From The Life of Samuel Johnson:

“The late ingenious Mr. Mickle, some time before his death, wrote me a letter concerning Dr. Johnson, in which he mentions: ‘I was upwards of twelve years acquainted with him, was frequently in his company, always talked with ease to him, and can truly say, that I never received from him one rough word.’ In this letter he relates his having while engaged in translating the Lusiad had a dispute of considerable length with Johnson, who, as usual, declaimed upon the misery and corruption of a sea life, and used this expression: ‘It had been happy for the world, Sir, if your hero Gama, Prince Henry of Portugal, and Columbus, had never been born, or that their schemes had never gone farther than their own imaginations.’

“‘This sentiment,’ says Mr. Mickle, ‘which is to be found in his Introduction to the World Displayed, I, in my Dissertation prefixed to the Lusiad, have controverted; and though authors are said to be bad judges of their own works, l am not ashamed to own to a friend, that that dissertation is my favourite above all that I ever attempted in prose. Next year, when the Lusiad was published, I waited on Dr. Johnson, who addressed me with one of his good-humoured smiles: ‘Well, you have remembered our dispute about Prince Henry, and have cited me too. You have done your part very well indeed: you have made the best of your argument; but I am not convinced yet.’

“‘Before publishing the Lusiad, I sent Mr. Hoole a proof of that part of the introduction in which I make mention of Dr. Johnson, yourself, and other well-wishers to the work, begging it might be shown to Dr. Johnson. This was accordingly done; and in place of the simple mention of him which I had made, he dictated to Mr. Hoole the sentence as it now stands.

“‘Dr. Johnson told me in 1772 that, about twenty years before that time, he himself had a design to translate the Lusiad, of the merit of which he spoke highly, but had been prevented by a number of other engagements.'”

New at IWP Books: Leonard Bacon’s Ph.D.s Male and Female Created He Them. From Sophia Trenton:

…………………………….
And he was very greatly to be pitied,
 And yet more pitiable, alas! he knew it,
For he had been irrevocably committed
 To talk about a thing and not to do it.
Men suffer thus however nimble-witted,
 And find not, though they seek peace and ensue it,
Their minds in a perpetual bereavement,
Wanting the strong embraces of achievement.

Not that he was not highly publicatious,
 Each year a volume more or less he tallied —
The simulacrum of a book, but, gracious!
 What reader e’er so hardy ever rallied
His forces to the sticking-point audacious,
 And faced that ghost of learning thin and pallid?
Ah! never, never shall that reader be
Saving perhaps another Ph.D.,

Who with great show of learning shall refute
 That which already has been self-refuted,
And multiply the matter in dispute,
 Merely to be himself in turn disputed.
So rushes on the circular pursuit,
 And will, I fear, till Gabriel’s horn is tooted.
But the interruption of the Day of Doom
Once o’er, I’m sure the champions will resume.
…………………………….

New at IWP Articles: Jacques Barzun, 1959, The Tyranny of Idealism in Education.

“Education is always inadequate, its pure purpose flawed by those who give it as well as by those who take it. But one element which belongs to it, and which we have suppressed in favor of ideal projections since Wilson and Dewey struggled with an older pedantry, is still there to be used as a tonic and a test: that element is intellectual work, the use of the mind for creating order in a man’s perceptions and thoughts about the world. Everything else, character included, is a by-product, and hence impossible to ‘give’ or even to cultivate directly.

“Nor, in the end, is this effort of intellect to know itself and its surroundings a selfish individual pursuit, though even if it were it would still be the only possible goal of higher education properly so-called. When sufficiently widespread the individual effort does not remain a private good but has a national result, as Wilson, once again, made evident: ‘America will be great among the nations only in proportion as she finds an adequate voice…. She will not be known until she is understood; …her wealth will not interpret her, or her physical power, or the breadth of her uncounted acres, or anything she has builded; but only such revealing speech as will hold the ear and command the heed of other nations and of her own people. Our thinkers must assist her to know herself.’”

New at IWP Articles: Jacques Barzun, 1987, Some Distinctive Characteristics of Modern Scholarship.

“The rampant specialism, an arbitrary and purely social evil, is not recognized for the crabbed guild spirit that it is, and few are bold enough to say that carving out a small domain and exhausting its soil affords as much a chance for protected irresponsibility as for scientific thoroughness.” (Jacques Barzun, Science: The Glorious Entertainment)

William James and Autumn by Leonard Bacon (1940)

Partakers of the life of God,
Drunkards of the Divine — what else? —
We face the serpent or the rod
And buckle truth within our belts —

Truth that strange thing that must describe
The instant feeling of a man,
Nor shirk the emotions of the tribe,
That all must know or no one can.

That, it is felt, the man should feel.
What man? What throb should touch him so,
Who beats at barriers that conceal
The mysteries he can never know?

He fronts the scorpions and the whips,
With such devices as he can,
Dazzled by each apocalypse
That tells him nothing. Man! Man! Man!

O Autumn! What you tell us is
Written on the world’s face in fire.
You touch on instabilities
Of hope gone by, withered desire.

O Autumn! dreaming of the Spring,
Without a spirit or a name,
You face the death that is a Thing
And shudder at the brutal game

That you are called upon to play.
You did not ask for it, but there
Oaks burn and maples blaze away,
And the whole thing is your affair.

O Autumn! Winter’s in the wind
Chill dawn lets loose. There is a tang
In that harsh breath. The sin we sinned
Hurts. And who asks what song we sang?

New at IWP Books: Joaquim Nabuco on Camoens and The Lusiads, addresses delieverd at Yale, Vassar and Cornell in 1908 and 1909. Nabuco was the Brazilian Ambassador to the US at the time.

“Modern reading is so indiscriminate that the popularity of an author is no test of his intrinsic value. One had better not touch Homer, or Dante, or Camoens, if one has contracted the habit of reading to kill time. To enjoy their company we need the contrary habit of reading to treasure up our passing hours in undying recollections. To read the great authors of the past is a duty for all who are real particles of the human intelligence. If one lets his taste for the writings of the day absorb him, he overlooks that sacred duty of watching over the precious deposits of the human mind, of keeping fresh and retentive the memory of our race, of increasing its touch with the past the more it drifts away from us. A humanity, wholly interested in the present, losing gradually its memory, unable to enjoy what should be its greatest pleasure: that of living anew by recollection in its ages of art and poetry and legend, would be a sad sight, however great the material development around it. Any shrinking of human imagination would be fatal to mind and heart, however great might be the increase of discovery.”

New at IWP Books: Luís de Camões, Os Lusíadas.

Jacques Barzun (From Dawn to Decadence): “Os Lusiadas has been translated four times into English, the latest version being in prose. [The one to read is Leonard Bacon’s, in verse.] But there is another means of access that is strongly recommended to anyone who knows Spanish: it is to study in a comparative grammar the forms that differ regularly in Spanish and Portuguese and then to plunge into the poem with a dictionary at hand.”

Luis Vaz de Camões (1572), Canto X, 40

Esta luz é do fogo e das luzentes
Armas com que Albuquerque irá amansando
De Ormuz os Párseos, por seu mal valentes,
Que refusam o jugo honroso e brando.
Ali verão as setas estridentes
Reciprocar-se, a ponta no ar virando
Contra quem as tirou; que Deus peleja
Por quem estende a fé da Madre Igreja.

Richard Fanshawe (1655)

This light is of those flames and glitt’ring Arm’s
Wherewith the stubborn Persians of Ormuze,
Spurning the yoake, and valiant to their harms,
Fierce Alburquerque afterwards subdues.
There shall the hissing Shafts (like living warms)
Turn’d in the Ayre, their shooters Helmets bruize;
That they may see, with Eyes though ne’re so dim,
How God will fight for Them, that fight for Him.

William Julius Mickle (1776)

Another blaze, behold, of fire and arms!
Great Albuquerque awakes the dread alarms:
O’er Ormuz’ walls his thund’ring flames he pours,
While Heav’n, the hero’s guide, indignant show’rs
Their arrows backwards on the Persian foe,
Tearing the breasts and arms that twang’d the bow.

Thomas Moore Musgrave (1826)

And there I see the coruscating arms,
Of the Great Albuquerque, who shall subdue
The Persians of Ormuz, whose bravery
The honorable yoke in vain will strive
To shun. There shall their whizzing arrows fly,
Recoiling with inverted course against
Themselves; for God their pious valor aids
Who fight the glorious fight of Holy Faith.

Thomas Mitchell (1854)

That blaze of light is from flame, and glittering arms,
Wherewith Albuquerque the Persians shall tame,
Of Ormuz for their zeal which only warms,
Against the honoured yoke and milder name:
There shall the hurtling arrows pierce the arms
That bent the bow, turning in air to whence they came,
Against those who pulled the string; for God doth much
For those who spread the faith of our holy church.

John James Aubertin (1878)

This light is of the fire and shining arms,
Wherewith great future Albuquerque subdues
The Ormuz Persians, whom their valour harms,
For yoke benign and honoured they refuse;
The hurtling arrows shall they see in swarms
Retaliate, turning in the air their use
‘Gainst those who shot; for God for him doth war,
Who spreads the faith of Mother Church afar.

Robert Ffrench Duff (1880)

This light reflects the fire and glittering arms
Of Albuquerque, whom he shall expel
By force from Ormuz; all the Persian swarms
Who would his just and gentle yoke repel,
And their complete submission shall compel:
Behold the winged arrows in the air
Shall turn their points against the infidel
Who shoots them off, for God hath special care
Of those who for the faith and Mother church make war.

Richard Francis Burton (1880)

This Light is glance and glare of lucent arm
wherewith your Albuquerque’s hand shall tame
the Hormuz Parsi’s heart which be his harm,
refusing gentle rule as yoke of shame.
There shall he see of shafts the strident swarm,
in air revolving with recurved aim
upon his archer, for our God shall aid,
who holy faith of Mother Church would spread.

Leonard Bacon (1950)

Yon gleam from weapons and from fires burns bright,
Where Albuquerque comes to pacify
The Ormuz Parsees, brave in their despite,
His mild and honest yoke who would deny.
But they will see the whistling arrow flight
Wheel right around, recurving in the sky
On him who shot. God fights upon his side,
Who faith of Mother Church spreads far and wide.

Landeg White (1997)

That light, too, is from Persian Ormuz
From the fires and the gleaming arms
Of Albuquerque as he rebukes them
For scorning his light, honourable yoke.
There they will see their hissing arrows
Turn miraculously in the air
Against the archers — so God ever fights
For His Church and for those who spread its rites.

Luis Vaz de Camões (1572), Cantos IV.95–97

Ó glória de mandar! Ó vã cobiça
Desta vaidade, a quem chamamos Fama!
Ó fraudulento gosto, que se atiça
C’uma aura popular, que honra se chama!
Que castigo tamanho e que justiça
Fazes no peito vão que muito te ama!
Que mortes, que perigos, que tormentas,
Que crueldades neles experimentas!

Dura inquietação d’alma e da vida,
Fonte de desamparos e adultérios,
Sagaz consumidora conhecida
De fazendas, de reinos e de impérios:
Chamam-te ilustre, chamam-te subida,
Sendo dina de infames vitupérios;
Chamam-te Fama e Glória soberana,
Nomes com quem se o povo néscio engana!

A que novos desastres determinas
De levar estes reinos e esta gente?
Que perigos, que mortes lhe destinas
Debaixo dalgum nome preminente?
Que promessas de reinos, e de minas
D’ouro, que lhe farás tão facilmente?
Que famas lhe prometerás? que histórias?
Que triunfos, que palmas, que vitórias?

Richard Fanshawe (1655)

O Glory of commanding! O vain Thirst
Of that fame empty nothing, we call Fame!
O Ignis fatuus, kindled and nurst
With vulgar breath (and this we Honour name)!
What Plagues, what stings, what secret scourges curst,
Torment those Bosomes which thou doest inflame!
What deaths! what dangers! what impetuous forms!
What cruelties on them thy Hand performs!

Fell Tyrant of the soules! life’s swallowing Wave!
Mother of Plunders, and black Rapes unchast!
The secret miner, and the open Grave,
Of Patrimonies, Kingdoms, Empires vast!
They call thee noble, and they call thee Brave:
(Worthy t’have other names upon thee cast!)
They call thee Fame, and Glory soveraign:
Titles, with which the foolish Rout is tane.

What new disaster dire intendest Thou
To lead these Kingdoms, and these Folk into?
What deaths, what Horrors must they swallow now,
Under pretence to spread Religion true?
What holdings forth of golden Mines, and how
Great Kingdoms shall be conquer’d by a Few?
What Fames dost thou advance? what Histories?
What Palms? what Triumphs? and what Victories?

William Julius Mickle (1776)

O frantic thirst of honour and of fame,
The crowd’s blind tribute, a fallacious name;
What stings, what plagues, what secret scourges curs’d,
Torment those bosoms where thy pride is nurs’d!
What dangers threaten, and what deaths destroy
The hapless youth, whom thy vain gleams decoy!
By thee, dire tyrant of the noble mind,
What dreadful woes are pour’d on human kind:
Kingdoms and empires in confusion hurl’d,
What streams of gore have drench’d the hapless world!
Thou dazzling meteor, vain as fleeting air,
What new-dread horror dost thou now prepare!
High sounds thy voice of India’s pearly shore,
Of endless triumphs and of countless store:
Of other worlds so tower’d thy swelling boast,
Thy golden dreams when Paradise was lost,
When thy big promise steep’d the world in gore,
And simple innocence was known no more.
And say, has fame so dear, so dazzling charms?

Thomas Moore Musgrave (1826)

O thirst of pow’r-insatiate appetite
Of vain dominion, which the world calls Fame!
O pleasing phantom, which, inflam’d and fann’d
By popular applause, is Honor nam’d!
What just severity of punishment
Dost thou on thy immod’rate votary
Inflict! What perils, and what cruel deaths,
Are hazarded in thy blood-stain’d career!
Restless disturber both of life and soul, —
Source of most profligate licentiousness; —
Profuse destroyer of the public wealth,
And of all national prosperity!
Yet art thou hail’d, illustrious, and sublime,
Though indignation meriting and hate.
Fame, too, and Glory art thou call’d! — false Lights,
That, dazzling, lead the foolish world astray.
With what disasters hast thou now resolv’d
This happy Lusian State to overwhelm?
What perils, and what deaths hast thou decreed
Under some fatal but resplendent name?
What undiscover’d empires, and what mines
Of gold hast thou with luring promises
Reveal’d? What fame, what high recorded deeds,
What palms, and what triumphant victories?

Edward Quillinan (1853)

O passion of dominion! O fond lust
Of that poor vanity which men call Fame!
O treacherous appetite, whose highest gust
Is vulgar breath that taketh honour’s name!
O fell ambition, terrible but just
Art thou to breasts that cherish most thy flame!
Brief life for them is peril, storm, and rage,
This world a hell and death their heritage.

Shrewd prodigal ! whose riot is the dearth
Of states and principalities opprest;
Plunder and rape are of thy loathly birth;
Thou art alike of life and soul the pest.
High titles greet thee on this slavish earth;
Yet none so vile but they would fit thee best:
But Fame forsooth and Glory thou art styled,
And the blind herd is by a sound beguiled.

Ah, whither wilt thou lead us now astray,
Bent as thou art the fated land to wrong?
To what new forms of pain and death betray
With sounding names enticing us along?
What golden mines, what gorgeous realms of day,
Are now the promise of thy facile tongue?
What wondrous victories, what pomps of glory,
Ovations, triumphs, palms, immortal story?

Thomas Mitchell (1854)

O glory of commanding! Vain desire
For this vanity, which some of us call fame!
O cheating appetite, whereof the fire
By popular breath is fanned, which we honour name!
What chastisement extreme, what justice dire
Dost thou not exact in the breast that loves thy flame!
What deaths! what dangers! and what torments!
What cruelties in such experiments?

Painful inquietude of the soul and of life;
Source of backslidings, and adulteries;
Sagacious well-known consumer and vile thief,
Of men’s estates, of kingdoms and territories!
They call thee illustrious, they call thee chief,
Although deserving of infamous vituperaries:
They call thee fame, and glory sovereign;
Names with which the foolish people are taken in.

Hast thou determined to what new disasters
Thou wilt lead these kingdoms, and these people sailing?
What dangers, — to what deaths must they hasten faster,
Under some eminent name o’er them prevailing?
What promises of kingdoms, mines of their master
Gold, whereof thy promises are never-failing?
What tames, wilt thou not promise them? what histories:
What triumphs? what palms? what laurels, and what victories?

John James Aubertin (1878)

O glory of command: O vain desire
Of this mere vanity which we call fame!
O fancy fraudulent that gathers fire
From popular breath, usurping honour’s name!
What justice and what castigation dire
In the vain breast that blindly loves your aim
Ye work! what deaths and dangers, what distress
And with what cruelties do ye oppress!

Of life and soul cruel inquietude,
Fount of neglect and hence adulteries,
Destructive insect, whose known stings intrude
On lands and kingdoms and on dynasties;
Illustrious called, and as renowned pursued,
Thou art condignly charged with infamies;
They call thee sovereign glory, call thee fame,
And the ignorant are blinded by the name!

To what disasters new dost thou design
To lead away these kingdoms and this race?
What dangers and what deaths dost thou combine
Under some name of eminence and grace?
What kingdoms, or, perchance, what golden mine
Dost promise them with thy so ready face?
What fame hold out to them? what history’s page?
What triumphs, palms, what victories engage?

Robert Ffrench Duff (1880)

O great ambition! vile and base desire
Of idle vanity or earthly fame!
Delusive hopes, which sets our souls on fire! —
We call thee honour, when the mobs acclaim
With feeble praise, and gain an empty name —
What heavy chastisements dost thou impose
On all those men, whose breasts such thoughts inflame,
What troubles, slights, what dangers, deaths and woes!
At every step they feel severe and eruel blows.

O restless perturbation of the soul,
And human life! thou causest desolation,
Adulteries, ruin, where thou hast control,
Thou art the gulf, which swallows fortune, nation,
Empire, and kingdoms by thy fascination!
As grand, sublime and lofty, thou art greeted,
When thou deservest only detestation:
Thy wicked acts, like fame and glory treated,
Illusions spread by which unwary men are cheated.

What new misfortunes dire dost thou intend
Against these realms or men? Are thy designs
To cause them perils or untimely end?
What promise of strange lands or golden mines
Their minds to thy deceitful snares inclines?
Is it some feat, renowned in future days,
Achieved with ease, which with such glitter shines?
What splendid triumph or great victory?
What fame’s immortal palms, and bright undying glory?

Richard Francis Burton (1880)

Oh craving of Command! Oh vain Desire!
of vainest vanity man miscalleth Fame!
Oh fraud’ulent gust, so easy fanned to fire
by breath of vulgar, aping Honour’s name!
What just and dreadful judgment deals thine ire,
to seely souls who overlove thy claim!
What deaths, what direful risks, what agonies
wherewith thou guerd’onest them, thy fitting prize!

Thou dour disturber of man’s sprite and life,
fount of backsliding and adultery,
sagacious waster, and consummate thief
of subjects, kingdoms, treasure, empery:
They hail thee noble, and they hail thee chief,
though digne of all indignities thou be;
they call thee Fame and Glory sovereign,
words, words, the heart of silly herd to gain!

‘What new disaster dost thou here design?
What horror for our realm and race invent?
What unheard dangers or what deaths condign,
veiled by some name that soundeth excellent?
What bribe of gorgeous reign, and golden mine,
whose ready offer is so rarely meant?
What Fame hast promised them? what pride of story?
What palms? what triumphs? what victorious glory?

Leonard Bacon (1950)

Glory of empire! Most unfruitful lust
After the vanity that men call fame!
It kindles still, the hypocritic gust,
By rumor, which as honor men acclaim.
What thy vast vengeance and thy sentence just
On the vain heart that greatly loves thy name!
What death, what peril, tempest, cruel woe,
Dost thou decree that he must undergo!

Dreadful disquiet of his life and soul!
Spring of adultery and abandonment,
Empires and realms and wealth consuming whole,
And, as we know, only too provident!
Thy powers for high and noble men extol,
More worthy of their curse malevolent,
And call thee fame and glory’s plenitude,
Names whereby witless men their souls delude.

What new disasters dost thou now prepare
Against these kingdoms and against their seed?
What peril and what death for them to bear,
Under some mighty name, hast thou decreed?
What mines of gold now dost thou promise fair?
What kingdoms? — promise lightly made indeed!
What fame dost thou propose? What legend glorious?
What palm? What triumph? And what war victorious?

Landeg White (1997)

O pride of power! O futile lust
For that vanity known as fame!
That hollow conceit which puffs itself up
And which popular cant calls honour!
What punishment, what poetic justice,
You exact on souls that pursue you!
To what deaths, what miseries you condemn
Your heroes! What pains you inflict on them!

You wreck all peace of soul and body,
You promote separation and adultery;
Subtly, manifestly, you consume
The wealth of kingdoms and empires!
They call distinction, they call honour
What deserves ridicule and contempt;
They talk of glory and eternal fame,
And men are driven frantic by a name!

To what new catastrophes do you plan
To drag this kingdom and these people?
What perils, what deaths have you in store
Under what magniloquent title?
What visions of kingdoms and gold-mines
Will you guide them to infallibly?
What fame do you promise them? What stories?
What conquests and processions? What glories?