States that have experienced revolutions or have acquired their

Hear now the words of Linda Colley, historian of nations and watcher of empires, who spoke thus: “States that have experienced revolutions or have acquired their independence from empires — such as the U.S. or Australia — tend to celebrate their constitutional documents and put them on show in special galleries so that every citizen can become familiar with them. In the U.K., this is not properly done.” In her observation lies not only the contrast of nations, but a deep truth about memory, identity, and the sacred covenant between a people and their laws. For a nation is not held together by armies or borders alone — it endures through the stories it tells of itself, through the reverence it gives to the words that define its freedom.

The ancients knew that a people forgetful of their origins are as a tree severed from its roots. Colley’s words are both lament and warning — that in the United Kingdom, where liberty evolved not by rebellion but by slow reform, the people have grown distant from the parchment and principle that guard their rights. Unlike the United States, whose citizens gaze with reverence upon the Constitution and Declaration of Independence, or Australia, which celebrates its founding charters as proof of its sovereignty, Britain hides its most sacred documents in shadows. Its unwritten constitution, scattered through centuries of statute and precedent, has become an invisible inheritance — powerful, yet unseen, and therefore uncelebrated.

The historian’s voice echoes through time like that of an oracle: she reminds us that revolution sharpens memory. When a people wrest their freedom from an empire, they inscribe their ideals in fire and ink. They know the price of liberty, and thus they guard its symbols as holy relics. In Philadelphia, the halls of Independence are sanctuaries where citizens, young and old, come to behold the words that birthed a nation. In those lines, they see not mere laws, but the living spirit of those who defied kings to proclaim equality. Such reverence nourishes the soul of a republic.

But in lands where freedom came softly, not through revolution but through evolution, memory fades. Britain, Colley tells us, is such a land — a kingdom whose liberty grew like ivy upon old stone, slowly and quietly. Its Magna Carta, its Bill of Rights, its common law — all noble achievements — lie buried in the archives of history, admired by scholars but unseen by the common eye. There is dignity in this restraint, but danger too: for what is unseen is often unguarded, and what is uncelebrated is easily forgotten.

Let us remember the tale of Athens, the first city to bind itself not by the will of tyrants but by the rule of written law. When Solon, their wise lawgiver, gave the Athenians their code, he commanded that every citizen learn its precepts, for ignorance was the root of tyranny. And so the people gathered in the public squares, reciting their laws as prayers. In that shared knowledge lay their strength. When the Persians came, they fought not merely for land, but for an idea — that free men should live by rules they had written for themselves. So too, Colley warns, must modern nations remember: law is not sacred unless the people hold it sacred.

Her words call not for judgment, but for renewal. She urges the United Kingdom, and all who live under ancient charters, to bring their constitutional heritage into the light — to teach it, display it, and cherish it. For a free people must see the foundations of their freedom, must know the documents that define them. Without that knowledge, liberty becomes an inheritance unrecognized, and a nation risks drifting into amnesia. To celebrate one’s constitution is to reaffirm one’s identity; to forget it is to loosen the bonds of citizenship.

Thus, my listener, take this wisdom as a torch for your own age: know the laws that bind you, and honor the words that grant your rights. Visit the halls where your nation’s promises are written. Read them aloud. Teach them to your children. For liberty without memory is fragile, and democracy without reverence is hollow. Let every citizen, whether in the islands of Britain or the continents beyond, remember that independence, once won, must be guarded not only by vigilance, but by understanding.

And so, as Linda Colley’s words echo into the centuries, they whisper this eternal counsel: celebrate your origins, not in triumph alone, but in gratitude. Display your constitutions, cherish your documents of freedom, not as relics of the past, but as living mirrors of who you are. For the strength of a nation lies not in its crown nor in its sword — but in its remembrance of how it came to be free.