Law in the United Methodist Church (UMC) is a product of democracy, written by elected delegates to a legislative body, recorded in a book entitled The Book of Discipline of the United Methodist Church. As “a Book of Law,” the Book of Discipline is “the only official and authoritative Book of Law of The Methodist Church,” according to the Methodist Church's Judicial Council in a landmark 1953 ruling. Despite this declaration, the Judicial Council had no idea in 1953 that it had addressed a question that in 20 years would divide not just the Methodists, but Americans and American Christians generally. In the last 30 years of the twentieth century, controversies over homosexuality led American Christians into debates over the role law should play in their churches, while Americans as a whole debated the role churches should play in their law. United Methodist conservatives discovered that by rallying populist majorities to rewrite church law, they could then use church trials to roll back what they saw as excesses from the 1960s still plaguing American society. Writing any law is necessarily a political process, but in the UMC, church trials became political battlegrounds as well, contests to determine if rank-and-file clergy approved church rules against anything resembling a same-sex marriage.

Over the past decade, state agencies throughout Brazil have launched initiatives that aim to defend children's rights to their father's name. These initiatives take the form of discrete programs in different states, all of which seek to identify children who lack a paternal last name—an estimated 10–25 percent of all Brazilian children —in hopes of finding their fathers and encouraging or obligating them to legally recognize their paternity and inscribe their names on the children's birth registries. Project staff also sometimes formalize child support arrangements, although this is not the primary objective. Instead, Responsible Paternity projects (as most of them are known) seek to free children from the social stigma of illegitimate birth, thus protecting their constitutional right to equality and human dignity.

Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. is one of the few modern judges whose reputations have survived the twentieth century's culture wars relatively intact. Among his contemporaries Louis Brandeis, Benjamin Cardozo, and Learned Hand, Holmes was the first to become a judicial and cultural icon. Although Holmes's judicial reputation has fluctuated wildly since his death, his canonical status is unquestioned. His opinions, like those of Brandeis, are often quoted in high-profile Supreme Court decisions. Popular historians continue to be fascinated with his life story.

It was the policy of the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) during the 1920s to contest only those obscenity regulations that were “relied upon to punish persons for their political views.” So stated a 1928 ACLU bulletin, reiterating a position to which the organization had adhered since its formation in 1920. For the majority of the ACLU's executive board, “political views” encompassed the struggle for control of the government and the economy, but not of the body. The early ACLU was not interested in defending avant-garde culture, let alone sexual autonomy.

The anonymous author of the Laws of Henry I (Leges Henrici Primi) seems to undercut the value of the laws and courts of early-twelfth-century England by making a number of pessimistic comments about the capacity of formal legal proceedings to render justice. At a few points in this treatise, probably completed shortly after 1108, he also voices a preference for friendly agreement. Noting that similar predilections were widespread in medieval Europe, many recent scholars have seized on one of the author's remarks that explicitly compares these two approaches to conflict resolution by proclaiming: Pactum enim legem uincit et amor iudicium, which is translated by L. J. Downer, the work's most recent editor, as, “For an agreement supersedes law and amicable settlement a court judgment.” Ever since Stephen White and Michael Clanchy used this Latin sentence as, respectively, a title and an opening epigram in influential essays written over 25 years ago, it has become a scholarly commonplace, epitomizing what is now often seen as a deep-seated medieval preference for settling disputes through informal compromise. Most scholars that refer to this aphorism, however, use it merely as an illustrative device, without exploring this provocative assertion's meaning in its original textual setting. When considered in light of the Leges Henrici Primi (henceforth: LHP) as a whole and this work's wider context, this statement proves more revealing of complex contemporary attitudes about agreements, conflict resolution, and law than the frequent reference to what is taken to be a categorical declaration of the superiority of friendly concord might suggest.

In 1859, after the death of his mistress, a slave named Mat Fine was taken to the Jefferson, Kentucky, County Court House “in the inventory of Lucy Fine's estate as her property.” There, he was inventoried along with her other possessions. Only a few years later, just after the Civil War, Fine returned to the local court house as a defendant in a civil case over the money his former mistress had left him in her will. There he stood before the civil court, as a person, rather than a piece of property, boldly laid out the terms of the will, and claimed his portion. Both the local court and state supreme court ruled in his favor.

In November 1806, Nottinghamshire magistrate Sir Gervase Clifton was visited at his house by one of his poorer neighbours, “a pauper of the village of Wilford.” (Wilford is about three miles from Clifton village and Clifton Hall.) William Kirwin was attempting to sort out complicated domestic arrangements within the framework of the law that governed his family's life. He told the magistrate about his mother-in-law, a widow, currently living in Tollerton. “She is in a very distressed state,” he said; he and his wife wanted her to come and live with them, “so that she may be better taken care of & kept from want.” He had asked the Wilford overseer for permission to take her in but had been refused. The family had tried to help after her husband died: her son (with wife and children) had moved into her cottage on the understanding that “they would take care of her during her Life & allow her good victuals drinks firing & good cloathing.” Something had evidently gone wrong with that arrangement, but we are not to know what, or how, as the entry in Clifton's notebook breaks off here (as is the case with many pieces of magisterial business he recorded). Kirwin was aware of local ratepayers and tensions between parishes in regard to their financial responsibilities under the old Poor Law: what he proposed would keep his mother-in-law from “troubling the … parish of Wilford,” he said. She was financially independent, or at least on marriage she had “brought a many good with her & such as a beds & other goods.” He knew that a justice of the peace was a point of appeal in the vast, complex edifice of ancient statutory law (poor and settlement law) that dictated the way he lived his life. We can discern something of William Kirwin's understanding of these matters from the fragmentary, incomplete account of what he said, and the strategies he used in telling his story; we can discern some of Sir Gervase's from the action he did not take in this case, and what he did not have his clerk record.

Scholars agree that medieval Jewish legal writers responded to “the needs of the times” in making their legal rulings, carefully choosing the legal sources and precedents upon which they relied, rereading or even rejecting those sources in light of their quotidian reality. Particularly in the Geonic Period, as Talmudic norms encountered a geographically expansive community experiencing radical social transformations in the engagement with Islam, as well as rapid economic development concomitant with the rise of the ʿAbbāsids, which urbanized and transformed the economic life of the Jewish community, classical sources of Jewish law faced new pressures. Geonic leaders responded to these pressures by making recourse to the traditional institutions of taqqana (Hebrew, “legislative enactment”) and minhag (Hebrew, “custom”). Therefore, it is widely accepted that the vicissitudes of daily life influenced both the responsa of the Geonim and their contributions to the expanding codificatory literature. On the other hand, the potential influence of Jewish legal norms upon daily life remains an unsettled area in the study of the history of the premodern Jewish community. A paucity of documentary or archaeological evidence complicates this problem, and edited literary texts of various genres remain themselves among the most important witnesses to Jewish life in the period.

Assault is a commonplace crime with uncommon potential for shedding light on the American criminal justice system. It lives on the periphery of American legal historiography, and yet, because of the ubiquity of small-scale violence, it has for centuries been a perennial and pesky nuisance threatening to overwhelm courts everywhere. Perched between private and public, criminal and civil, and bound to questions of governance and the rule of law, assault can no longer be ignored. Because of its nature as both a civil action and criminal offense, assault presents an opportunity to capture the evolving meanings of “public” and “private.” To what extent an assault was “criminal” hinged upon whether the “public” had an interest in the case, a criterion both amorphous and politically charged.1 At the time of William Blackstone's writing in eighteenth-century England, assault was criminal insofar as it constituted a breach of the public peace, an insult to the king, and a threat, by its “evil example,” to the public at large. By the 1850s, much had changed. Two major figures in American criminal justice law, Joel Bishop and Francis Wharton, declared that assault's status as a crime no longer depended upon some ineffable public harm. Rather, it was the individual injury to a member of the public that constituted its chief criminal component. But this individuated logic also meant that, barring sufficiently severe or shocking injury, newly empowered members of the public could be entrusted to sort out matters on their own. This article contends that a changing view of criminal justice—an underlying “public” transformed from a paternalistically governed, impressionable populace to a group of independent persons—gave violence a much wider legal legitimacy.

When asked why he did not read over the loan documents before signing them, John Doherty explained: “I was anxious to get the money, I didn't bother about it.” In February 1910, the twenty-three-year-old railroad clerk walked into the offices of the Chesterkirk Company, a loan-sharking operation with offices in lower Manhattan. He was looking to borrow some money. Repayment was guaranteed by the only security Doherty had to offer: his prospective wages and, in his words, his “reputation.” After a brief investigation of Doherty's creditworthiness, the loan was approved. The office manager placed a cross in lead pencil at the bottom of a lengthy form and Doherty signed where indicated. He received $34.85 in exchange for his promise to repay the loan principal plus $10.15 in combined fees and interest in three months. The interest charged was significantly greater than the 6 percent per year allowed in New York State. Doherty's effective annualized interest rate, including fees, was over 100 percent.

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.

In the middle of the second century CE, the satirist Lucian of Samosata (c. CE 125–180) composed a text known as the Bis Accusatus (“Twice Accused”) in which he describes a day of judgment. It begins with Zeus complaining to Hermes about the onerous nature of running the universe:

As with other pillars of the Scottish criminal justice system, the distinctiveness of the Scottish police model from its English counterpart has been widely acknowledged. Its historical development, institutional structure, and level of community support have been portrayed as unique in the United Kingdom. Although rarely heralded as a symbol of national identity in the same way as the Church of Scotland or the legal system, the Scottish police's distinctive customs, traits, and practices have been held up in some studies as a badge of national pride. Often this is for no significant reason other than the fact that police reform in Scotland predated similar developments in England. Municipal police administration has also been depicted as an important symbol of the self-governing nature of Scottish civil society, conferring upon local authorities a wide range of autonomous powers and strengthening their bargaining position with central government in Westminster in London.

The articles in this issue are drawn from the papers delivered at the conference “Ab Initio: Law in Early America,” held in Philadelphia on June 16–17, 2010—the first conference in nearly fifteen years to focus on law in early America. It was sponsored by the Penn Legal History Consortium, the McNeil Center for Early American Studies, the American Society for Legal History, the University of Michigan Law School, and the University of Minnesota Law School, under the direction of Sarah Barringer Gordon, Martha S. Jones, William J. Novak, Daniel K. Richter, Richard J. Ross, and Barbara Y. Welke. For two days, fifteen mostly younger scholars presented their research to a packed house, with formal comments by senior scholars and vigorous discussion with the audience. That earlier conference, “The Many Legalities of Early America,” which convened in Williamsburg in 1996, had illustrated the shift from what was once trumpeted as the “new” legal history to something that never acquired a name, perhaps because it was less self-conscious in its methodology. “Ab Initio” offered the opportunity to ask how the field has changed in the years since.

In 1859, Cándido Xavier Azambuja appeared before officials in Salto, Uruguay demanding the return of an alleged fugitive slave, Pedro, pursuant to the terms of the 1851 Extradition Treaty between Brazil and Uruguay. According to Cándido's testimony, Pedro had fled from his brother Geronimo's estancia located near the Brazilian town of Bagé close to the Uruguayan border. Upon questioning, Cándido admitted that Pedro and Geronimo had been in the Estado Oriental briefly in 1851 in order to drive several herds of cattle back into Brazil, but argued that Pedro returned with his master and had never been to the Uruguayan Republic before or since. In response, Pedro argued that he was not a fugitive Brazilian slave, but rather a “natural of this republic.” Pedro claimed that he was born in Tacuarembó, Uruguay, and promptly produced the baptismal records to prove it. Pedro went on to note that his entire family consisted of free Uruguayans like himself. He then claimed that Cándido had repeatedly attempted “to make him a slave,” going so far as to remove him forcibly from his home and carry him across the border into Brazil. He requested protection from these continued threats to his and his family's basic rights under Uruguayan law.

The basic colonial encounter involved a colonizing power and colonized locals. Some colonial situations were more complex, involving a third element: settlers of nonlocal stock originating in an ethnos, or nation, different than that with which the colonizer was identified. Two prominent examples from the annals of the British Empire are the French inhabitants of Nouvelle France after France ceded it to the British in 1763, and the Dutch inhabitants of the Cape Colony after the British conquest of 1806. The British typically permitted such settler populations to retain at least parts of the laws to which they were accustomed, which laws were often based on the laws of the settlers' jurisdiction of origin. As regards settler use of English law, the English sometimes provided for the application of parts of it to non-British settlers, while blocking such settlers' attempts to use other parts. The part of English law most commonly applied to non-British colonial subjects, both settlers and natives, was commercial law, in order to facilitate commerce between different parts of the Empire. The parts least commonly applied to such inhabitants were family law, land law, and the law of inheritance.