A Voice of Moderation?

Thoughts on the Chief Justice’s Speech on “Democracy and the Judiciary”

Her court might not be very busy ― it had decided only 19 cases this year through May 31, the lowest number this century ― but Chief Justice McLachlin certainly is. Another Friday, another speech. After the one she gave at the Université de Montréal‘s symposium on Supreme Courts and the Common Law, there was one given on June 3 at the Empire Club of Canada. I criticized the Chief Justice’s remarks at the Université de Montréal over at the CBA National Magazine’s blog, because to me they suggested a misunderstanding of and a lack of belief in the common law, and indeed the Rule of Law itself. The Empire Club speech, in which the Chief Justice outlined her views of the history, current role, and future challenges of what she called “the third branch of Canadian governance [sic] – the judiciary” at times struck a different tone. Yet it too contained its share of historical mistakes, and ultimately was less of a statement of judicial moderation than it was perhaps supposed to be.

One interesting, and arguably telling, historical inaccuracy occurred in the Chief Justice’s description of the history of judicial independence. The Chief Justice traced this constitutional principle to the thought of

jurists like Lord Coke, who maintained that the task of judges was to apply the law as they saw it, not to do the King’s bidding. These jurists took the view that to do justice between the parties in the cases that came before them, judges must not only be impartial, but be seen to be impartial. And for impartiality, actual and perceived, they must have guarantees of independence, notably, fixed terms of appointment, fixed salary and security of tenure.

There is some truth here. Coke did value adjudicative impartiality ― indeed, as Fabien Gélinas has pointed out (at 12), it was Coke who popularized, and perhaps even coined, the maxim “nemo iudex in causa sua.” And, in Prohibitions del Roy, Coke took the position that judges had to decide cases according to law, and that the King, not being learned in the law, could not adjudicate. But it would have come as news ― though perhaps welcome news ― to Coke that judges must have guaranteed tenure. He was, after all, dismissed from judicial office after one run-in too many with James I, and that king’s son and grandchildren were also quite adept at dismissing recalcitrant judges. Judicial independence and security of tenure did not become part of the English constitution until the Act of Settlement, 1701. Importantly, as Peter Cane explained at the Supreme Courts and the Common Law symposium, it was part of a bargain of sorts whereby courts, as well as the Crown, submitted to Parliament and acknowledged its sovereignty. It may well be that the Chief Justice is just a little unclear about 17th-century constitutional history ― but it is still noteworthy that she is unclear in a way that elevates the role of jurists and judges, and obscures that of Parliament.

The Chief Justice’s take on Canadian legal history is also curious. She claims, for instance, that “[f]or eighty years after Confederation, Canada’s legal system functioned as a shadow replica of England’s legal system,” in that “England’s laws became Canada’s laws.” This is an exaggeration. The Canadian judicial system was never quite a replica of the English one (there being no distinct courts of equity, for instance) (UPDATE: See Jan Jakob’s comments below), and the Colonial Laws Validity Act, 1865 made clear that British legislation did not apply in Canada and in other colonies unless it was specifically intended to. The Chief Justice also seems to suggest that the Supreme Court was an afterthought for the fathers of confederation, saying that “befitting its secondary status, [it] wasn’t created until 1875.” Yet the majority opinion in l’Affaire Nadon, which the Chief Justce co-signed, points out that the issue was in fact considered, although “[a]t the time of Confederation, Quebec was reluctant to accede to the creation of a Supreme Court because of its concern that the Court would be incapable of adequately dealing with questions of the Quebec civil law,” [50] and that Sir John A. Macdonald “introduced bills for the establishment of the Supreme Court in 1869 and again in 1870 in the House of Commons.” [79] The Chief Justice seems to take a rather dismissive view of the early days of Canada’s early legal system in order to extol the modern Supreme Court. This rhetorical move is similar to the one she made in her Université de Montréal speech, in which she contrasted the supposed reasoning styles of pre-20th-century and modern common law judges. Yet in both cases, the contrasts are less stark, and the continuity between old and new is more important, than the Chief Justice lets on.

Another statement of the Chief Justice that is worth discussing is her assertion that the fact that “[i]n the lead-up to 1982, the government of the day took as its goal the creation of a ‘just society'” was a “major change[] to the Canadian legal system.” For one thing, the Chief Justice’s chronology might be a bit off again ― Pierre Trudeau first ran on the “just society” slogan in 1968. (In 1972, a heckler asked him where it was. Trudeau retorted that he should ask Jesus Christ, who’d promised it first.) More importantly though, I do not  understand how a political statement by the government of the day can amount to a “major change to the … legal system.” The Chief Justice seems to be saying that Trudeau’s articulation of the just society is some sort of benchmark by which to assess the progress of our polity, but even assuming that that is true ― and a great many people would disagree ― I still don’t see how benchmark is a legal one. Of course, to some extent Trudeau’s ideas are reflected in the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms ― but the Charter was never meant to provide a complete code of social justice, and the courts’ duty is to apply the Charter as it has been enacted, and not to expand it forever until the day the just society arrives.

It also seems to me quite inappropriate for a judge to take up what was, for better or for worse, a partisan slogan and try to make it into a constitutional ideal. By doing so, the Chief Justice only gives grist for the mill of those who already think that the Charter, and the courts that enforce it, are essentially Liberal self-entrenchment devices. As I wrote in a Policy Options Perspectives post a few months ago, it is dangerous to associate a part of our constitution with a political party ― and that party’s changing fortunes. When these fortunes sag, the constitution must retain its exalted position as the protection of our rights. I urged impartial observers to keep that in mind and avoid associating the Charter with the Liberal party. I had no idea that the Chief Justice of Canada, of all people, would need the same reminder.

While the Chief Justice’s take on Canadian legal history stresses the Supreme Court’s independence and importance, and perhaps stakes out for it a role as an engine of social progress, her other comments seem intended to show that the Court is actually a modest institution aware of its place in the constitutional structure. Along with other institutions, says the Chief Justice, the Court must strive “to maintain the proper constitutional balance between the judiciary and the legislative and executive branches of governance.” It is “Parliament and the provincial legislatures,” not the courts it seems, that “are pre-eminently suited to” “make law” ― quite a contrast to the Chief Justice’s enthusiasm, in the Université de Montréal speech, for judicial development of the law. Moreover, when reviewing the constitutionality of legislation,

courts … must approach the laws adopted by Parliament and the legislatures with due deference for their preeminent law-making role and their ability to arrive at optimal solutions through debate and research. Such deference is particularly important on complex social and economic issues.

Similarly, when reviewing administrative decisions, “the courts show appropriate deference for the expertise and mandate of administrative actors and agencies.”

What to make of this description of a modest judicial role, which seems to stand in tension with the Chief Justice’s claims regarding the exalted standing of the courts ― and her rather ambitious remarks made a week previously? Perhaps the modesty is a sham, or a sop to the particular sensitivities of last week’s audience (though I don’t know what these sensitivities are). But it seems to me that there is more to it than that. The Supreme Court really does believe in and practice deference to both legislatures and the executive when reviewing their decisions ― although it does so inconsistently.

Sometimes it is bold, as when it strikes down laws that try to limit the government’s expenditures on courts on the basis of little more than constitutional principles. Sometimes it is meek, as when it insists that it will not require administrative decision-makers to apply the law correctly, never mind the facts. And it is not always easy to anticipate which it is going to be in a given case ― or even to tell which it is in an already-issued opinion. (I’m thinking, for instance, of Canada (Prime Minister) v. Khadr, 2010 SCC 3, [2010] 1 S.C.R. 44, of which I could never tell whether it was a capitulation disguised as a threat, or a threat disguised as a capitulation.)

Perhaps the Chief Justice believes in a sort of departmentalism-lite, whereby each branch of government is presumptively entitled to make its own legal and constitutional determinations but, unlike with real departmentalism, the courts keep the last word if they think that the other branches are really wrong. Such a doctrine might reconcile the exaltation of the Supreme Court, and a belief in the judges’ right to do as they please with judicially-articulated doctrines, with the insistence on deference to the other branches of government. (It would also fill the empty cell in the little table of attitudes to judicil review that I offered here, to sit alongside “conservative” or Diceyan, “progressive,” and “classical liberal” or “libertarian” approaches.) Never mind whether such a doctrine is good or justified. (I don’t think it is.) The Supreme Court is, again, too inconsistent to claim its mantle.

Maybe there is some other way to make sense of the Chief Justice’s speeches. In any case, it is worth saying that the seeming inconsistency of her positions is in itself a source of discretionary if not arbitrary power. Benjamin Oliphant and I have described the same phenomenon in the realm of constitutional interpretation in our work on originalism: the Supreme Court fails to adhere to any interpretive methodology with much consistency, and thereby maintains a roster of alternative approaches on which it can draw at its convenience, while avoiding scrutiny and criticism for deviating from previously-articulated principles. Whether or not they are intended to achieve this, the Chief Justice’s  speeches present a number of different conceptions of the Supreme Court and its role, which allows it to strike whatever pose it deems appropriate in any given case. This may be to the advantage ― the short-term advantage, anyway ― of the institution that Chief Justice McLachlin leads, but this advantage is gained at the expense of principle, transparency, and ultimately the Rule of Law itself.

Churchill on Prison

Winston Churchill’s thoughts on his time as a prisoner (of war)

I’m not sure, and am too lazy to verify, whether if Winston Churchill is the only head of a Commonwealth government to have been a prisoner; but there cannot have been many. (UPDATE: As my friend Malcolm Lavoie points out to me, Nelson Mandela is another example. It is rather stupid of me to have forgotten that and, as you will presently see, quite ironic.) Churchill did not long stay in captivity ― he escaped the converted school where he (a war correspondent at the time) and British officers taken prisoner during the early days of the Boer war were held ― but the experience still marked him, and he wrote about it in his memoir My Early Life, written in 1930:

[T]he whole atmosphere of prison, even the most easy and best regulated prison, is odious. Companions in this kind of misfortune quarrel about trifles and get the least possible pleasure from each other’s society. If you have never been under restraint before and never known what it was to be a captive, you feel a sense of constant humiliation in being confined to a narrow space, fenced in by railings and wire, watched by armed men, and webbed about with a tangle of regulations and restrictions. I certainly hated every minute of my captivity more than I have ever hated any other period in my whole life. (273)

In My Early Life, Churchill says relatively little about his philosophy, and almost nothing about his political career in the 1910s and ’20s, focusing mostly on telling the story as he lived it at the time of the events. However the topic of imprisonment prompts a rare digression:

Looking back on those days, I have always felt the keenest pity for prisoners and captives. What it must mean for any man, especially an educated man, to be confined for years in a modern convict prison strains my imagination. Each day exactly like the one before, with the barren ashes of wasted life behind, and all the long years of bondage stretching out ahead. There in after years, when I was Home Secretary and had all the prisons of England in my charge, I did my utmost consistent with public policy to introduce some sort of variety and indulgence into the life of their inmates, to give to educated minds books to feed on, to give to all periodical entertainments of some sort to look forward to and to look back upon, and to mitigate as far as is reasonable the hard lot which, if they have deserved, they must none the less endure. (273-74)

This is, I think, something that those in charge of prison policy at various levels would do well to consider ― all the more since they, unlike Churchill, will typically lack the experience, however short, of the shoe being on the other foot.

And speaking of books for a mind to feed on, whether or not the body that houses it is in prison or at large, one can find worse than My Early Life. Though it is, no doubt, somewhat politically incorrect by our standards, the events it tells are fascinating; the author’s philosophical observations, though infrequent, are sharp; there is a somewhat wicked pleasure in reading it while knowing what Churchill did not know when it wrote it ― the events that would made him one of history’s great heroes, instead of a minor footnote; and last but not least, it is brilliantly written and thus simply a joy to read.

Permanent Problems

The law’s ideals and problems have not changed too much in 400 years

I have only now read Francis Bacon’s essay “Of Judicature.” Bacon seems not to enjoy anything like the reputation of his rival Coke, in the law schools anyway ― I suspect that they haven’t heard much of Coke in the science faculties, where Bacon is regarded as “the father of the scientific method.” Still, his essay is fascinating, because it shows just how little the law’s aspirations and failings have changed in the 400-odd years since it was published.

Bacon’s essay is essentially a collection of advice to judges about how to discharge their office. A good deal of it could still be repeated today. My point, in drawing attention to it, is not to say that all of this advice is good, at least in an unqualified form. It is, first and foremost, to remind the reader of the remarkable historical continuity which, for better and for worse, characterizes the law as a field of human activity.  Here are a few of Bacon’s recommendations, with some accompanying thoughts or comments of my own.

* * *

Judges ought to remember, that their office is jus dicere, and not jus dare; to interpret law, and not to make law, or give law.

Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? If and when there is at last a confirmation hearing for the next judge of the Supreme Court of the United States, you will hear this exhortation repeated ad nauseam; you might even hear it if there is any sort of public hearing involving the next judge of the Supreme Court of Canada. John Finnis quoted Bacon’s appeal in his very interesting recent lecture on “Judicial Power: Past, Present and Future” (whence I learned about Bacon’s essay). But the very fact that this limitation on the judicial role has for so long, and so often, been reiterated should alert us to the habitual futility of the appeal. The Supreme Court’s equivocation over  whether it discovers or makes up the legal rules which it articulates for the first time seems to the suggest that the ideal of the law-saying judge has some appeal to those already holding judicial office ― but not as much as Bacon would have liked.

[W]hen there appeareth on either side an high hand, violent prosecution, cunning advantages taken, combination, power, great counsel, then is the virtue of a judge seen, to make inequality equal; that he may plant his judgment as upon an even ground.

This is also a familiar idea in 2016. Richard Posner, to give but one ― perhaps unexpected ― example has been very vocal about the need for active judicial intervention “to make inequality equal” by correcting the disparities of resources between parties to litigation, whether in his judgments or in a recent extra-judicial indictment of “What Is Obviously Wrong with the [American] Federal Judiciary, Yet Eminently Curable” (see 190-91). There are situations, it is worth noting, where judges might be making things worse, not better. I have been arguing for a while now that this may be happening in constitutional law, as judges increasingly expect expert evidence to support Charter challenges, and thus increase the inherent disparity of resources between citizens and government. (In a recent post over at The Court, Lillianne Cadieux-Shaw seems to share this concern.)

Patience and gravity of hearing, is an essential part of justice; and an overspeaking judge is no well-tuned cymbal. It is no grace to a judge … to prevent information by questions, — though pertinent. 

There has been much discussion of this point following the recent death of Justice Scalia. He was a famously active interrogator of the lawyers who appeared before the US Supreme Court. Surviving him is his colleague Justice Stephen Breyer, whose solliloquies questions occupying entire pages in the oral argument transcript Josh Blackman lovingly (?) documents. By contrast, Justice Clarence Thomas, of the same court, had spent a decade without asking a single question until finally doing so recently. Justice Thomas, one supposes, would agree with Bacon. Those who derided him for his self-imposed silence presumably would not.

[T]hose, that engage courts in quarrels of jurisdiction, … are not truly amici curiae, but parasiti curiae, in puffing a court up beyond her bounds, for their own scraps and advantage.

Here at least, I agree with Bacon wholeheartedly. Those who, in the pursuit of their own ― these days usually political ― agenda, seek to draw the courts beyond their proper remit are not the courts’ friends, though they may present themselves as such. I have said as much in response to a call for the Supreme Court to decree, by judicial fiat, the “depoliticization” of judicial appointments. I wish I’d known the phrase parasiti curiae then, but I will make sure to use it on the next appropriate occasion.

Judges ought above all to remember the conclusion of the Roman Twelve Tables; Salus populi suprema lex.

Perhaps the most obvious example of Canadian judges applying Bacon’s prescription is the Supreme Court’s opinion in Re Manitoba Language Rights, [1985] 1 S.C.R. 721, where the Court sought to avoid “chaos” that its finding of unconstitutionality of Manitoba’s entire statute book by the expedient of suspending this finding’s effect. But beyond such exceptional situations, Bacon’s advice gets tricky fast. For one thing, the Latin salus is ambiguous. It can mean “health,” “safety,” or “welfare” ― making salus populi not one single objective, but a complicated programme. Still it is often said that judges ought to have regard for the public safety (“the Constitution is not a suicide pact”) or even welfare ― Judge Posner being a foremost advocate for the latter position. But isn’t there a tension between making public welfare into supreme law, and renouncing judicial legal innovation? Bacon says, “let no man weakly conceive, that just laws and true policy have any antipathy,” but even if true, this point doesn’t really address the issue of the judicial role. And Bacon’s concrete recommendations for achieving the salus populi ― frequent consultations between the three branches of government, and a demand that judges “be lions, but yet lions under the throne” would run afoul of our views on judicial independence, which are quite different from his.

* * *

In the essay I mention above, prof. Finnis writes that “[t]he problems about the nature and reach of judicial power, about which Bacon and Coke disagreed, are with us today in forms much shifted in occasion and location but still recognizably the same.” That is because they are “permanent problems, capable it seems of only provisional rather than permanent solutions.” (3) The relevance of Bacon’s prescriptions, and the fact that they would be contested now as they were contested when given (and again, except as specified above, I do not fully agree with them), suggests that prof. Finnis is right about that.

Mémoire fragmentée/Fragmented Remembrance

A meditation on the conflict between identity politics and remembrance

Today is International Holocaust Remembrance Day. In Germany, it is the Day of remembrance for the victims of National Socialism. And, as it happens, I’ve been reminded of something I wrote almost ten years ago, I think, after visiting the site of the Dachau concentration camp. It seems sadly topical in the face of identity politics flourishing around the world, to which it would we in Canada might have a greater resistance than in many other places, but no immunity.

Here it is, first an English translation and, below, the French original. As for the title of this post, I am lifting it from one written, some years ago, by my friend Adrien Beauduin, saying much the same thing but with about a different place ― proof that the issue I am concerned with is not peculiar to a the place or a culture.

* * *

I am not quite sure why I found myself at the Dachau memorial, on the site of the very first Nazi concentration camp. Whether it was a duty of remembrance, a sort of macabre historical voyeurism, or a quest for redemption (for mankind, since, however difficult this might be for us to acknowledge, concentration camps and terrorist attacks are the work of our fellows), the visit has been as painful as it was instructive. It made me ask myself this disturbing question, among others: when they tried to saw discord between their opponents and victims, to divide and rule them, did the Nazis succeed beyond even their military defeat?

Divide and rule; the principle is old as the world, which takes nothing away from the efficacy of its application from Ceasar to Hitler to Ahmadinejad. In Dachau itself, the guards did everything to set the Social-Democrats against the Communists, the better to control both groups ― apparently, without too much success. The different groups of prisoners were also identified by signs on their uniforms, not only so as to make watching over them ― and humiliating them ― easier, but also to help make co-operation between them more difficult by sustaining the prejudice that each group held against the others. Now, more than sixty years after Dachau’s liberation, I have the impression that these divisions still hold.

Thus the part of the monument to the camp victims’ memory that commemorates the various groups whose members were imprisoned in Dachau by representing the signs that the Nazis used (stars of David and triangles of various colours, depending on the category to which the prisoner belonged) does not menton homosexual prisoners, or criminals. When the monument was built, the men imprisoned for their origins were deemed worthy of remembrance by the former prisoners’ association, but not those who found themselves at Dachau for their “lifestyle choices.” (Actually, I suppose that criminality is, in many cases at least, a choice. But not a choice that justifies putting those who make it in a concentration camp.) And whatever the acceptability of “forgetting” them thirty [now, forty] years ago, I fail to see what prevents it, to this day, from being rectified ― if not the persistence of the old divisions on which the Nazis relied.

The memorial’s other monuments only made my sombre questions more pressing. A monument to the memory of Polish priests. An Orthodox chapel in memory of the Russians. A monument to the memory of Jews. Each not very far from the others, but each its own. The memory of a nation, a religion, etc., by that nation or religion, for that nation or religion. Each one might be remembered, but when that memory is individual, one group is always forgotten: humanity itself.

* * *

Je ne suis pas vraiment sûr pourquoi je me suis retrouvé au mémorial de Dachau, situé sur le site du tout premier camp de concentration nazi. Mais que j’y aie été amené par un devoir de mémoire, une sorte de macabre voyeurisme historique ou un désir de rédemption (pour le genre humain, puisque, et peu importe combien il nous soit difficile de l’admettre, les camps de concentration et les attentats terroristes sont l’œuvre de nos semblables), la visite aura été aussi pénible qu’instructive. Elle m’a amené à me poser, entre autres, une question perturbante. En essayant de semer la discorde entre leurs adversaires et victimes, de les diviser pour régner, les nazis auraient-ils réussi, par-delà même leur défaite militaire?

Diviser pour régner, le principe est vieux comme le monde, ce qui ne diminue pas l’efficacité de son application, depuis César jusqu’à Hitler et à Ahmadinejad. À Dachau même, les gardes faisaient tout pour opposer les sociaux démocrates aux communistes – pour mieux maîtriser les deux groupes – apparemment sans trop de succès. Les différents groupes de prisonniers étaient aussi identifiés par des signes sur leur uniforme, ce qui devait non seulement aider les gardes à les surveiller – et à les humilier, ― mais aussi contribuer à rendre plus difficile leur coopération en faisant perdurer les préjugés d’un groupe à l’égard d’un autre. Eh bien, plus de soixante ans après la libération de Dachau, j’ai eu l’impression que ces divisions sont toujours tenaces.

Ainsi, la partie du monument à la mémoire des victimes du camp qui rappelle les différents groupes dont les membres ont été emprisonnés à Dachau, en représentant les signes utilisés par les nazis (étoiles de David et triangles de différentes couleurs, selon la « catégorie » à laquelle le prisonnier appartenait) ne fait pas mention des prisonniers homosexuels, pas plus que des criminels. Quant le monument a été érigé, les hommes emprisonnés à cause de leur origines ont été jugés dignes du souvenir par l’association des anciens prisonniers, mais pas ceux qui se sont retrouvés à Dachau pour leurs « choix de vie ». (En fait, je suppose que la criminalité est, dans bien des cas du moins, un choix. Mais pas le genre de choix qui justifie qu’on mette ceux qui l’ont fait dans un camp de concentration). Et quelle que fût l’acceptabilité d’un tel « oubli » il y a trente ans, je vois mal ce qui l’empêche, à ce jour, d’être rectifié… sauf la persistance de ces vielles divisions dont les nazis se servaient.

D’autres monuments du mémorial n’ont fait que renforcer mes sombres interrogations. Un monument à la mémoire des prêtres polonais… Une chapelle orthodoxe à la mémoire des Russes… Un monument à la mémoire des Juifs… Les uns pas très loin des autres, mais chacun pour soi. La mémoire d’une nation, d’une religion etc., par cette nation ou religion, pour cette nation ou religion. On se rappelle peut-être chacune, mais lorsque cette mémoire est individuelle, il y a toujours une grande oubliée : l’humanité.

What Did They Mean?

Must the laws of Alberta ― like those of Manitoba (as well as Québec, New Brunswick, and of course Parliament itself) be enacted and published in both French and English? The answer to this question, which the Supreme Court addressed in Caron v. Alberta, 2015 SCC 56, decided on Friday, turns on the meaning of a short phrase in a document soon to be 150 years old.

The Court’s majority, in an opinion by Justices Cromwell and Karakatsanis, found that Parliament’s promise to protect the “legal rights” of the inhabitants of the then-Rupert Land and North-Western Territory did not encompass a guarantee of legislative bilingualism. The dissenters, justices Wagner and Côté (whose opinion Justice Abella joined), begged to differ, repeatedly accusing the majority of committing an injustice. I will summarize the two opinions in this post, and venture some thoughts in a separate one.

* * *

To understand this case, a rather lengthy historical explanation is in order. In 1867, the territories that have since become Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta, as well the Yukon, the Northwest Territories, the Nunavut, and parts of Québec and Ontario, belonged to and were administered by the Hudson’s Bay Company (HBC). Section 146 of the Constitution Act, 1867, provided for the “admission” into Canada by the Imperial government, on address of the Canadian Parliament, “on such Terms and Conditions in each Case as are in the Addresses expressed and as the Queen thinks fit to approve, subject to the Provisions of this Act.” Parliament approved the first such address in 1867, and another one in 1869. The 1867 address stated that Canada would uphold “the legal rights of any corporation, company, or individual” in the North-West ― the phrase on which the issue before the Supreme Court turned.

However, the Canadian annexation plans provoked a rebellion in the Red River Settlement, the main population centre in the North-West, in what would eventually become Manitoba. The rebels formulated a number of conditions on which they would accept Canadian sovereignty. Among them were demands for legislative as well as judicial bilingualism. They also demanded the creation, out of the territories, of a single province of Assiniboia, and made financial demands. 

The Canadian authorities responded, first, by issuing a Royal Proclamation promising among other things that “all your civil and religious rights and privileges will be respected” upon entry into Canada. Under pressure from the Imperial government, they negotiated with delegates from the North-West and eventually accepted that part of the new territories would enter Canada as a new province, Manitoba. The rest would become a federally administered Territory, whose creation was provided for by an Order of the Imperial government, to which the 1867 and 1869 addresses of the Canadian Parliament were annexed. That Order is part of the Constitution of Canada described in and entrenched by section 52 of the Constitution Act, 1982.

In the first years after 1870, the new North-Western Territory was governed as though it were part of Manitoba. The laws enacted (in both French and English) by that province’s legislature applied. Then, in 1875, Parliament enacted a statute setting up a separate territorial government. A requirement of legislative bilingualism was included in that law in 1877, as a result of an amendment moved by a Senator from Manitoba. Legislation enacted in 1891 made clear that the Territory’s legislature could decide which language to use. In 1905, the province of Alberta (as well as Saskatchewan) was created out of a part of the Territory, and eventually it legislated to enact future laws in English only.

If Canada’s undertaking to protect the “legal rights” of the North-West’s inhabitants included language rights, such as legislative bilingualism, then this chain of enactments was invalid. Canada could not allow the North-Western Territory, or its successors the provinces of Alberta and Saskatchewan, to renounce legislative bilingualism, and the provinces had no authority to do so. This was the appellants’ main argument.

* * *

For the Supreme Court’s majority, the phrase “legal rights” does not encompass legislative bilingualism. While the constitution generally “should be interpreted in a large and liberal manner,” [35] and linguistic guarantees are particularly important, “[t]hese important principles … do not undermine the primacy of the written text of the Constitution.” [36] Moreover, it is not enough to

simply resort to the historical evidence of the desires and demands of those negotiating the entry of the territories, and presume that those demands were fully granted. It is obvious that they were not. The Court must generously interpret constitutional linguistic rights, not create them. [38]

Having set out these interpretive principles, the majority explains why in its view they lead to the conclusion that “legal rights” do not include legislative bilingualism. First, “[l]anguage rights were dealt with explicitly in s. 133 of the Constitution Act, 1867 and in the Manitoba Act, 1870 in very similar and very clear terms. The total absence of similar wording in the contemporaneous 1870 Order counts heavily against the appellants’ contention.” [40] Second, “political leaders in the territories themselves expressly provided for language rights when they were meant to be protected and those rights were differentiated from other, more general, rights.” [52] Third, “[t]he parliamentary debates related to the adoption of the 1867 Address show that language rights were not subsumed under the term ‘legal rights’ or ‘droits acquis‘ / ‘droits légaux‘ [which were used in various French versions of the Address].” [53] Rather, “legal rights” referred to property and economic rights. Fourth,

[t]he end result of the negotiations regarding legislative bilingualism was the enactment of the Manitoba Act, 1870. Conversely, it was never the objective of the 1870 Order to dictate that French and English must be used by the legislative body governing the newly established North-Western Territory. [58]

While the delegates from the North-West “sought to entrench bilingual rights, just as … they sought for the territories to enter Canada as a province,” [60] they only succeeded with respect to what became Manitoba ― which, however, is where most of the North-West’s people lived. Fifth, the 1867 Address cannot be taken to reflect an agreement between Canada and the people of the North-West that would not be reached until 1870.

The majority further argues that the events after 1870 confirm that the relevant actors did not understand legislative bilingualism in the North-Western Territory to be a matter of constitutional obligation. Although the amendment establishing bilingualism in the Territory’s government was not contentious, nothing shows that it was perceived as fulfilling a constitutional duty. If anything, the government at the time thought that the matter was best left to the Territory’s legislature ― as was eventually done.

Before concluding, the majority notes that if the appellants were to succeed, legislative bilingualism would be “constitutionally entrenched not only for Alberta, but also for all of the former HBC lands, which now form part of Saskatchewan, Ontario, Quebec, Yukon, Nunavut and present-day Northwest Territories.” [102] Moreover, “[t]he logical extension of this reasoning would also lead inevitably to the conclusion that a variety of other demands made by the settlers have been constitutionalized by the words ‘legal rights,'” [102] including the to entrench the then-prevailing practice of appointing bilingual judges.

* * *

The dissent took a different approach to the issue before the Court. In its view, “[t]he answer to the question whether Alberta is constitutionally required to enact … all its laws in French as well as in English is written across the history of Rupert’s Land and the North-Western Territory” ― and not merely in the phrase “legal rights” in the 1867 Address. Ascertaining the meaning of that step is only the last step of its analysis.

Much of the dissenting opinion consists of an extensive review of the historical evidence. Its authors insist that “the content of the promises conveyed in the 1867 Address cannot be interpreted without reference to the context in which they were made.” [139] This review serves to stress, time and again, the importance of legislative bilingualism to the people of the North-West.

This population, the dissent notes, was composed of both French- and English-speakers; their legislature and their courts used both languages, as did the administrators appointed by the HBC; departures from these practices were met with discontent and resistance. Bilingualism extended throughout the North-West ― it was not limited to what became the province of Manitoba, and as the delegates who negotiated the annexation with the Canadian government represented the people of all the North-West, not only of the Red River Settlement, it would have been been inconceivable for them to limit their demands for legislative bilingualism to that province. Indeed, the Canadian government did not oppose these demands, nor was it in a position to do so, being pressed to conclude an agreement by the Imperial authorities.

For the dissent, the events after 1870 support the existence of a constitutional promise of legislative bilingualism to the people of the North-West. Little changed there in the aftermath of the annexation to Canada, since the bilingual administration of Manitoba exercised power. And once the territorial government was established, it was bilingual in practice, even before bilingualism was required by federal law.

This historical review takes up more than 100 paragraphs in the dissenting opinion. The “Application of the Principles of Constitutional Interpretation to the 1867 Address,” which follows it, fewer than 30. The principles in question “are that the Constitution must be interpreted contextually, that its provisions must be given a broad and purposive reading, and that its nature — as an expression of the will of the people governed by it — is relevant.” [216]

Applying these principles, the dissent concludes that the “historic” “compromise between the Canadian government and the territories’ inhabitants” [222] included a promise of legislative bilingualism. Referring to the French version of the 1867 Address, which spoke of the “droits acquis” ― the vested rights ― of the people of the North-West, the dissent states that “legislative bilingualism was one of these vested rights.” [226] It was also implicitly referred to by the Royal Proclamation, with its promise to uphold “civil and religious rights” ― which thus “recognized the cultural needs of the Métis” [229] of the North-West. That the protection of linguistic rights was not explicit as in other constitutional provisions is not determinative. To hold otherwise would be unjust and incompatible “with the broad and generous approach to constitutional interpretation that this Court has repeatedly taken,” [231] and with the “large and expansive meaning” which the authors of the 1867 Address “attributed … to the[] rights” it contained. [234] Finally, the dissent asserts that, like Confederation itself,

[t]he annexation of the territories … resulted from negotiations between a dominant English-speaking party and a party with a strong interest in protecting the French language. Like the French-speaking minority in the negotiations that resulted in Confederation, the inhabitants sought to have the protection of their linguistic rights entrenched in the Constitution, and this was granted to them. [239]

To give effect to “the will of the people” who enacted it, the interpretation of the Constitution must take their demands into account.

* * *

So much for the opinions. I will try to have some thoughts on them shortly.

Why Codify (Encore)

In connection with yesterday’s post, in which I discussed the reasons for the codification of the civil law of Lower Canada that were expressed in the preamble of the statute which set up the commission responsible for the codification, my friend Alastair C.F. Gillespie pointed me to some speeches by Sir George-Étienne Cartier who was responsible for that legislation. These speeches confirm, though with some interesting nuances, the motivations expressed in the preamble of the Codification Act ― which mainly had to do with the difficulties the inhabitants and the lawyers of Lower Canada faced in accessing their laws, notably because these laws were most unavailable in English or, sometimes, in French, and indeed, in the case of some French legal sources, unavailable in Canada in either language.

One such speech was delivered upon the introduction in the legislature of the United Province of Canada of the bill that would eventually become the Codification Act. Cartier explained that codification was necessary so that Lower Canada’s “inhabitants of diverse origins” would all know their laws. (130; translation mine, here and throughout.) I suppose this might be a reference to the linguistic concerns that took pride of place in the preamble of the Codification Act and, as I will shortly show, in Cartier’s recollections of his fight for codification. However, the reference is a strangely oblique one, in comparison with the straightforward language of these later sources. I wonder whether it does not make more sense to read this passage as showing that Cartier subscribed to the idea, admittedly more popular with common lawyers than with civilians, that a people’s laws are its customs, its heritage passed on from generation to generation. If people “of diverse origins” live together, each group will only know its own customs, and not those of their fellow citizens ― unless, they are educated by a positive act of legislation. This motive, however, has not made it to the Act’s preamble.

Codification was also necessary, Cartier argued, because “the inhabitants of lower Canada, while they feel the wisdom of the French laws that regulate their persons and their properties, can only study the sources of these laws after immense research, which codification will spare them.” (130) Cartier went on to list the legal instruments which “we do not possess” (130). Legal research in 1857 did, indeed, lack the resources of 2015. This concern was, as I explained in my last post, prominent in the preamble of the Codification Act.

Much later, in 1871, Cartier reminded an (anglophone) audience that before codification, the issue of civil law was a matter of great concern to the “English-speaking inhabitants. All admired the spirit of the system, the gentlemen of the profession as well as the others, but they could not all read the text and understand it for themselves.” (717) Cartier boasted that “[t]o remove this just cause of discontent, I demanded and obtained the revision of our laws of Lower Canada and their printing in both languages.” (717)  Indeed, he added, his response to his opponents among both lawyers and judges was that the codification “was less necessary for the French Canadians than to the English population, and that it was a matter of justice towards them.” (717)

This is an interesting counterpoint to the claims of the 1980s Québec nationalists, who counted “institutions” ― including, perhaps first and foremost, the civil law and, specifically, the Civil Code ― among the markers of Québec’s “distinct society” (alongside language, culture, and history). According to the man responsible for that law’s codification, it was done more for the benefit of the anglophones than for that of their francophone compatriots. Of course, Cartier was a politician, both in 1857 and in 1871, and no doubt chose his words for his audiences. Still, even allowing for this fact, these words are of some interest to us today.

Why Codify

Apologies for my silence of late. I’m afraid blogging will be light for another week or so. In the meantime, however, here’s something related to the topic of my last post, the codification of law. It won’t be news to those versed in the history of Québec law, but it’s something that I, in my ignorance, did not know, and find interesting, fascinating even: the reasons given by the legislature of the United Province of Canada for codifying the substantive and procedural civil law of Lower Canada.

These reasons are set out in the preamble of the Act Respecting the Codification of the Laws of Lower Canada Relative to Civil Matters and Procedure, Con. St. L.C., c. 2 (available here at XXXIII). There are three of them, and while they have, in a general sense, to do with the accessibility of the law, a consideration of the foremost importance to proponents of codification such as Jeremy Bentham, they concern aspects of this problem that are quite different from those with which Bentham was concerned. For him, codification was an opportunity to provide a statement of the law that would be both comprehensive and comprehensible to everyone (by virtue of being expressed in a concise, clear, and logical text). As I noted in my last post, the drafters of the French civil code knew that such ambitions for codification were not realistic. For them, codification was a means of realizing some political objectives ― notably national unity and the consecration of a certain (conservative) mindset. (I plan on returning to this issue eventually.) But the Canadian codification pursued other aims again.

The first “whereas” of the preamble notes that much of Lower Canada’s civil law being French, and some of it being English, “it therefore happens, that the great body of the Laws in that division of the Province exist only in a language which is not the mother tongue of the inhabitants thereof of British origin while other portions of it are not to be found in the mother tongue of those of French origin.” Codification was thus presented, first, as an opportunity to make all the laws accessible to the speakers of both languages. It was, in a way, the continuation in Lower Canada of efforts begun in England with the Pleading in English Act, 1362, 36 Edw. III c. 15, which provided that court procedures would thenceforth be in English, rather than, as before, “in the French Tongue, which is much unknown in the … Realm,” and continued with the Proceedings in the Courts of Justice Act, 1731, which also complained of the “many and great Mischiefs [which] do frequently happen to the Subjects of this Kingdom, from the Proceedings in Courts of Justice being in an unknown Language.” These linguistic concerns are also reflected in the first section of the Codification Act, which required that of the two Secretaries to the Commissioners for Codifying the Laws of Lower Canada one “be a person whose mother tongue is English but who is well versed in the French language, and the other a person whose mother tongue is French but who is well versed in the English language.”

The second “whereas” of the preamble, for its part, referred to the increasing difficulty of obtaining copies of the old French laws “still in force in Lower Canada,” as well as “commentaries upon them,” due to their “hav[ing] been altered and reduced to one general Code.” This is a practical consideration and one that is obviously peculiar to the situation of Lower Canada in the mid-19th century. But the reference to “commentaries upon” French laws as being important, perhaps even necessary, is worth noting, mostly because it stands in an interesting contrast with the hostility to legal commentary that the French codifiers saw the need to address at some length, but perhaps also in light of contemporary doubts about the value of legal scholarship. The legislators who decided on the codification of the laws of Lower Canada seem to have believed that the writings of legal commentators are as important as legal texts themselves in making the law accessible ― a belief that CanLII Connects represents in the digital age.

Finally, the the third “whereas” also referred to “the great advantages which have resulted from Codification, as well in France as the state of Louisiana, and other places” ― without elaborating on what these “great advantages” were. Codification, it was content to proclaim, was “manifestly expedient.”

As in post-revolutionary France, the circumstances of time and place seem to have provided the impetus for codification in Lower Canada. However, the reasons which (at least ostensibly) motivated Canadian legislators had more to do with the needs of the legal community ― and thus, even if indirectly, the litigants ― and universal principles than those that moved Bonaparte and his codifiers to action. Whether this difference had any substantive consequences, I am not qualified to say. But I think it is interesting to note.