Tallis Steelyard

Guest Post: Jim Webster

~ beetleypete ~ 85 Comments

Today, I am delighted to feature another guest post from Jim Webster. He has kindly come up with a sequel to his previous story concerning a hermit who lives in a Norfolk village. Any similarity to my life in Beetley is of course intentional.

The continuing adventures of the hermit of Beetfield.

I have recounted before how I came to meet the celebrated Hermit of Beetfield. On my return to Port Naain I confess I didn’t give much more thought to him. I’d enjoyed his company and had been impressed with his wit and wisdom. What more can one ask of a hermit?
Still should you wish to know more of our meeting it is all recounted at; https://beetleypete.com/2020/04/02/featured-blogger-jim-webster/

You know how it is, life closes in on a chap. You get busy and before you’ve noticed a year or so has gone by. Obviously you have lived every day of it. It’s not as if you curled up in bed and next morning got up to discover a year had past. Still that period was a hectic time for me. I built up my practice, gathered more patrons, cemented my position as the leading poet of my generation, and got married.

Thus I wasn’t entirely surprised when I arrived home one evening to find a letter on the cabin table. People I had never importuned were starting to write asking me to perform.

Shena gestured at it, “It arrived just after I got back from the Old Esplanade. It was delivered by a deck hand from a night soil barge.”
To be fair I didn’t have to ask how she knew his trade. It rather announces itself. I must admit I rather expected some witticism about how I was starting to attract a higher class of patron. After all it’s the sort of remark I would have made had it been Lancet or one of the others getting such a missive. She merely said, “He said it was from Beetfield.”
I opened the letter with a clear conscience. After all it was some years since I had been in the hamlet of Beetfield. I cannot imagine them, after all this time, deciding that I was the obvious person to blame for the spoons going missing.

As an aside, this can be a problem. Certainly when I first started out following my muse, I was young and doubtless had a lean and hungry look. This was easily explained. I was normally hungry and that ensured I remained lean. But it meant that I was the obvious person to blame when something went missing in a house where I had recently performed.

The fact I had been constantly under the eye of a maid, and had only been in two rooms, made no difference. In one instance I was arrested in the street by the watch for stealing a four poster bed. It must be said that the two watchmen they seemed to consider it a somewhat unlikely feat, but they escorted me to the house where the accusation had been made.

The lady of the house was furious. Apparently the bed in the guest bedroom had disappeared. The staff had hunted throughout the house and could not find it and were sure that it was not there. This I can believe, a four poster bed isn’t something one can easily overlook.

Apparently they had decided it had to be me, because both the lady and all the staff had been present in the house for the entire day and I was the only stranger who had entered. The watchmen took notes and to be fair to them, asked what I would consider pertinent questions.

One I particularly liked was, “Did you see Mister Steelyard with the bed?”

“No, I assume he concealed it somehow.”

Things were getting vituperative, with the lady of the house pouring scorn on both me, and the watchmen for their scepticism, when her husband arrived. He was accompanied by a dray and six workmen. They had with him a four poster bed. His wife was triumphant.

“So you recovered it from wherever this villain had hidden it?”
“No dear, I collected from Massop’s. When you said your mother was coming to stay I thought I’d better check the bed. One of the posts was a little lose. So I contacted Massop and his men arrived three days ago and took it away to fix.”

Madam was mortified. As the watchmen and I tiptoed quietly out, she, with the support of the senior downstairs staff, were berating her husband for going out of his way to humiliate them. As one of the watchmen commented, “How in Aea’s name can six men carry a four poster bed out of the house without anybody noticing?”

But still, back to the letter. It was from the Landlady of the New Inn at Beetfield. Apparently her clientele remembered me fondly and would be delighted if I could drop in soon. Also, added to the bottom, as if it was something that she was mentioning in passing, was the comment that perhaps I could talk to the hermit for them.

Now Beetfield is not the easiest place to get to, even though it isn’t far from Port Naain. So eventually I did what I’d done on the previous occasion, I signed on as a deck hand on a night soil barge. It’s not a prestigious job, but given that my finances were in their usual parlous condition it seemed the sensible thing to do. So barely two days after getting the letter, I walked into the New Inn at Beetfield and was greeted by a smiling landlady who handed me a glass of ale without even asking me for money.

As I sipped her ale, I asked what exactly she wanted me to do.

“Well, Tallis, if you could just tell a couple of stories and perhaps give us a poem or two. Then when the time comes, if you could feed the hermit and listen to his new plans.”

“What’s wrong with his new plans?”

“Well we feel that it would make sense for somebody from outside the area to listen to them. We’d like an unbiased opinion.”
Well that seemed easy enough. As her guests came in I prepared myself and gave them what the landlady had asked for. I told them the tale of the four poster bed and a couple of other tales. Then I gave them some poems, one tragic, two comic. When my meal was brought to the table, I tucked in with enthusiasm. The rich spicy Toelar cooking was as good as I remembered it. Most of the others were eating at the same time, and we chatted backwards and forwards as we dined.

I’d just finished when there was an eldritch wailing from outside. I put down my empty glass. “I assume that is the hermit saying that he’s ready for his meal?”

The landlady appeared with a basket holding a pan of stew (hot in both senses of the word, Toelar cooking is known for the liberal use of hot spices) a bottle of beer and a good chunk of bread and butter. I took the basket and set off along the path through the woods, following the cacophonous wailing to the hermit’s abode.

I finally arrived at the well-built stone hut where the hermit lived and he put down his bagpipes and welcomed me warmly. As he ate he would ask me questions as to what I’d been doing. Then as he wiped the pan clean with the last of the bread I asked him what his plans were.

Here he became thoughtful. “Well you see Tallis, I’m wondering whether Beetfield needs something more than a hermit to draw people.”

I could see where he was coming from. I think the hermit drew people from a ten mile radius, but I’d never heard his name mentioned in Port Naain. Indeed I might well be the only person in the city who had heard of him.

“So what were you thinking of trying?”
“Well I thought I might become a mage.”

I confess that rather surprised me. He wasn’t an old man, but he was definitely in his middle years. As far as I knew, becoming a mage was something that took a lifetime of study.

“Have you any experience?”
“No, but I’d never had any experience of being a hermit before I became a hermit.”

Again from what I’d been told, this also was entirely true. Still I felt that becoming accepted as a mage was a somewhat more arduous process than becoming a hermit. Indeed in Port Naain, people studied for academic degrees and this was merely the start of their road. Admittedly there were other, often less savoury types, who replaced academia with sordid experimentation in a dingy boarding house bedroom, but the latter rarely ended well.

On the other hand, I could see a mage being a positive draw. “Have you any knowledge of herbs or minor cantrips?”

“None really, other than what is needed for cooking.”

“So what attracted you to being a mage?”

“Well,” and here he paused, “I thought I could have a wizard’s tower. It would be a landmark. If I make it tall enough, in this area it could be seen from miles around.”

Again I couldn’t fault his thinking. “What have you in mind? Something tall and dark with flames at the top?”

“I’d thought something more classical in a pleasant light-coloured stone would go with the area. Also I want to attract people, not scare them off.”
“But how would you build it?”

“That’s the clever thing. When I become a mage, I’ll build it using magic.”

It struck me that he’d got everything thought out.

“So how are you going to learn to do magic?”

“That’s the really clever bit, Tallis. When I became a hermit I sort of picked up hermitting as I went along. Also nobody really expects you to do anything, they just want you to be wise. So when I’m a mage, I’ll just be wise, but with my tower, I’ll be wise at altitude.”

“But what happens when somebody comes along and asks you to do something magical?”

“Oh I’ve thought of that. I can tell them to leave me for a day whilst I meditate and when they’re gone we’ve got two or three people in the area who are good with herbs. As for love philtres, soap and water often works as well as anything a witch can do.”
I persisted, “But what if they want serious magic?”
“I can talk them out of it. I’ll suggest other ways of doing the same thing, or if that fails, convince them that it’s unethical. If that fails I’ll have them bring me obscure ingredients found only in distant parts.”

Well he certainly seemed to have given the various issues proper consideration. I asked him, “So why does the landlady and others want my advice?”
“Well they suspect that I can smoothly talk them into things, but you, being a poet, are inoculated against it.”

I confess that this was a line of reasoning I hadn’t encountered before. “So what’s the first phase?”
“Making a start on the tower. I was thinking that we could add three more stories to my hut here, but in timber. I’d leave this roof on and have a stair up the outside. It’s more wizardly.” He paused briefly. “Apparently if you tell the landlady at the New Inn you think it’s a good plan, there is a boat that’s run aground on the shores of the estuary. They’ll rob the timber off that and make a start on the tower.”

I took the basket, pan and empty bottle back to the New Inn.

The landlady was waiting for me. “Well, is it a good plan?”

“Has he made a good hermit?”

Without pausing she replied, “Yes.”

“Then I would suggest you go with his plan then, it strikes me he’ll be a lot better mage that a lot of those we have in Port Naain.”

Jim Webster is just this guy.

I’ve got two blogs, one for Tallis Steelyard

https://tallissteelyard.wordpress.com/

Another blog for my assorted rural reminiscences and ponderings

https://jandbvwebster.wordpress.com/

I’ve also got two books to promote, available as ebooks or paperbacks

The first is a tale from Tallis Steelyard

And if you buy your ebooks from elsewhere than Amazon

https://books2read.com/u/mldAeB

Tallis Steelyard. A Fear of Heights.

In this novel, recounted by Tallis Steelyard in his own inimitable manner, we discover what happens when the hierarchy plots to take control of the Shrine to Aea in her Aspect as the Personification of Tempered Enthusiasm. Will the incumbent be exiled to a minor fane in the far north? Will Tallis end up having to do a proper job? Does ordination and elevation beckon for Maljie?
This story includes the Idiosyncratic Diaconate, night soil carts, Partannese bandit chieftains, a stylite, a large dog and some over-spiced food. On top of this we have not one but two Autocephalous Patriarchs and a theologically sanctioned beggar.

Then I have

And if you buy your ebooks from other than Amazon
https://books2read.com/u/md7XEX

Look what the cat brought in.

Yet more observations on rural life. We have cattle, environmentalists, a plethora of new thinking as Defra plunges into the new world but more importantly we still have our Loyal Border Collie, Sal. She is joined in a starring role by Billy, the newly arrived farm cat. As well as this we have diversification opportunities for those wishing to serve niche markets, living in the past, and the secret of perfect hair.

Please use the links to check out Jim’s books, and more of his writing on both blogs.

Blogtour: A Fear Of Heights by Tallis Steelyard

~ beetleypete ~ 24 Comments

Today I have the opportunity to feature the new book from Jim Webster. The latest adventure from Tallis Steelyard in Port Naain.

‘A Fear Of Heights’.

And now a brief note from Jim Webster. It’s really just to inform you that
I’ve just published a full Tallis Steelyard novel. Yes the rumours are true.
Tallis Steelyard, the man who considered jotting down a couple of anecdotes
to be ridiculously hard work, and considered the novella form to be the very
pinnacle of literary labour, has been cozened into producing a novel.

In this novel, recounted by Tallis Steelyard in his own inimitable manner,
we discover what happens when the hierarchy plots to take control of the
Shrine to Aea in her Aspect as the Personification of Tempered Enthusiasm.
Will the incumbent be exiled to a minor fane in the far north? Will Tallis
end up having to do a proper job? Does ordination and elevation beckon for
Maljie?
This story includes the Idiosyncratic Diaconate, night soil carts,
Partannese bandit chieftains, a stylite, a large dog and some over-spiced
food. On top of this we have not one but two Autocephalous Patriarchs and a
theologically sanctioned beggar.

Available both for kindle and in Paperback.

Here is the story that accompanies this blog tour.

Quiet and restrained.

Had I not been there I might not have believed it, but I was there so I do.
Maljie, sounding entirely sensible, commented that now some of the better
grocers and provisions merchants were delivering into her part of the city,
it no longer made sense to go into the market to do one’s own shopping. It
must be mentioned, if only in passing, that she never in point of fact
intimated that it was because she was growing old or any nonsense like that.
It was just so much more sensible and convenient. Especially when we were at
that time of year when there is often so much illness about.
So every week she or Margarita would send a mendicant with their order, and
every week the cart would pull up outside their house and deliver. It was
all most civilised and the system is becoming more popular generally,
especially amongst those of a certain age.
Obviously I have many patrons who will do something similar. They will have
their maid do the shopping. Cook will give the maid the order and the young
woman will go out and purchase the appropriate items. If the order is large,
they may send a footman or gardener with her. If it is very large, the
assumption is that the emporium will deliver. Other household items are
dealt with in much the same manner. The housekeeper will send a maid out to
purchase black lead, spare collars, soap, buttons and a couple more dickeys
for the lady’s husband. Indeed the only thing Madam will purchase in person
are her own clothes.
The advantage of the system my patrons use is that the maids who do this job
are both experienced and motivated. Those who do the deliveries for various
emporia often lack both qualities.
A friend of mine called Cragan has in the past been employed to do the job
delivering. In all honesty he didn’t enjoy it. Firstly there are the lists
provided by the customer. The shopkeeper will give the list to the most
junior member of staff. This person will go round the shop and the warehouse
at the back to put the order together. If the list is clearly written, and
the junior employee confident in their literacy, this system can work well.
Even ignoring misspellings and hand writing, (caster sugar and castor oil
should not be easily confused) there are the times when one runs headlong
into the sink of ignorance which is the natural state of being of some of
the juniors Cragan was forced to work with. It was he who was forced to
explain to a customer why the individual who had packed the boxes had
substituted female sanitary products for the crème brûlée she had ordered.
But even if the junior employee is assiduous, efficient, and well-motivated,
(an apparently rare combination) the best you can hope for is that they will
send you what you have put on the list.
One of the best juniors Cragan has ever worked with pulled him to one side
and commented that the customer had wanted one sack of porridge oats. The
sacks they sold were so heavy that Cragan could just about lift them, with
care. On the other hand the shop did have smaller bags such as you could
hold in one hand. Did Cragan have any idea which his customer might prefer?
Cragan remembered that she was a widow woman, living alone. He took the
small bag, only to be sent away with a flea in her ear as she had been
buying the porridge oats for her son, who was responsible for providing
breakfast for a score of workmen engaged in clearing away the fire damaged
ruins of a house nearby.
But perhaps the biggest disadvantage of this system is that you never spot
the real bargains. For example, Maggin’s will regularly get in some Colbig
wheels. Made in Colbig, a town far to the east across the mountains, deep in
barbaricum. These are cheeses a yard across and a two hand spans deep, but
they are initially made in thinner plates. With the ‘Traditional,’ the
bottom plate will be smeared with honey berries, then the middle plate
placed in top, again smeared with honey berries, and then the top plate put
on, the whole garnished with roasted and salted nuts, bound tightly in linen
and left to mature for a year or so. You can also purchase the “Black Seal”,
which is made in exactly the same manner but is matured for three years. The
‘White Seal’ is made without rind and is matured under nut oil for a full
five years.
Finally there is the “Demon’s Breath”, made with Devil’s Pomatum in place of
honey berries and fire nuts in place of the usual selection, then matured
for six months. Apparently attempts to get it mature for longer have
resulted in cases of spontaneous combustion.
I confess I rarely shop in Maggin’s. This is not because of any doubts as to
the quality. Maggins purchase only the best. Produce can travel considerable
distances to get there. But there is the matter of cost. To buy a Colbig
Wheel would cost me perhaps two or three month’s earnings. Yet I was walking
past as they were unloading a dray. Two young fools, racing their
Commendable Monocycles, went too close to the horses, spooking them. The
horses set off, showering cheeses the length of the street. I helped sort
out the mess and sweep up. Indeed I recognised the two injudicious
monocyclists as a pair who had caused chaos as they plunged through the
dancers of the Shrine of Aea in her Aspect as the Personification of
Chastity as the girls processed along Ropewalk in a terpsichorean fashion.
It took my cousin Thela nearly an hour to sort the girls out, disentangle
costumes, and generally restore hair and make-up. Thus I had no inhibitions
about mentioning their names to the manager. On the strength of that old
Maggin himself gave me a full Black Seal. A fair number of the other wheels
were put on sale at a substantial discount because the layers had split
apart due to the impact. There was a queue of buyers all that day.
But back to the point. One has to consider the carters who do the
deliveries. Cragan commented to me that in his father’s day it was a most
genteel trade. One would take out a cart load and would take all day
delivering. During this time you could find yourself drinking tea, putting
up shelves, or helping the maid move furniture into the spare room. Now, the
service has become fashionable and you are always rushing. You set off with
a full cart and have barely an hour to make the deliveries before they want
you back at the emporium for the next cart load. He commented that if ever
they organise chariot racing at the race course, the first generation of
charioteers will all have learned their trade driving the grocery delivery
carts.
Still, Maljie stuck with her sensible decision. In winter I could see how
the disadvantages were outweighed by the advantages. Indeed she behaved with
absolute decorum for several months, venturing out rarely and even then
acted in a sober and reserved manner as befits a lady of her maturity.
It was only recently that I chanced to meet Maljie and a number of her
friends in the street. I was alerted to the fact that something was
happening by the music I could hear. As I waited there was a procession of
fiddlers, bladder pipe players, and dancers. Leading the dancing was a
kimono clad Maljie. She and her collaborators had tankards filled with raw
spirit flavoured with juniper berries. As they danced down the street
towards me, Maljie waved her tankard in my direction. “Hello Tallis, it’s
spring.”

You can find out more about Tallis and his world by visiting the main blog.
https://tallissteelyard.wordpress.com/

Blogger’s Books: Jim Webster

~ beetleypete ~ 18 Comments

Jim’s tales of Port Naain and the poet Tallis Steelyard are always a delight. He also includes so many memorable characters and their escapades, that it is very easy to become invested in them. His latest book features the delightful Maljie. At only 81 pages it is a short and easy read, costing just 99p in the Kindle version.

It is available from Amazon of course, where you can find more of his books to delight you.

If you would like to see more about any of the Port Naain adventures, here is a link to Jim’s blog. https://tallissteelyard.wordpress.com/

Blog Tour: Jim Webster

~ beetleypete ~ 27 Comments

I am participating in a blog tour featuring writer and blogger, Jim Webster.
Here is a new story he has written, and information about two new books.


Not really a living

Some people will drift into the family business and have no aptitude for it. This can lead to the saddening sight of a person drifting through their existence, living a life that isn’t really their own. On the other hand some can be perfectly suited to the trade they have inherited but still cannot make a living.

Sallia Halfstep was one such. Her father was an executioner. Indeed he was not a mere hangman, and not for him the task of chaining the victim to the drowning posts. Executioner Halfstep was a prince amongst executioners. He used the sword. None of that nonsense about axes and blocks, when he operated, his victim knelt erect and Halfstep stood behind him, swung the sword and took off the head at the neck with one blow. You read of those whose enemies have paid to have the victim slain with a score of strokes with a blunt blade, but nobody ever even hinted that you could bribe Halfstep. In his hands you left this life so swiftly that you had no time for sightseeing on the journey.

To be honest I cannot say now whether he put parental pressure on his daughter to follow in his bloody footsteps or whether she reached for the blade of her own volition. Certainly she was perfectly competent, and living proof that it isn’t the weight and power (although they shouldn’t be entirely discounted) that matter, skill, speed and dexterity count as well. I had the privilege of seeing her at work. She stood barefoot on the scaffold, naked to the waist, wearing only the leather trousers of her trade. The one consolation to her gender was that she kept her hair tucked back with a headscarf. She appeared to lean casually on her sword. The condemned woman was led to the place of execution, knelt on the spot marked, and was blindfolded. The priestess of Aea said a few words and then stepped back. Even as the victim was thanking her for the consoling homily, Sallia struck. There was one swift fluid movement, the sword was a blur of steel, and the head tumbled to the floor.

The problem is that whilst her role was well remunerated on every occasion she performed it, she was not called upon to perform her chosen task all that often. Lesser rofessionals made a living with hangings, drownings, and extra-curricular beatings. An entire year could pass before Sallia was called upon to do her duty.

She did try to cast her net wider. For a while she would hire out to Partannese nobles who were entitled to wield high, low, and middle justice. After a few months she abandoned this trade. Some of her employers were not above convicting an innocent traveller purely because they wanted the kudos of employing the best. (Some also seemed to gain an nhealthy pleasure from the fountains of blood and were it not for the sword she carried, Sallia might have had trouble from those who found blood-slick flesh erotic. One such situation led to a second, impromptu execution, for which Sallia received no payment, given that it was the paymaster she had executed.) She also touted for work in other cities with respectable law-enforcement. Both Avitas and Prae Ducis were happy to employ her, but neither was willing to pay out of pocket expenses, so she had to let them batch up their capital cases until there were enough to be worth her while travelling. This led to some ghastly spectacles, as when she was called upon to execute six on the same afternoon. Even with an assistant spreading sand across the scaffold to ensure she didn’t lose her footing, she felt that she was not giving of her best.

But what else could she do? She was a water-colourist of considerable ability and her paintings were collectable. Many a host has pointed to the delightful and tranquil scene hanging in his hallway and has commented,”Yes, this is the work of Sallia the Executioner. Thus and so, she managed to get by. Every morning she would rise and go out into the back yard of her family home. Here she would practice for an hour with the sword, running through various dances in arms. Then after a light breakfast she would give an hour to accuracy work, honing her skills so that she could cut a gentleman’s tie without touching his neck. Then in the afternoon she would take up her paints and would work on her current painting.

Eventually she married, and it has to be admitted that her profession was such that except when she was expecting, she could still perform the role she trained for so assiduously. Whilst her husband was a perfectly respectable clerk who was paid a reasonable honorarium, they both agreed that the extra money, from executions and water colours, allowed them to enjoy those little luxuries that might otherwise be out of their reach.This is not to say that her role was not without controversy. Quite a number complained about being executed by a ‘mere slip of a girl.’ To be fair as she grew older, others felt that acting as their executioner was no role for ‘a respectable married lady.’ It must be admitted, almost by definition, those who complained about Sallia as a ‘slip of a girl’ were not those who moaned about a ‘respectable married woman’ coming to execute them. The authorities did consider the complaints, they were taken all the way to the Council of Sinecurists. There it was pointed out that many people have an irrational dislike of their executioner and it was probably unwise to take too much notice of the complaints. It was agreed that they would investigate the complaints in more detail if they were made by the contemned individual after the execution was supposed to have happened.

Strangely enough it was her children who inadvertently brought the family real prosperity. Whilst the wealthy can send a maid or a nanny to collect the children from school, Sallia always did it herself. It was there that she made friends with many ladies much of her own age and social condition. One, somewhat enviously, asked Sallia how many children she had. Sallia gestured to the child running out of the classroom towards her. “That’s my fourth.” “Four children, and you have kept you figure!” “Well I do have to practice.” Various other ladies who had overheard the conversation drew closer as Sallia explained her daily exercise regime. As the children arrived and the group of mothers broke up, one or two sidled across to Sallia and asked if it would be possible for them to train with her. Two years later she was having to hire a hall every evening so that her pupils could train inside.

Thus and so, Port Naain must now have any number of ladies who could step in to take on the role of executioner. Not that any have, Port Naain calls upon Sallia no more frequently that it did in the past.

And now a brief note from Jim Webster. It’s really just to inform you that
I’ve just published two more collections of stories.

The first, available on kindle, is ‘Tallis Steelyard, preparing the ground,
and other stories.’

More of the wit, wisdom and jumbled musings of Tallis Steelyard. Meet a
vengeful Lady Bountiful, an artist who smokes only the finest hallucinogenic
lichens, and wonder at the audacity of the rogue who attempts to drown a
poet! Indeed after reading this book you may never look at young boys and
their dogs, onions, lumberjacks or usurers in quite the same way again.
A book that plumbs the depths of degradation, from murder to folk dancing,
from the theft of pastry cooks to the playing of a bladder pipe in public.

The second, available on Kindle or as a paperback, is ‘Maljie. Just one
thing after another.’

Once more Tallis Steelyard chronicles the life of Maljie, a lady of his
acquaintance. Discover the wonders of the Hermeneutic Catherine Wheel,
marvel at the use of eye-watering quantities of hot spices. We have bell
ringers, pop-up book shops, exploding sedan chairs, jobbing builders,
literary criticism, horse theft and a revolutionary mob. We also discover
what happens when a maiden, riding a white palfrey led by a dwarf, appears
on the scene.

Cartographically challenged ~ Tallis Steelyard (aka Jim Webster) on tour with THREE new books…

~ beetleypete ~ 18 Comments

Wonderful writing from ‘Tallis Steelyard’. (Jim Webster)
A feast of imagination, written in a unique style.
This is my kind of imaginary world!
Immerse yourself in the everyday life of Port Naain.

Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

People will remember that I do sometimes lecture at the University here in Port Naain, and over the years I must have taught numerous young people. Perhaps I ought to merely say that they were exposed to my wit and erudition. I’m not sure whether many of them learned anything. Still, there were some whom I felt would go a long way in life. Indeed I always felt that Illus Wheelburn was one of my more promising students.

But he expressed some dissatisfaction with the life of a poet. Frankly he felt that he couldn’t cope with the slow, irrevocable slide into penury. But still he was a genuine creative artist and needed to express himself. He wrote a little, published less, and in point of fact survived because people asked him to write letters for them. Not so much because of his eloquence as because he has nice handwriting…

View original post 1,892 more words