to trial because, of course, any open andrnfair judicial proceeding would have establishedrnbevond any doubt that secessionrnb- state government from the llnionrnis not treason. Who knows but that wernmight have here a rediscovered hero ofrnthe future, when the impatience of thernpeople with the ever-encroaching staternhas reached its limit, hi the meantime,rnif you wish to begin to understand thernstory of our country, I recommend thatrnvou read the letter Jeff Davis wrote onrnJanuarv 20, 1861, to his northern friendrnFranklin Pierce, as well as his farewellrnspeech to the Senate the following day asrnhe withdrew to join his seceding state:rn”W’c recur to the principles upon whichrnour government was founded. We butrntread in the path of our fathers when wernproclaim our independence.” Or his inauguralrnaddress on February 18 of thernsame critical year: “Our present conditionrn. . . illustrates the American idearnthat goernments rest upon the consentrnof the go’erned. . . . We have changedrnthe constituent parts, but not the systemrnof our government. The Constitutionrnformed by our fathers is that of thesernConfederate States.”rnClyde Wilson is a professor of historyrnat the University of South CaroUnarnand editor of The Papers ofrnJohn C. Calhoun.rnPluggersrnby R.S. GwynnrnDark Horses: New Poemsrnby X.J. KennedyrnBaltimore: The ]ohnsrnHopkins University Press;rn72 pp., $10.95rnby Fred ChappellrnBaton Rouge: LouisianarnState University Press;rn64 pp., $15.95rnThere is a cartoon that I see fromrntime to time called “Pluggers,” arnone-panel affair offering variations on arnsingle theme: “You’re a plugger if. . . .”rnOne can qualify as a plugger by virtue ofrnhaving stacked a woodpile taller than hisrnhouse; loaded a freezer full of individualrnservings of delicious entrees; arrangedrnall bills, canceled checks, and receipts inrnthe exact order of Form 1040; and so on.rnIt’s a variation on the tortoise and harernethos: slow and steady wins the race. Thernrepeated moral of “Pluggers” takes arnclear slap at the procrastinator, the prodigy,rnthe flash in the pan, and the one-hitrnwonder and serves as an anodyne to thernpersistent plodder, the commission-onlyrnman, and all those faced with seeminglyrnendless tasks who have learned thatrnmountains get reduced to molehills onernpebble at a time.rnAre most poets pluggers? Alas, no.rnWhere are the Younger Poets of yesteryear?rnGone for tenure, ever’ one. Inrnmost cases it seems that the work ethicrnvanishes almost as quickly as inspiration,rnand most mid- and late-career collectionsrnseem content merely to reiteraternold themes, in language and formsrnwhose laxity reflects the sedentarinessrnand safety of professional sinecures: thernbooks keep coming, but they seem morernattuned to the tastes of deans and promotionrncommittees than to those of discriminatingrnreaders. For the poet \’hornhas published a volume of selected orrncollected poems and garnered a majorrnprize or two, what incentive remains tornequal or surpass one’s early standards?rnPride would seem the obvious answer,rnbut that seems a commodity in increasinglyrnshort supply these days. In such arnclimate, we should be doubly gratefulrnfor collections like these by X.J. Kennedrnand Fred Chappell.rnX.J. Kennedy’s Cross Ties: SelectedrnPoems won the Los Angeles Times awardrnfor best book of poetry in 1985. Kennedy,rnwho has spread his career over arnhugely successful set of literature textbooksrnand other editorial chores, hasrnnever been a prolific poet, and I (likernmany others, I suspect) was pleased tornsee Dark Horses, a substantial collectionrnof new poems. Kennedy’s accustomedrnstance—Irish-American Everyman, skepticalrnand cagey—and his established skillrnas a craftsman in whose work plainspokenrnidiom and the demands of rhvmernand meter never seem at odds are bothrnmuch in evidence here. He ranges fromrna choice sequence of epitaphs {Writer: “1rnwho once dealt in words and set greatrnstore / On words have, in a word or two,rnno more”) to longer pieces like “BlackrnVelvet Art,” which begins with this savoryrnslice of American pie:rnOn a corner in rainriddledrnLewiston blooms a standrnOf giant paintings, guaranteedrnmade by hand:rnFlvis with hairdo laced w ith brightrngold nimbus,rnJesus with heart aflame, arms widernto blessrnYour pickup truck, a leopardrncrouched to leaprnUpon a bathing beautv soundrnasleep,rnAnd all resplendent on arnjet-deep back-rnGround of profoundly interstellarrnblack.rnBlacker than nearb’ space. . . .rnKennedy is perhaps best known as arnsocial satirist whose barbs rarely wound,rnflung as they are with immense good willrnand humor. One poem in Dark Horsesrnpurports to be spoken by the answeringrnmachine at Emily Dickinson’s homern(did the poet consider the additionalrnirony that Ms. Dickinson was never out?);rnanother, “On Being Accused of Wit,”rnbegins, “No, I am witless.” Nccrtheless,rnas the book’s title perhaps implies, lierernKennedy’s vision has become more grimlyrnurban and has taken on Ilogarthianrnshadings: a beaten rat tossed from a jailrnwindow occasions an epiphany (“thatrnurge to kill / And throw out and cleanrnhouse”) in a cancer-ridden woman onrnher way to receive radiation therapy; anrn”Empty House Singing to Itself” is notrnlikely to deter even “the dimmestbrainedrnhousebreaker”; we impotcntlvrnwatch “On the Square” as a “dealer inrncrack unjacknifes from a bench. / Twitchesrnnumb muscles, makes stiff fingersrnclench, / A switchblade gleam / In hisrnright hand, to sway / 0cr a huge-eyedrnboy. . . .” Even the mortgaged bastionsrnof suburbia provide only “a safer place torndie/Where privacies are clung to like beliefsrn/ And separate houses wall in separaterngriefs.” But all is not downside.rnOne of Kennedy’s more upbeat passagesrncould serve as the credo of all true plug-rnBlind chance not wit enticesrnwords to sta’rnAnd recognizing luck is artificernThat comes unlearned. The restrnis taking pridernIn daily labor. This and only this.rnOn keyboards sweat alone makesrnfingers glide.rnIn the same vear that Kennedy wasrnFEBRUARY 1994/31rnrnrn