This article explores a puzzle in Canadian legal historiography: the meaning of “British justice” and its relationship to race. Scholars have noted the use of this term in the interwar years of the twentieth century, to object to demonstrations of racial bias in the legal system. The puzzle is why. From the mid-1850s onward, statutes aimed at circumscribing the rights and opportunities of aboriginal people multiplied. British Columbia passed anti-Chinese, anti-Japanese, and anti-Indian legislation. Saskatchewan prohibited Chinese and Japanese employers from hiring white women. At least some officials supposed that legislation targeting African Canadians would be permissible. In 1924, the Toronto Telegram called for a poll tax against Jews. It is clear that between 1880 and 1920 or thereabouts, federal and provincial law was deeply involved in creating and reifying legal categories that rested explicitly on physical distinctions perceived to exist among people, which were assumed to signal morally and legally relevant characteristics. Why, then, would anyone have thought that “British justice” should be a shield against racism?

A central goal of the lunch counter sit-ins of 1960, the protests that launched the direct-action phase of the Civil Rights Movement, was to give new meaning to the very idea of “civil rights.” To the students who took part in the protests, civil rights work entailed litigation and lobbying. It required relying on the older generation of civil rights activists and working through established civil rights organizations. It meant surrendering student control over the demonstrations. And, as the great unrealized promise of the then 6-year-old Supreme Court ruling in Brown v. Board of Education made painfully clear, it meant patience. For the thousands of students who joined the sit-in movement, reliance on their elders, litigation, and patience—the stuff of civil rights, traditionally understood—was precisely what they wanted to avoid.

In 1795, a disgruntled George Wythe published his own edition of decisions from Virginia's newly formed High Court of Chancery, of which he was the sitting judge. Wythe's volume was replete with rebukes of his fellow justices in the court system for their lack of erudition and grounding in the distinctive principles and procedures of common law and chancery jurisdictions. His own copy of the volume, which, like many of his books that found their way into the library of his prize pupil, Thomas Jefferson, includes Wythe's handwritten appendix to the series of references he had made to classical literature and rhetoric in his own remarks, including several to the legal arguments of Demosthenes, and most strikingly to Sophocles' Antigone. Like much of their correspondence, their respective legal arguments as attorneys, and Thomas Jefferson's own massive commonplace books of common law and equity jurisprudence, Wythe's extensive commentaries signify not only the continued appeal and display of an early modern humanist legal and intellectual culture, but also the centrality and power of the idea of equity in that culture and for its successors acting in the Atlantic and imperial constitutional crisis of the second half of the eighteenth century.

In 1860 and again in 1864, Alexander Spiers appeared before the insolvency court in Sydney, endeavoring to explain his failure in business. He was described as a milliner in the records but he had never made a bonnet in his life. The real milliner and businesswoman was his wife, Ann Spiers, who had been running her business since her marriage in 1846. She made purchasing and pricing decisions, managed staff, was the front person in the shop, and advertised in newspapers. She told the insolvency court in 1860 that her husband “used to keep the books and attend to the house business but he never sold anything in the shop. He used to mark the goods occasionally.” Alexander Spiers similarly distanced himself. “My wife put the value upon the articles in our stock,” he said. “She is much better acquainted with their value than myself.” In spite of this, it was Alexander Spiers' name that was on the insolvency papers. Under the law of coverture, he was responsible for his wife's debts and her business legally belonged to him.

On the afternoon of Friday April 20, 1883, attorney Kate Kane doused Judge James Mallory with a glass of water in a Milwaukee courtroom. Kane's frustrations were deep. That morning Mallory had reassigned one of her clients to another attorney, despite the fact that this client had specifically requested Kane. This time it was to Peter J. Somers, who had recently worked for Mallory's re-election. After the incident, Kane would announce, “Judge Mallory has been trying to drive me out of this court; he has continuously insulted and misused me, but I bore it.” “Today,” she explained, “I wanted to insult Judge Mallory just where he had insulted me—in open court.” She succeeded; Mallory was furious. Wiping the water from his brow, the irate judge shouted, “Arrest that woman,” and cited Kane for contempt of court. She was immediately apprehended and hauled off to the local jail, where she would stew for days. “I shall stay here for ten years before I pay that fine,” Kane vowed, defiantly. The incident, which imperiled Kane's legal career in Milwaukee, also reveals critical tensions in women's claims on full citizenship that were reflected in battles over professional membership, legal and sexual equality, and political inclusion.