On July 31, 1944, Rikizo Yoneyama, a former resident of Haney, British Columbia, an agricultural area east of Vancouver, wrote to the Canadian Minister of Justice to protest the sale of his property. Two years earlier, when he and his family had packed their belongings for their forced expulsion from coastal British Columbia, they could take with them only what they could carry and, like other displaced people, they left much behind. “I realize that we are the victims of a war emergency and as such are quite willing to undergo … hardship … to help safeguard the shores of our homeland,” wrote Yoneyama, “however, I do urgently desire to return to my home … when the present emergency ends. May I plead your assistance in the sincere request for the return of that home?” When letters like his did receive a response from the federal government (there is no record that he did so in this case) it came in the form of standard letter, acknowledging that “the disposal of … property will be a matter of personal concern” but informing Japanese Canadians that, in conformity with a new federal law, everything, including their homes, would be sold.

“Crime is a great leveller,” stated Western Australia's The Inquirer in October 1853. “Policy requires that we should convince the native population that in our Courts of Justice they really are what we profess and tell them they are—the equals of the white man, whatever they may be elsewhere.” The Inquirer was responding to a case that had just come before Perth's Quarter Sessions, in which John Jones was tried for the murder of Neader in the colony's southwest. Jones was found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to transportation for life. Given that Australia's colonies were notable for their failure to bring settlers to trial for violence against Aboriginal people, it is significant that The Inquirer's editor did not regard Jones' conviction and sentence as a sign that the Courts of Justice were working as they professed to do. The charge was one of wilful murder, and the evidence indicated that “if ever a foul and deliberate murder was committed, it was on the occasion which led to this trial.” The verdict that Jones was guilty only of manslaughter, he continued, was indicative of the jury's disregard of the law's impartiality when a white man was on trial for the murder of an Aboriginal man. If the law was to make a distinction between white and black, “let it be declared: but to say there is none, and to act as if there were, is a mockery.”

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.

Nineteenth-century American judges and lawyers often claimed that Christianity was part of the common law. From Kent and Story in the early part of the century, to Cooley and Tiedeman toward the end, the maxim that “Christianity is part and parcel of the common law” (or some variant thereof) was heard so often that later commentators could refer to it as a matter “decided over and over again,” one which “[t]ext writers have reiterated and courts have affirmed.” The maxim even received an endorsement of sorts from the Supreme Court, which in 1844 affirmed that “the Christian religion is part of the common law of Pennsylvania.”

Like many nineteenth-century travelers, Iqbal al-Daulah, a cousin of the Nawab of the Indian princely state of Awadh, navigated multiple legal systems as he migrated across Asia, Europe, and the Middle East. Living through the absorption of Awadh into the expanding British Empire, he eventually joined a community of Indian Shias in Ottoman Iraq, who regularly used British consular courts. While still in India, Iqbal al-Daulah composed a tribute in Persian and English to British justice. He described British courts in the following laudatory terms: “What Ease is afforded to Petitioners! The Doors of the numerous Courts being open, if any by reason of his dark fate, should be disappointed in the attainment of his desire, in one Court, in another he may obtain the Victory and Succeed.” Iqbal al-Daulah secured a sizeable pension and knighthood from the British government. However, at the end of his life, he had lost faith in British courts. In his will he lamented: “British courts are uncertain, stock in trade of bribery, wrong, delay…the seekers of redress, are captives of the paw of the Court officials; and business goes on by bribery not to be counted or described.” Despite Iqbal al-Daulah's words of caution, his friends and relatives became enmeshed in legal battles over his inheritance in British courts in India and Ottoman Iraq. In doing so, they joined the crowds of colonial subjects who flooded the courts, enduring expense and annoyance despite the prospect of uncertain outcomes.

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.