way. One of the few good things aboutnthe lit biz is that it’s only the good stuffnthat matters; the rest is forgotten quicklynenough.nThe work of both these men, howeverndissimilar and even contradictorynin origin and impulse, is likely tonremain with us for a long time.nDavid R. Slavitt is a poet living innPhiladelphia.nAn American Burkenby Paul T. HornaknCollected Letters ofnJohn Randolph of Roanoke tonDr. John Brockenbrough,n1812-1833nedited by Kenneth ShoreynNew ‘Brunswick, N/;nTransaction Books; $28.95nTohn Randolph (1773-1833) survivesnI in America’s footnotes as a colorfulncontrarian, and the Gore Vidal schoolnof historiography pants at his duel withnHenry Clay and his taste for opium. Anmaster rhetorician, he left a long list ofnchoice barbs, nearly all concocted onnthe spur of the moment. James Kilpatrickncharacterized the errant JudgenAlcee Hastings using Randolph’s swipenat Edward Livingston: “He is a man ofnsplendid abilities, but utterly corrupt.nLike rotten mackerel by moonlight, henboth shines and stinks.” But to most thensenator from southern Virginia whonargued for slavery and against westwardnexpansion is as dead as his causes. Ofnthe two biographies remaining in circulation,none is by a sworn enemy, HenrynAdams. The other, favorable treatmentnof his life is by Russell Kirk, series editornof Transaction’s Library of ConservativenThought, of which this collection is thenpremier volume. Edited by formernNational Review critic KennethnShorey, the Randolph letters to JohnnBrockenbrough, a physician and banker,nshould if nothing else further thenquirky Southerner’s temperamentalnreputation. Illness was a governing factornall his adult life. No one knows fornsure what disease he contracted at.agen19, but it ended his romance with anRichmond belle, turned him grotesquelynlean, and bent his taste ton40/CHRONICLESncrackers and malt liquor for days at antime. Brockenbrough’s medical backgroundnno doubt explains why thesenletters read like a catalog of ailments. “Inhave followed your advice with sensiblenbenefit,” Randolph writes from thenbackwoods of Roanoke in 1827, “butnnothing seems to relieve the anxiety,ndistress, and languor to which 1 am bynturns subjected, or the pains, rheumaticnor gouty, that are continually flyingnabout me.” Diarrhea, influenza,ncoughs, limps, depression: he was sicknmore than he was well. Yet he deliversnthe litany of his disease with the imaginativenflair of an actor, as thoughncraving applause as well as pity fromnhis audience of one. Nor is sickbed artnthe only charm of these letters. Theyncomplain with equal vigor of mirynroads, shabby inns, congressional wags,nand strutting bumpkins, a Hogarthnbackdrop for the great traditionalist’snpaeans to the vanishing world of thengenteel planter.nHow much of the wail he loosednagainst the tide of change was an echonof debility? Although Randolph abundantlyndocuments the ills of a bodynbilious and melancholic, his quick andncapacious mind, sanguine always,nshines in every letter. They show himnto be a perfect early American examplenof what Kirk refers to as “the politicalnand moral attitude called conservatism.”nThe attitude, he writes, does notnspring from theories, but from “custom,nconvention, continuity. . . .nBeing disdainful of ideology, the conservativencast of mind has no presumptuousncrib, the fond creation of somenTerrible Simplifier, to which the devo­ntee may repair whenever in doubt.”nDragging himself to Congress throughn30 years of declining health, Randolphnconsistently fought for limited government,nthe rule of law, and the ancientnprerogatives of property. Even his abolitionistnopponents acknowledged henwas a good man. He defended slaverynbecause there were “200 mouths look­nnning up to me for food … it would benmore difficult to abandon them to thencruel fate which our laws would consignnthem, than to suffer with them.”nThe letters, of course, brief as they are,ntruncate Randolph’s already Byzantinenreasoning, but they suggest the depthnof his thought and its sometimes surprisingnturns. To quote a few:nAmerican Democracyn”We hug our lousy cloaks aroundnus, take another chaw of tubbaker, floatnthe room with nastiness, or ruin thengrate and fire-irons, where they happennnot to be rusty, and try conclusionsnupon constitutional points.”nCharityn”There is not a human being that Inwould hurt if it were in my power; notneven Bonaparte.”nThe Westn”Surely that must be the Yahoo’snparadise, where he can get dead drunknfor the hundredth part of a dollar.”nPatriotismn”A mighty precious thing when itncosts nothing, but the mass of mankindnthink it a very foolish thing when itncurtails their self-indulgence.”nOld Agen”That ‘pliability of man’s spirit’nwhich yields him up to illusions of thenideal world, is gone from me for ever.”nAs Kirk says, the impression we formnis of a peculiar psychology, a “cast ofnmind” backward-looking, negativenabout human possibility but positivenabout human worth, clear-eyed, alert,nfiercely independent. Future books innthe series will introduce or reintroducenthe writings of the moralist W.H. Mallock,nthe Victorian jurist James FitzgeraldnStephen, and others, to a readingnpublic raised on Rooseveltian liberalism.nIt will be interesting to see whethernsuch unfashionable names “take” inntimes that label William F. Buckley Jr.na fascist. The choice of Randolph tonopen — perhaps the word is ignite —nthe series is excellent strategy. LikenBuckley, where he fails to persuade henalways dazzles; he is compellinglynmemorable, and memory is, as someonenhas said, the first step to understanding.nPaul T. Homak has written for ThenNew York Times, National Review,nand Reason.n