In 1770, Antoine-Louis Séguier, the avocat général (king's advocate) of the Parlement of Paris, defended Jean-Baptiste Dubarle, a Parisian wine merchant, against charges of theft, seduction, kidnapping, and adultery initiated by a carpenter, Eustache Chefdeville. For all of the offenses, Chefdeville demanded monetary reparation.

The case, summarized in a mémoire, connects the history of family law in France under the ancien régime to the skillful use of lawyerly forensics. But it also relates to literary portrayals of social scapegraces who betray the esteemed values of friendship and gratitude: in fact, this member of Paris's menu peuple emerges from the pages of the case abstract as a dissembling traitor. Séguier's legal brief, viewed as a work of fiction, projects Chefdeville as an ungrateful betrayer who feigns comradery. In Séguier's telling, this disfigured pariah, albeit socially inferior, takes his place next to the deceptive worldlings described in many eighteenth-century novels. Like them, he violates the sacred laws of sincerity, turning himself into a moral pervert. Séguier's mémoire is rich precisely because it demonstrates how a skilled lawyer attempting to win his case adopts the form of a story characterized by all the literary qualities of the day—love, friendship, avarice, and betrayal. It illustrates a classic legal approach and also reads like a novel from beginning to end.

William LaPiana has led the way in searching for, identifying, and examining new evidence about Langdell, so it is gratifying to learn that he is informed by my revisions of Langdell's bibliography, teaching schedule, and career chronology. LaPiana also affirms the significance of Langdell's early lectures on partnership and commercial paper, adding informative points both about Langdell's views and their possible influence on others. However, the reconstructions of discussions from Langdell's classes are speculative, in LaPiana's judgment, and to some extent superfluous, because “one can certainly concede the point [that the Dean was not ‘dogmatic, rigid, and closeminded‘] even without resorting to the reconstructed discussions.”

I am grateful for the opportunity to clarify some parts of my argument that is afforded by the comments of Charles Donahue and Patrick Wormald. I should say at the outset that I am not seeking to propose a monocausal explanation of the origins of the generalized use of jury trial at common law, whether a “stirps” or a “smoking gun” (Donahue), or to exclude altogether the relevance of Anglo-Saxon practice or strong government (Wormald)—though I am pretty skeptical of the specific Carolingian-Norman lineage proposed by Brunner.

The Internet poses a massive problem of making sense out of information. Two movements are taking place, side by side. On the one side, since the entry costs are very low, vast amounts of information of enormous variability in quality and value are being dumped on the virtual market. On the other side, to make some sense of it, “search entrepreneurs”—Excite, Yahoo, AltaVista—strive valiantly to create automated engines that will retrieve what we want when we want it. They succeed very imperfectly. One or two keywords are a very crude way to capture meaning of any complexity or nuance.

The legal and social implications of Hardwicke's Marriage Act, passed in 1753, were of the utmost importance in England. From 1754 onwards a marriage, in order to be recognized as legal, had to be carried out in a very specific, circumscribed manner, ending a period during which “irregular” or clandestine marriages proliferated. Although Lord Hardwicke had been agitating for such legislation for years, it was one case in particular, a Scottish action, which had been appealed to the House of Lords, that precipitated the Act.

Legal historians have had an ambivalent relationship with new technology. As students and spokespersons of the somewhat-stodgy legal past, our sympathies have predictably been with traditional methods of doing things rather than with the latest and greatest devices of our own age. In the twentieth century we have tended to champion writing and books more than radio, television, and computers. Today we may use new tools to help us create our scholarship and even to help us teach, but like most of our academic colleagues in law and in history we generally employ those tools as extensions of established media instead of exploiting their potential to deploy information and develop ideas in new ways.