This chapter observes instances in which the World Court has recognised that certain sources of international law may confer rights for individuals. It first identifies cases where the Court has interpreted relevant provisions of other international treaties, beyond the international human rights framework, as conferring rights on individual. In so doing, it analyses where the Court has applied ‘textualist’ and ‘intentionalist’ approaches to reach its conclusions. The chapter then notes where the Court has identified customary international law, the existence of which would confer rights to private persons in specific contexts. It notes that while there are ambiguities in the Court’s methods, this is characteristic of its approach to sources more broadly

How much of a role can human dignity play in constitutional law? It can certainly serve as a foundation of some or all of the rights that a constitution comprises, and it may also figure in the specific content of some of these rights. It may do this explicitly or implicitly – implicitly (as in the US Constitution) when dignity’s role is brought out in legal argument rather than the explicit text. Most rights that protect freedom implicate dignity, but so also do social and economic rights in the constitutions that have them. More generally human dignity may serve as a constitutional value, guiding the interpretation of other provisions: it does this, for example, explicitly in the Constitution of South Africa. It may also underpin the constitutional protection of democracy and the franchise, the rule of law, structures of accountability, the importance of citizenship, and the overall orientation of the provisions of the constitution towards respect for the ordinary people of the country that it governs.

This chapter attempts two tasks, conceptual and normative. First, I argue that constitutions need not include rights as a matter of logic: it is possible for a set of laws and conventions to qualify as a genuine constitution of a state or legal system, even if they do not contain any rights – or almost none. Nonetheless, secondly, I argue that rights-free constitutions miss out on something valuable: it is hard to see non-rights constitutions as intended to serve citizens qua individuals. In particular, I argue that there are strong reasons in favour of constitutional rights on both natural rights and democratic grounds. I end by explaining the way in which rights function as limits on government power: we will see that they need not be the limits that constitutionalists endorse.

Constitutions are fundamental sources of authority in the states that adopt them. Yet, many constitutions offer little guidance about who is eligible for citizenship and what it means to have citizenship. This vagueness often gives rise to fierce contestation about the boundaries of membership in some constitutional states. In the essay that follows, we do not attempt to resolve this contestation. Instead, we distinguish citizenship from other forms of membership, offer an overview of the concept of citizenship, and specify citizenship’s relationship to constitutional theory. We discuss the theories that undergird citizenship practices, the norms that guide its administration, and the ways in which boundaries are established in order to delimit citizenship. We also highlight common boundary problems generated by democratic citizenship even when it is explicitly defined by established constitutional jurisprudence and describe how these boundary problems create complicated challenges that citizens, non-citizens, and states must navigate.

Previous scholarship on the end of indenture in the British Empire has asserted that a revived and reinvigorated humanitarian movement coincided with a series of public scandals over indenture and the increasingly vehement objections of the Indian and Chinese governments. Chapter 7 demonstrates how the model of the overseer-state prompts a very different perspective on the “second abolition.” This chapter argues that the expansion of the indenture system created the blueprint for its own undoing. It did so in three primary ways. First, it tied labor relations, labor immigration, and the moral and physical well-being of the indentured workforce indelibly to state agents and institutions of governance. Second, it entangled the operation of this labor governance in disparate regions of the empire, ensuring that issues arising in one region reverberated politically and economically throughout the system. And third, its own processes of recordkeeping, adjudication, inquiry, and oversight provided a channel along which the suffering and discontent of those under its yoke could be communicated to both the public and the highest levels of government.

Chapter 5, focusing mainly on Mauritius and British Guiana, examines the ongoing dialogue between indentured workers, magistrates, public commentators, and colonial administrators over the laws governing labor and their underlying principles. By the 1860s and 1870s, the increasing dissonance between Indians’ perceptions of justice and their legal entitlements and magistrates’ hardening line toward labor discipline and public order had prompted more-direct resistance on the part of laborers. State representatives, in response, defended their actions by portraying Indian indentured workers as a largely docile population that benefited from the colonial labor system but was veined through with moral failings and subject to the cynical influence of disruptive individuals. The fissures between the overseer-state and its charges, already apparent even in its early years, were growing into a yawning chasm as a system that billed itself as supportive of “free labor,” Liberal principles, and moral colonial rule increasingly abandoned its paternalist guise to advocate and practice coercion, restriction of labor mobility, and, when deemed necessary, violent suppression of collective action.

This second chapter examines how the employment of local official and judicial venues became a common practice as enslaved African-Caribbeans sought to engage the new rights and resources provided to them. They faced an uphill battle, since the discourse of racial inferiority was programmed into the system. Nonetheless, their actions forced all of those involved to wrestle with the role of the state in regulating slavery, the balance between public order and individual rights, the use of coercion and violence within the new regulatory framework of ameliorated slavery, and competing concepts of morality and justice. These interactions shaped the character of the overseer-state in a multitude of ways, from altering the approaches of local officials to different aspects of plantation life to serving as leverage for antislavery activists in Parliament, and even to prompting internal conflicts over how justice was defined and to what extent, if at all, enslaved Africans were entitled to it.

Contemporary issues such as the COVID-19 pandemic and Big Tech offer opportunities to recapitulate and extend the book’s insights in this concluding chapter. More specifically, debates over public health and digital technology reveal the practical implications attending more theoretic inquiries about private actors’ status in constitutional politics. The weightiness of these issues thus supports increased urgency to study the position of private actors vis-à-vis the constitution and brings to the fore the particular value of the book’s republican framework in this enterprise. The republican framework may offer guidance regarding the contexts and goals to which horizontal application is suited, as well as the ways in which it may be further supported as a practical and a normative matter. By appreciating the ways in which horizontal application is republican, constitution-makers and courts might shore up this practice by taking steps to make it even more republican. This may come through renewed emphasis on the legislative function or contestation more generally in constitutional politics.

Chapter 8 focuses on how the strand of legal argument traced in Chapter 7 was deployed by a number of pro-imperialist writers in England in reply to Price, Paine and the American colonists in 1776. The first to take up the claim that liberty is nothing other than absence of restraint were the lawyers John Lind and Richard Hey, and they were soon followed by a large number of other critics of Price, among whom the most prominent were Adam Ferguson, John Welsey and later William Paley. The chapter focuses in particular on three objections generally raised against Price’s account of liberty. The first was that his definition confuses the state of being unfree with that of merely lacking security for the liberty you possess. The second was that he connects liberty with an unviable concept of inalienable natural rights. The third was that, by defining liberty as absence of dependence, and then equating dependence with slavery, he commits himself to a morally indefensible definition of slavery. He forgets that slaves are not merely subject to the will of their masters, but that the chief horror of slavery is that they are also regarded as being their master’s property.

The US Constitution committed to equality in the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Amendments following the Civil War. Legislators and judges quickly confronted the question of what these new provisions might mean for private actors. The Radical Republicans aimed to bring the commitment to equal protection into private spaces, propagating republican discourses about the practical requirements of equal citizenship and the potential duties of private actors. However, the Supreme Court soon reached its own countervailing conclusion that only state actors, not private actors, gained duties from the Reconstruction Amendments. While this latter understanding remained firm, private actors effectively gained obligations to equality under the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and later court decisions working around the initial cabining of constitutional equality. Later debates evince a revival of republican-inflected language and arguments for something like horizontal application, even while the country’s jurists viewed such an extension of rights as basically impossible. Several other episodes in constitutional politics, both at the national and state levels, would continue to revisit this question across a range of issue areas.

The rise of the European Union elicits both theoretical and practical questions about notions of citizenship, and citizens’ duties, that transcend nation-state boundaries. Indeed, its supranational nature invites reevaluation of the concepts of citizenship and political community more generally. In a similar vein, this chapter considers the European Court of Justice’s (ECJ) practice of horizontal application in light of republican theory. The fact that the ECJ has introduced horizontal application in EU law at all is itself a point of interest, given the debatable status of the Union as a political community in the republican sense. This book’s republican framework points toward a conceptual relationship between the development of horizontal application and the fate of the European Union as, in fact, something more than a loose union of nation-states. Put differently, a full flowering of horizontal application is theoretically tied to wider acceptance of the European Union as a fully fledged political community, complete with citizens’ duties to one another and a common good of which to speak.

Citing contemporary issues, this introduction situates horizontal application as one potential response to political-legal questions involving private actors. It makes the case for renewed scholarly attention to horizontal application as an increasingly common practice in constitutional politics. More specifically, examining horizontal application through the lens of republican political theory uncovers new significance in the discourses surrounding this constitutional practice. This theoretical perspective also elucidates how horizontal application is different from traditional constitutional understandings. After introducing the book’s republican framework, Chapter 1 explains the rationale underlying the choice of contexts examined in subsequent chapters. It concludes with an explanation of the stakes, as well as the potential benefits and drawbacks of horizontal application considered in the following chapters. Finally, it previews the concluding chapter’s argument that horizontal application may be further supported with certain political and institutional adjustments to make this practice even more republican.

The framers of the Indian Constitution laid explicit foundation for horizontal application, specifically in Articles 15, 17, 23, and 24. The constitutional debates reveal deep disagreements about the country’s future. At the same time, the textual provisions for horizontal application evince a clear vision on the part of key framers, such as B. R. Ambedkar and Jawaharlal Nehru, to combat entrenched systems of caste and discrimination. These and other framers aimed to instill a new fraternity across the polity, in part by holding private actors accountable for constitutional commitments. In the ensuing years, the Supreme Court vacillated between emphasizing the constitution’s conservative and transformative elements, often under the watchful eye of other governing institutions. For example, the Court largely yielded to Indira Gandhi’s excesses during the Emergency Era of the 1970s, and later to the Hindu-nationalist BJP’s agenda. Likewise, the Court’s development of horizontal application has been somewhat uneven, applying constitutional duties to private actors in a handful of cases. In those instances, involving such salient issues as labor, sexual assault, housing, and education, the constitutional discourses that emerge echo republican rationales from the founding era.

Conclusion: a reckoning. Liberty used to be defined as absence of dependence. Nowadays it is usually defined as absence of restraint. But the underlying aim of this book has been to establish that there are several reasons for thinking that the ideal of liberty as independence is to be preferred. We gain from it a better sense of how the mere fact of living in subjection -- whether or not we are restrained -- takes away our liberty. We also gain from it a more helpful way of thinking about fundamental rights. Rather than conceiving of them as universal moral claims, there may be good reasons for preferring to think of them as the creation of specific independent communities. Above all, the ideal of liberty as independence helps us to see the importance of cherishing the value of autonomy in relationships between states as well as individual citizens. It is difficult to see how the requirements of justice can be met in the absence of a commitment to the ideal of liberty as independence.

A core purpose of South Africa’s Constitution was to modify private orderings growing out of Apartheid’s legacy of racism. Hence, the South African framers, and specifically those representing the African National Congress (ANC), had strong reason to adopt some version of horizontal application. While republican elements occur in some of the ANC’s early thought on private actors’ duties, such discourses featured less when the party had to find consensus with representatives of the Nationalist Party while negotiating the Interim Constitution. A strong formalist streak in the legal culture, concerns about preserving property rights, and the incentives of institutions such as the Supreme Court of Appeal all cut against the practice of horizontal application. Ultimately, the constitutional framers provided for both direct and indirect horizontal application in the Final Constitution. The ANC’s vision was thus fixed in this feature, and subsequent cases further cemented a break from prior orderings. Republican discourses ensued in cases involving horizontal application and perhaps most clearly in issues striking at the heart of the old Apartheid regime, such as housing and education.

Soon after the adoption of the new constitution and its own establishment, the German Constitutional Court ruled that the Basic Law had a “radiating effect” on all of German law and life, including private law. The Court reached this decision in the Lüth case amid much debate and a range of alternative understandings. Many legal actors worried that such a move toward horizontal application would blur the line between public and private law to the detriment of the civil law system. Following Lüth, jurists at all levels eventually assumed the Constitutional Court’s rationale that one could not speak of private law divorced from constitutional law. Still, certain elements of the German legal-political culture emphasized autonomy in private spaces. Likewise, constitutional actors largely considered cases relating to equality and antidiscrimination as a limit to horizontal application. As cases relating to such matters have arisen, the Constitutional Court and other constitutional actors have reexamined the reach of horizontal application. Republican discourses only extended so far in early understandings, but new forces, particularly in initiatives of the European Union, have led the Court and Bundestag to reassess how far into private spaces these rights commitments reach.

Chapter 1 focuses on the revolution of 1688 in Britian, in which the ideal of liberty as independence was promised to the people as the cornerstone of a new constitution to replace James II’s allegedly despotic use of arbitrary power. After examining the Bill of Rights, in which the fundamental rights of the people are laid out, the chapter turns to consider the provenance of the underlying ideal of liberty as independence and its contrast with arbitrary power. One major source is shown to have been the discussion of civil liberty by the historians and moralists of ancient Rome, especially Cicero, Sallust, Livy and Tacitus. The influence of these sources on the development of early modern republicanism in England is traced, especially in the works of Milton and Harrington. The other major source was the discussion of the law of persons in the Digest of Roman law, in which a fundamental distinction was drawn between free persons and dependants, including slaves. The influence of this legal tradition, especially as filtered by Bracton into English common law, is traced in the strand of constitutional thinking that runs from Fortescue and Thomas Smith to Coke, Selden and their followers.

While the traditional vertical understanding of rights remains rooted in an older liberalism, the horizontal model possesses affinities with republican thought. This chapter makes these connections between constitutional practice and some of the core texts in the history of political thought. In addition to different understandings of the relationship between spheres, or the individual and community, liberal and republican thought generally conceive of liberty differently, a distinction that also maps onto the vertical and horizontal models in important ways. Rights in a horizontal understanding take on a new significance as more than mere rights, but ends as well, that potentially implicate the polity as a whole. Thus, horizontal application gives rise to new calls for parity between public and private spaces, which, in turn, amounts to a new source for understanding the duties of private actors. Such concepts as the common good and duty, integral to republican thought, come to the fore and offer a baseline for conceptualizing the parity and duties to which horizontal application gives rise. The chapter illustrates how these republican concepts occur in the context of actual cases and larger constitutional discourses, drawing examples from Germany, India, and South Africa.