by Pete Hegseth
In this way, the health of American civic life also cannot be judged simply against the amount of activism or apathy for civic causes. In fact, if anything, a lack of activism from good, hardworking people—who are adding value to their lives and, by extension, society—can also be indicative of a healthy citizenry. When freedom abounds, apathy from the right people means the political and economic climate is healthy enough to be ignored. More activists and voters, especially uninformed and entitled ones, is not a good thing; their civic participation will not bring about fruitful outcomes. However, we live in a time when freedom is eroding, and therefore civic apathy from good citizens is detrimental and will eventually be fatal. Call it a silent majority that has been silent too long, and if we don’t take action soon, we will no longer be a majority. Instead, for too long, professional activist classes on the left have dominated the discourse—defining a “public good” that is antithetical to traditional American principles. American freedom today is facing death by a thousand causes.
America today requires good citizens who, as Roosevelt said, are prepared to “[act] in conjunction with others” for causes of “public good.” My father, Brian, is a perfect example of the type of citizen America needs in the arena today. Working hard and toiling silently for a year on day and night shift, I wrote this about my father in my Guantanamo Bay journal in 2004: “My father has the good-old-fashioned Scandinavian work ethic. If I were ever to start a business, my father would be my first hire. He is smart. He works extremely hard. He is a man of integrity. He loves his family. He is fair and honest. I admire him.” I could have written the same thing about my mother, Penny. They are good citizens: God-fearing, freedom-loving, and gun-toting American patriots. They ask for no favors, and make no excuses. They are models of Teddy Roosevelt’s efficiency. Except we live in a different country, and a different world, than we did when I wrote that in 2004. The trajectory of America is headed in a scary direction, and therefore it is no longer enough for my father or my mother—good citizens by every aspect of Roosevelt’s definition—to merely continue “holding their own.” The future of America will require each of them (as they have already) and other good citizens of all ages, genders, races, and stations in life to band together, enter the arena (or stay in the arena), and fight for the freedoms, opportunities, and virtues that made America great in the first place. Brian, Penny, me, you, and millions of “good citizens” must be willing to fight the big fights and the small fights—in private and public—if we hope to perpetuate the American experiment our forefathers passed to us. Teddy Roosevelt summed it up best: “Good citizenship is not good citizenship if exhibited only in the home.”
Why does this ultimately matter? Because other nations and other peoples have flirted with abandoning their civic duties and ended up with a very clear and consistent result—decline. Teddy Roosevelt knew this when he addressed his French audience in 1910, and we would be well served to study the prospect of the decline of great powers in order to get a preview of what our world would look like with a weakened America. France fell; what if America fell as well?
TWO
Great Republics: Why France Fell and Why America Could
A democratic republic such as ours—an effort to realize [in] its full sense government by, of, and for the people—represents the most gigantic of all possible social experiments, the one fraught with great responsibilities alike for good and evil. The success of republics like yours and like ours means the glory, and our failure of despair, of mankind. In the seething turmoil of the history of humanity certain nations stand out as possessing a peculiar power or charm, some special gift of beauty or wisdom of strength, which puts them among the immortals, which makes them rank forever with the leaders of mankind. France is one of these nations. For her to sink would be a loss to all the world.
—TEDDY ROOSEVELT, 1910
We men of the Western Culture are, with our historical sense, an exception and not a rule.
—OSWALD SPENGLER, THE DECLINE OF THE WEST, 1918
Inscribed on massive marble pillars bookending the hardwood stage at the Sorbonne is the official French motto: Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité. The backdrop for the sprawling and raised stage is a massive and ornate canvas—more than eighty feet in length—depicting living scenes of French literature, the sciences, and art. Five large viewing galleries, each with two levels and its own beautifully lit dome, surround a grandiose amphitheater filled with benches and individual seats, each upholstered in plush shades of green, the color of knowledge. Built just twenty years before Colonel Teddy Roosevelt’s historic trip to Europe, the ornate venue was designed to represent the historic splendor and grand history of France. The beautifully intimate amphitheater normally holds roughly one thousand people, but on the Saturday afternoon of April 23, 1910, more than three thousand crowded into that same space to hear former president Roosevelt take the podium and deliver his “Citizenship in a Republic” lecture. Fittingly, he delivered his famous “Man in the Arena” statement in one of the world’s most storied academic arenas.
It was a day of great excitement in the French capital, a day that came a week later than originally expected, due to delays in Roosevelt’s far-flung travels. Nonetheless, as Roosevelt made his way along the brief route from the American embassy to the Sorbonne that morning, more than twenty-five thousand Frenchmen and Americans lined streets, waving French and American flags alike. The former American president tipped his hat and waved eagerly to the adoring crowds. When he reached the famous university, the New York Times reported, “an enormous crowd was assembled and frantic cheering and waving of hats greeted the arrival of the ex-President.”
Thousands had to be turned away, and university officials were “besieged by impatient throngs” clamoring to get inside for a glimpse of the celebrity American president. The energy was palpable outside, but even more so inside, where, the Times reported, “enthusiasm was unbounded.” France was receiving Colonel Roosevelt fresh off a famed African safari and at the height of his postpresidential popularity. He was American royalty, and was treated as such—even if Roosevelt had asked his hosts in advance to minimize the pageantry.
Roosevelt’s mere presence on the stage that afternoon brought “storms of applause” from both common Parisians and academics alike. Not alone on the stage, Colonel Roosevelt was surrounded by “many of the leading men of France.” One of those leading men, Louis Liard, the vice rector of the University of Paris, did not mince words in his introduction of Roosevelt, calling him “[t]he greatest voice of the New World, that of the man who speaks by action as well as words, giving to the world counsels of justice and energy—justice as the end, and energy as the means.” Liard then turned to Roosevelt directly and said,
You denounce the idle and the useless, but you combat also the mischief maker and the selfish. You do not separate morality from politics nor right from force. You are a rough soldier and pacific thinker, and a man of action, preacher of high virtue and a living example of the virtues you preach.
During the ensuing speech, the colonel did not disappoint, delivering a “long and aggressive address” punctuated by “sweeping and impressive gestures” so vigorous that, as one reporter noted, a “rebellious shirt cuff” kept slipping over his hand. He further endeared himself to the audience by sprinkling rudimentary French language phrases throughout the lecture. Roosevelt’s lecture was interrupted “again and again” by applause and ovations from the overflow crowd. As the New York Times reported the next day, “when he resumed his seat, after speaking an hour and a half, tumultuous applause burst from the vast audience,” but also from the leading men of France standing around him, who “were evidently quite as much impressed as the students and other auditors in front.”
The reaction in the press—both across the Atlantic in America and there in France—was also abundant and positive. The New York Times headline the next morning read “Acclaim Roosevelt at Paris Lecture. Storms of Applause Punctuate His
Talk on Republican Citizenship at Sorbonne,” with their above-the-fold coverage deeming Roosevelt’s talk “a triumph.” The Times even devoted two full pages—nine and ten—to reprint the entire text of the address. More significantly, they reported that French newspapers “devote[d] an immense amount of space to it” and that the “lecture at the Sorbonne has created a tremendous impression in France,” with “papers of all shades of opinion ring[ing] with approval of the doctrines of civic morality expounded by the ex-President.”
Le Temps, one of Paris’s most important daily newspapers at the time, appealed to France to take “the advice of an honest man whose deeds and life during thirty-years qualify him to speak.” One French paper captioned his speech “A Magnificent Lesson,” and still another unabashedly asserted, “No nobler lesson of civic duty ever fell from human lips.” Journal des Débats—another French newspaper of the day—said of the speech and Roosevelt’s visit to France, “Our great democracies are experiments. From the beginning they lean toward corruption. Roosevelt’s simple and energetic language is that of Hercules, armed, not with a club, but with a broom, at the door of the Augean stable.”
The reference to the Augean Stable—a scene in Greek mythology where Hercules accomplishes an impossibly huge and dirty task using not just brawn, but also brains—describes a condition marked by great accumulation of filth or corruption. In 1910, France was a power with global reach and colonies in Africa and Asia. It was a nation that took great pride in its history, culture, and revolutionary spirit. But, as mentioned in the introduction, France was also a fragile and uncertain culture that was on its third republic since the revolution. Two previous efforts at republican governance had descended into chaos, violence, and the return of absolute rule. Behind the great pride of France, the dawning twentieth century brought internal problems, and soon external threats, to the door of the French stable. For all the grandeur of Paris and flowing robes of the Sorbonne, France was a country—like America today—as much in need of Roosevelt’s Herculean “broom” as a big stick.
We also know that much of France heard his speech. A historic lecture like Roosevelt’s—reprinted and commented on, at length, in nearly every major paper in Paris and across France—had far more impact than speeches in today’s saturated, sound bite media environment. Newspapers were the major media of the day, and this speech was “breaking news” in France for weeks. While only thousands personally witnessed the address, glowing media coverage across the French political and media spectrum ensured millions of French citizens heard, digested, and discussed Roosevelt’s remarks. They heard his argument for intentional and active citizenship, for the bold and strenuous life, for vigorous work and necessary fights, for raising large and patriotic families, for justice first and peace later, for serving the greater good rather than narrow self-interest. Roosevelt’s address, as with the entirety of this book, was an attempt to articulate an antidote to civilizational decline by inspiring an active, informed, and patriotic citizenry.
France heard Roosevelt but couldn’t take his advice. Roosevelt’s raucous reception was sincere, but it was also sentimental. The Journal des Débats summed up the underlying romanticized French response well, saying, “Mr. Roosevelt’s words are the echo of the old Puritan spirit . . . and common sense to those who are seeking after Utopia.” Almost like an energetic younger brother—or an “echo” of a former self—Colonel Roosevelt stood at the academic lectern as a living reminder of what a younger, trimmer, tougher, and freer republic looked like. Looking at Roosevelt, France was looking into a mirror and wanting to see a glimpse of its former self. They wanted what he articulated, clapped for it, and clamored for it—but also still sought after the utopia their younger brother warned against and they had sought since their own revolution. They wanted both the puritan spirit and utopia, but Roosevelt’s message was—in part—that the French, or any free people, cannot have both. In many ways, Roosevelt’s argument was a corollary of what differentiated the American and French republics from the beginning.
In making this point, Roosevelt was generous and complimentary to his audience. He heaped praise on the many lessons France had taught other nations, lauding France’s long and historic “leadership in arms and letters” and emphasizing the “ancient friendship” between France and the United States. He then closed his speech:
In the seething turmoil of the history of humanity certain nations stand out as possessing a peculiar power or charm, some special gift of beauty or wisdom of strength, which puts them among the immortals, which makes them rank forever with the leaders of mankind. France is one of these nations. For her to sink would be a loss to all the world. . . . You have had a great past. I believe you will have a great future. Long may you carry yourselves proudly as citizens of a nation which bears a leading part in the teaching and uplifting of mankind.
Powerful rhetoric, no doubt. Sincere, certainly. But, upon examination, mostly hyperbolic. “Peculiar power,” “charm,” “beauty,” and “uplifting” all ring of high praise, but also of superficial treatment. Roosevelt was a man of intentional verbiage, but also an astute student of history. He respected the French immensely, but understood the fundamental differences between our allied republics.
The American and French revolutions occurred just thirteen years apart but represented very different views of republican revolution, human nature, and self-governance. American-style republican revolution, as articulated by the founding generation, was seen as fulfilling true human freedom, self-government, and free enterprise. The American founders did not reject the church or even the British government, but instead rejected the prescription of religion and the imposition of government mandates without redress and representation. A quote apocryphally attributed to de Tocqueville sums up the American revolutionary position well: “The American is an Englishman who wants to be left alone.” This simple observation explains why the American Declaration of Independence is split in two parts: the first half an eloquent and lofty appeal to liberty, the second half a specific list of grievances against the British Crown. American revolutionaries were ultimately trying to improve their republican politics, not radically alter them. De Tocqueville, author of Democracy in America, writing sixty years after the American Revolution—and directly following the second French Revolution—agreed, saying, “where [American constitutional principles] are not found the republic will soon have ceased to exist.” America’s founders were conservative in their revolutionary desires. They were Burkeans.
The first French Revolution, on the other hand, was much different. Rather than basing their revolution on the proper orientation of long-established institutions, French revolutionaries rejected them outright. French revolutionaries were, at heart, radicals. They were disciples of Thomas Paine. They rejected all forms of feudalism, persecuted and expelled religious clergy, redrew land boundaries, established a new (antichurch) calendar, imposed price controls, and publicly executed the king. French revolutionaries tore down nearly every tradition, convention, and system that had existed in France prior to the revolution. It was a purge, and a complete remaking of French society. The purge eventually turned violent, including a “reign of terror” against opponents of the revolution and the eventual rise of Napoleonic dictatorship and civil wars. (Americans would, of course, fight our own civil war eighty-five years after the revolution. But unlike the French Revolution, President Abraham Lincoln’s Civil War aims were to fulfill the founding promise of human freedom, not radically alter it.)
Roosevelt knew better than to tread on this core difference on this occasion and with this audience, but certainly understood it—having once called Thomas Paine, a revolutionary instigator of both the American and French revolutions, a “dirty little atheist.” In many ways Roosevelt’s insult neatly described the difference between the American and French revolutions—one steadfastly religious, the other violently secular. But rather than dwell on the glaring and foundational differences between the republican
origins of France and America, he instead turned his gaze on the things both America and France could impact in the immediate future: citizenship, birthrates, patriotism, and hard work. A New York Times subheadline even more succinctly described the topic of his Sorbonne lecture as “Must Work, Fight, and Raise Healthy Children.” Roosevelt was gazing toward the future, giving the best common advice he could to two very different republics that were both standard-bearers of Western civilization—and both grappling with the trajectory of their power in an uncertain and unknowable world.
• • •
Teddy Roosevelt spoke his inspiring words looking out at an expansive new century with limitless potential for America. Today we face another young century, except, if you’re like me, you have a more conflicted and concerned view about the trajectory of America than Roosevelt had one hundred years ago. You’re worried about the long-term viability of America’s experiment in human freedom, because our government grows larger each year; our national debt continues to skyrocket; our economy is being strangled by regulations; our higher education system has been captured by intolerant progressives; our military is being gutted from within; and we are “leading from behind” on the world stage. These are not ingredients for dynamism, growth, and strength. Not only does it feel like America is no longer headed in the right direction; it feels like America is headed for decline. If America declines, that means by default, and as a matter of fact, the entire Western civilization declines. Other powerful, ambitious, and ideological civilizations are waiting in the wings.
