A number of years ago, I stumbled across a folder stuffed with some fading and tattered photocopies, sloppily stapled together, and the only reason I didn't toss them out was that someone had written the name "Epictetus" in big magic marker letters on the first page.
I have no idea how I acquired that bundle, but it turned out to be something rather interesting. It was a collection of poems, written by a fellow named Ellis Walker, back in the late 17th century. I had unearthed nothing less than a wonderful summary of The Handbook by Epictetus, written in verse.
For a geek like me, it made my day.
I immediately looked up all I could about the author, but I found very little. I can only suspect the gentleman might have been a Jacobite, which is very much to my liking, and that perhaps his love of Stoicism came from dealing with his own plight. Maybe my romantic imagination, however, is just running away with me.
I did find this dedication from another edition:
To my Honoured Uncle
Mr. Samuel Walker of York.
When I fled to you for shelter, at the breaking out of the present
troubles in Ireland, I took Epictetus for my companion; and found that
both I, and my friend were welcome. You were then pleas'd to express an
high esteem for the author, as he very well deserves it: you prais'd his
notions as great, noble, and sublime, and much exceeding the pitch of
other thinkers. You may remember, I then told you, that as they seem'd
such to me, so I thought they would very well take a poetical dress: you
said the attempt was bold, but withal wish'd it well done. I, hurry'd
on with zeal for an author belov'd by you, and admired by all, have made
the essay a grateful diversion to me, though perhaps I may have pleas'd
you better in admiring the author, than in translating him. However
having attempted it, to whom should I dedicate my endeavours but to you,
whose goodness gave me so kind a reception, whose bounty relieved me in
an undone condition, and afforded me the leisure and opportunity to
shew my desire of pleasing you, if such a trifle as this can any way
pretend to please. Epistles of this kind are for the most part tokens
of gratitude; I know no one in the world, to whom I am so much oblig'd
as I am to you, and I make it my request, that you will accept of this,
as an hearty and thankful acknowledgement, from
Your most humble Servant,
and affectionate nephew
Ellis Walker.
One will occasionally run across old copies of the text in odd places, and sadly that's the end of it. I was fascinated.
This is hardly refined poetry or high art, but it has a pleasant and comforting style to it, rather folksy and sincere. I will find myself reading it again whenever I think fondly of England, and it goes well with a bottle of Newcastle ale and a record by Vaughan Williams.
—7/2009
These 78 poems have now been added into the Stoic Breviary rotation of posts. Perhaps someone will find them helpful.
* * * * *
I.
Respecting man, things are divided thus:
Some do not, and some do belong to us.
Some within compass of our pow'r do fall,
And these are they, which we our own may call.
Such an allegiance all our deeds declare,
Such our endeavours, thoughts, aversions are,
Such our desires; but honour, greatness, wealth,
Our bodies, life, and life's chief comfort, health,
With all things else, with every other kind,
(That own not a dependence on the mind)
Which mortals, with concern, desire or fear,
Are such as are not in our pow'r or sphere.
No comments:
Post a Comment