This article revisits the debates on the question of slave marriage that were carried on for roughly two centuries, both back and forth across the Atlantic and on the local terrain of the British West Indian plantation colonies. These debates came into critical focus during the fifty-year showdown over “amelioration,” which ended—though only in a manner of speaking—with the British Abolition Act of 1833. For a long time the lines were starkly drawn, but, in the context of laissez-faire political imperium or “indirect rule,” seldom tested. The metropolitan authorities felt some obligation to uphold the grand moral and civilizational integrity of the as-yet imperfectly imagined British Empire, as well as of Western Christendom. They, therefore, were inclined to see the slave as a species of imperial subject, still vaguely conceived within the emerging terms of reference of their global trusteeship and presumptive legal jurisdiction. They felt that, to honor the dignity of the latter, and sustain and nurture its moral legitimacy, the slaves—their subjects, ultimately—should be encouraged to marry, and their marriages should be formally marked, if only symbolically or by summary Christian rite. The planters, for their part, were unshaken in their certitude that the slaves were a species of property, their property no less, and that the idea of any kind of formal marriage among them was preposterous, a great impertinence, an attack on their authority and rights of property, a threat to public safety, and a dangerous intrusion upon the sacrosanctity of European racial exclusivity and superiority.

John Fielding succeeded his half-brother, the novelist Henry Fielding, as the leading magistrate in Westminster in 1754 in the midst of a crime wave in London. Over the previous six years, since the peace that had brought the war of Austrian Succession to an end, frequent reports of highway robberies around London and muggings on the streets of the capital had provided constant reminders, along with the high levels of executions at Tyburn, of the depth and seriousness of the crisis. Substantial rewards for the prosecution and conviction of robbers had failed to stem the tide. Nor had new legislation, deriving from the first enquiry ever held by a parliamentary committee into the problem of crime, diminished the danger on the streets. By the fall of 1753, with crime still apparently at an alarming height and a winter approaching that could only make things worse, the central government was ready to try new measures. It was in these circumstances that the Duke of Newcastle, the secretary of state, asked Henry Fielding to suggest what might be done.

Shortly after two o'clock on the afternoon of Saturday, 19 September 1789, the last act of the sessions at Justice Hall in the Old Bailey began. London's accused capital offenders were tried here eight times yearly. Those who were convicted and received sentence of death or transportation remained in nearby Newgate Prison until their sentences could be carried into execution. So, too, did the capital respites: those convicts who were to be spared execution but who would not actually be pardoned until the Recorder of London, the chief sentencing officer at the Old Bailey, had decided what condition should be imposed. The vast majority of pardoned capital respites were transported to New South Wales. Before that condition of pardon could be put into effect, however, the respites had first to be brought back into the court at the end of another sessions in order to be formally notified, and to signal their acceptance, of the condition of their pardon—that is, to “plead their pardon” at the bar of the court. Although it is unclear from the sources whether or not the respites were still obliged, as they had been down to the 1690s at least, to present the most overt symbol of deference—kneeling while pleading their pardon—the symbolic significance of this procedure seems still to have been thought important, even if it had become largely a formality.

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.

Just as Virgil linked “arms and the man” in his epic history of Rome's origins, Americans have linked the bearing of arms with their own national origins. Regardless of other uses to which his image has been put, the Minuteman who stands guard at Concord reminds us that he stood his ground in 1775 to stop British regulars from seizing assembled weapons at Concord and disarming the Middlesex County militia. Robert Churchill provides us with an entertaining anecdote of a young man to illustrate his claim that such men actually believed that they were protecting their personal right to keep and bear arms. Asserting that he had become ill, the militiaman was “skedaddling home” after his company's engagement with British regulars at Concord in 1775. Though his captain's wife told him that “you must not take your gun with you,” he retorted, “Yes, I shall.” His refusal to yield his gun, explains Churchill, “transcended its importance in allowing him to meet his communal obligation. The gun was his, and he believed he had a right to keep it.” But this anecdote, though charming, demands closer examination. Like much in Churchill's essay, it reveals that items or statements taken out of context can be misinterpreted and misleading.

In “Gun Ownership in Early America,” published in the William and Mary Quarterly in 2003, Robert Churchill drew on probate inventories and militia records to make the case that arms ownership was pervasive in late colonial, revolutionary, and early national America. Churchill concluded with the observation that “[i]t is time to ponder what these guns meant to their owners and how that meaning changed over time.” In his substantial contribution to this volume of Law and History Review, Churchill takes up that challenge himself and advances the claim that widespread arms ownership engendered a sense of possessory entitlement, and that this notion of right informed constitutional sensibilities respecting guns and the Second Amendment. He acknowledges that a civic republican understanding focused on the militia was central to the framers' conception of the right to arms, but urges that another stream of discourse—individualistic, personal, and divorced from militia linked obligations—was present from the beginning. By the early nineteenth century, Churchill argues, this purely private view of the right to arms had become ascendant.

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 the 1990s the issue of gun control raised political passions to a fevered pitch. It is perhaps to be expected that some of that passion has spilled over into the scholarly debate about the meaning of the Second Amendment. I see that passion in the visceral responses my work has generated, in Saul Cornell's reflexive impulse to dismiss my work with crude labels, and in David Konig's unwillingness to engage fully the nuances of my thesis, which is neither strong nor weak, but certainly complex. In this context I appreciate William Merkel's courteous engagement of the full complexity of my argument.