elite, no doubt, and even petty degrees ofrnpower tend to corrupt; yet no good end isrnserved by appointing a larger oppressor tornrule over a smaller one. “Experience hasrndemonstrated over and over again,”rnwrote John Taylor of Caroline, “that arnfree government cannot subsist in unionrnwith extravagance, heavy taxation, exclusivernprivileges, or with any establishedrnprocess by which a great amount of propertyrnis annually transferred to unproductivernemployments. Such a system is tyranny.”rnGrassroots Tyranny is false advertisingrnfor individual liberty, a concept that wasrnonce set against collectivist claims forrncentralized power. But one doesn’t needrnto follow Bolick’s argument very far to realizernthat he uses the terms “individualrnliberty” and “individual rights” in a deceptivernway. He does not mean thernrights and liberty of people to be freernfrom federal tyranny: he means the rightrnof the federal government to use libertyrnas an excuse to trample on all lower ordersrnof government, the community, andrnthe family. As for states’ rights, he tellsrnus in the old bromide that “states don’trnhave rights. States have powers. Peoplernhave rights.” Frank Chodorov—individualist,rnanarchist, and champion of capitalismrn—had a more sophisticated view.rnIn the context of a defense of the Southrnagainst the encroachment of civil rightsrnlaws, he said: “As long as anything is leftrnof our tradition of States’ Rights, therndanger of absolutism in this country canrnbe avoided.” Bolick doesn’t seem to havernthe slightest understanding of whyrnChodorov—and multitudes of seriousrnthinkers before him—thought federalismrnwas important.rnBolick’s current preoccupation is litigatingrnfor “school choice,” including taxpayer-rnfunded vouchers for private education.rnHis Institute for Justice has filedrnlawsuits all over the country demandingrntax dollars for low-income students sornthey can go to private school. Cutrnthrough the rhetoric, and you find thatrnthese voucher plans would erase schooldistrictrnlines and subject voucher-takingrnprivate schools to “national standards.”rnWould they do to every community inrnthe country what Bolick did to poorrnYonkers? If nothing else, this bookrnshould help alert people to what “schoolrnchoice” might really mean.rn]effrey Tucker is editor of the FreernMarket, a publication of the Ludwigrnvon Mises Institute.rnCarpe Diemrnby fames ScrutonrnThe Museum of Clear Ideasrnby Donald HallrnNew York: Ticknor and Fields;rn120 pp., $18.95rnYears ago, in his essay “Football Redrnand Baseball Green,” Murray Rossrncontrasted the battlefield dynamics ofrnthe former with the latter’s ostensiblyrnmore pastoral qualities. By virtue of itsrnsubtle but intense mannerisms, its lackrnof time limit and essentially cyclic actionrn—a “summer game” that in fact encompassesrnspring’s renewal and autumn’srndecline—^baseball has long beenrnregarded as the “poet’s game.” (ThernOxford English Dictionary credits Whitmanrnwith the earliest printed instance ofrnthe term “baseball”) Donald Hall, onernof America’s foremost men of letters,rnhas long concurred with this view.rnThough he has written about otherrnsports, it has been baseball—”this dailyrngame,” as he puts it—that has remainedrna preoccupation through four decadesrnof essays, memoirs, children’s books, criticism,rnand poems. Always, there havernbeen poems.rnAs The Museum of Clear Ideas amplyrnshows, baseball is still the poet’s game.rnThe book’s title section falls betweenrntwo shorter sequences of poems—”Baseball”rnand “Extra Innings”—as if betweenrnthe foul lines in Fenway Park. The ninerninnings of “Baseball” set out to explainrnour national pastime to a late Germanrncollage artist. Perhaps collage and poenirnresemble baseball itself, “assemblages ofrnordinary things” that ultimately constituterna kind of order for the viewer,rnreader, or fan. Indeed, the game lendsrnHall a vocabulary to address matters urgentrnbut often difficult to discuss: loss,rnillness, aging, death. When he devotesrnthe first inning of “Baseball” to “falsernstarts,” he alludes not only to a pitcher’srnbalk and to games halted by rain but tornone’s own wrong moves and self-thwartedrndays. As with a balk, he points out,rnthe game continues, we falter and go on,rn”the runners move up.”rnThe poet borrows from the sport’s formalrnstructure as well, employing strictrnnine-syllable lines in nine-line stanzas inrneach of the innings. This overall arrangementrnseems as natural, even inevitable,rnas the layout of a ballpark; thernwhole poem has a pleasing angle to it, anrnodd rightness that fits baseball’s ownrn”enterprise of ongoingness.” This canrnmake the book’s best passages difficult tornquote out of context, akin to goodrnpitches thrown to get out of a tough inning.rnSometimes Hall strikes out thernside, as when he wickedly prophesies thatrnby 2028 more folks will have MFAs thanrnVCRs, forcing the NEA to offer poetsrngovernment subsidies not to write. Morernoften, however, his subject is closer tornhome; in particular. Hall examines thernnature of lost time and the variousrnmeans by which we avoid thinking aboutrnwhere time eventually leads.rnBy the middle innings. Hall’s interestrn—like a tiring pitcher’s—is in maintainingrnsome control over his stuff, “as ifrnlanguage were a grid / for athletes.” Wernsee that his purpose in “Baseball” is notrnto explain how the game is played butrnwhy it’s played and what this can mean:rn”the generation / of old players hangingrnon, the young coming up.” This sense ofrna quickly closing (and perhaps final) seasonrnmurmurs in the poem’s backgroundrnlike a hometown crowd anxious for therndaily rally that never comes. Unlike thernfan, the poet—in real life battling diabetesrnand cancer—cannot say “Wait tillrnnext year.” Still, baseball offers him familiarrnterms for observing the passingrndays:rnBy the railroad goldenrod stiffens;rnasters begin a late pennant drivernin front of the barn; pinkrnhollyhocksrnwilt and sag like teams out of thernrace.rnThe three poems in “Extra Innings” capitalizernon baseball’s (and poetry’s) valuernas “an alternative to days,” much asrnRobert Frost once defined poetry as “arnmomentary stay against confusion.” Butrnthe respite is only momentary; accordingly.rnHall adds a syllable per line, a linernper stanza, a stanza per inning—all of itrnbuilding inexorably toward what will bernthe final out.rnAt the center—or pitcher’s mound,rnas it were—of the book is Hall’s otherrn”daily game,” a poet’s chronicle of workrnand rest, love and loss. “The Museum ofrnClear Ideas” imitates the Odes of Horacernin their praise of common fears and desires,rnthe mingled grief and joy of eachrnday’s “offering of pleasure.” EaglernMARCH 1994/39rnrnrn