8 I CHRONICLESnirresponsibility, and drugs. A greater number, the majoritynat most schools, went to class, got married, and are nowndoing reasonably well. How well I remember the “riot” thatnshut down Chapel Hill. We were supposed to go tonWashington to protest the war. One New Left type boastednto me that the Revolution had really come this time,nbecause the Jocks and the Frat Rats were in on it now. Well,nall the Jocks and Frat Rats I saw came back with a golden tannand a hangover from their weekend at Carolina Beach.nIt is not that there was no common vision in the 60’s,nonly that it had little or nothing to do with any of the rantingnhysteria we were subjected to by the SDS, Black Panthers,nand radical feminists (let’s not forget who really won thenrevolution!). You could look for the 60’s vision not in thenPort Huron Statement but in the reactionary folk songs (andnlater rock music) to which everybody listened. In those daysnthe typical singer was a city boy wearing clod-hopper shoesn(for all that hard travelin’) and a linen smock with a rawhidenlace. They were nice suburban white boys who playednEnglish ballads, Appalachian fiddle tunes, and alwaysnblues — the songs of dispossessed traditional peoples. Theirnviews on technology, tradition, and culture might have beennlifted directly from I’ll Take My Stand. If there had been anreal party of the right in America, they would have joined itnin a minute and taken with them a large part of the revoltingnyouth.nWhat began in youth and gladness went bad very quickly,nsomewhere between 1966 and 1968.1 saw the difference innSan Franciscp before and after Love Summer. Even thencampus radicals of the mid-60’s had not been completencretins, but filling out the ranks of the Hippies and Yippiesnwere the dropouts, failures, and village idiots of everynsuburban high school in America. Demographics alonencould explain why everything fell apart. Besides, SDS didn’tnhave enough Communists to go around — most membersnof the campus left weren’t disciplined enough to be trusteesnin an asylum, much less run a movement (the wordnrevolution is laughable). Even the folk singers lost their way.nI remember well the last time I saw Tom Paxton and PhilnOchs on stage. It must have been about ’69 or ’70. Thenoccasion was a strike by food service workers. Paxton sang annumber of lovely songs he had just recorded, in the ripeningnbaritone of his later years. Ochs went through his usualnGolden YearsnAmerica has produced few importantnstatesmen and still fewer politicalnphilosophers. The one outstandingnexample of both is John C.nCalhoun, whose long and distinguishedncareer has been chroniclednin the volumes of The Papers ofnJohn C. Calhoun, edited for manynyears now by Clyde Wilson. VolumenXVII (Columbia, SC: Universitynof South Carolina Press), whichnREVISIONSncovers the years 1843-44, is a welcomenaddition to a series that hasnbecome the standard for historicalnediting in the United States. In thisnvolume we are treated to OrestesnBrownson’s enthusiastic endorsementnof Calhoun for President, JosephnSmith’s fire-breathing denunciationnof the South Carolinian’snlimited defense of the Mormon’snrights (Calhoun would do nothingnto interfere with state governments),nand a host of letters from democrat­nnnpaces without much energy before disappearing back stagenfor several minutes. He reappeared dramatically in a goldnlame suit that fit him skintight. He did an entire set ofnrockabilly and doo-wop numbers: “I don’t care what peoplensay, rock and roll is here to stay.” The party was clearly over.nThe next thing I heard of Phil Ochs was that he hadnkilled himself after a fruitless search for a meaningfulnrevolutioq in the Third World. Some popular magazinen{Esquire? Time? does it matter?) headlined the story, “Henain’t marching any more.” They don’t even respect theirnown martyrs. Anyone over 45 today would be tempted tonsay good riddance to Phil, but someone under 40 is morenlikely to look for good in all that happened, rememberingnthe friends who went bad, destroying their career chancesnand even their lives; such a person might even smile, drivingndown the road on the way to the office, when he hearsnRoger McGuinn’s opening chords on “Turn, Turn, Turn”non the ear radio. Ripped off from Scripture by a Communistnas one of many anthems for doomed youth, the songnheld out the promise of peace, of life in tune with thennatural currents of the seasons, and of hope — “I swear it’snnot too late.” But it was too late, even before they started.nThe kids of the 60’s were their parents’ children, for goodnand for ill: intelligent but illiterate — if not downrightnanti-intellectual, materialistic, and generous, willing to worknif the rewards were high and the risks were low. They simplyncould not afford to drop out of a system that had made themnand spoiled them — what would they do without SocialnSecurity? They accepted what they had been told aboutnjustice, equality, and the American Way; they only wantednto see these impossible dreams realized in everyday life.nBorn in cities and suburbs, their imaginations were stillnnourished on pastoral fantasies, and they yearned, as we allnyearn, for clean air and water, for the continuity ofngenerations, and for the wilderness in which they believenour salvation lies. What they are going to do about it, nownthat they are stockbrokers, insurance men, and lawyers isnanybody’s guess, but the one political topic that can alwaysnlure them out of the health club is environmentalism. In 10nyears, when they’ll be running the country, the kids will benreflecting upon the golden days of their youth in the 60’s,nand by 1996 the Greens may control at least one house ofnCongress. To everything there is a season.nic worthies discussing Calhoun’snchances. A lucid and forceful introductionnputs the reader immediatelynin a political context that is farnremoved from our own petty struggles.nFor all the corruption andnplace-seeking of American politicsnin the 1840’s, we cannot help beingnstruck by the level of serious discoursenon which our ancestors conductedntheir public business. Inncomparison, our own national leadersnare “Hyperion to a satyr.”n