Not so very far off lie more ruins--the ruins of Bromholm Priory,
where John Paston was buried, naturally enough, since his house was
only a mile or so away, lying on low ground by the sea, twenty
miles north of Norwich. The coast is dangerous, and the land, even
in our time, inaccessible. Nevertheless, the little bit of wood at
Bromholm, the fragment of the true Cross, brought pilgrims
incessantly to the Priory, and sent them away with eyes opened and
limbs straightened. But some of them with their newly-opened eyes
saw a sight which shocked them--the grave of John Paston in
Bromholm Priory without a tombstone. The news spread over the
country-side. The Pastons had fallen; they that had been so
powerful could no longer afford a stone to put above John Paston's
head. Margaret, his widow, could not pay her debts; the eldest
son, Sir John, wasted his property upon women and tournaments,
while the younger, John also, though a man of greater parts,
thought more of his hawks than of his harvests.
The pilgrims of course were liars, as people whose eyes have just
been opened by a piece of the true Cross have every right to be;
but their news, none the less, was welcome. The Pastons had risen
in the world. People said even that they had been bondmen not so
very long ago. At any rate, men still living could remember John's
grandfather Clement tilling his own land, a hard-working peasant;
and William, Clement's son, becoming a judge and buying land; and
John, William's son, marrying well and buying more land and quite
lately inheriting the vast new castle at Caister, and all Sir
John's lands in Norfolk and Suffolk. People said that he had
forged the old knight's will. What wonder, then, that he lacked a
tombstone? But, if we consider the character of Sir John Paston,
John's eldest son, and his upbringing and his surroundings, and the
relations between himself and his father as the family letters
reveal them, we shall see how difficult it was, and how likely to
be neglected--this business of making his father's tombstone.
For let us imagine, in the most desolate part of England known to
us at the present moment, a raw, new-built house, without
telephone, bathroom or drains, arm-chairs or newspapers, and one
shelf perhaps of books, unwieldy to hold, expensive to come by.
The windows look out upon a few cultivated fields and a dozen
hovels, and beyond them there is the sea on one side, on the other
a vast fen. A single road crosses the fen, but there is a hole in
it, which, one of the farm hands reports, is big enough to swallow
a carriage. And, the man adds, Tom Topcroft, the mad bricklayer,
has broken loose again and ranges the country half-naked,
threatening to kill any one who approaches him. That is what they
talk about at dinner in the desolate house, while the chimney
smokes horribly, and the draught lifts the carpets on the floor.
Orders are given to lock all gates at sunset, and, when the long
dismal evening has worn itself away, simply and solemnly, girt
about with dangers as they are, these isolated men and women fall
upon their knees in prayer.
In the fifteenth century, however, the wild landscape was broken
suddenly and very strangely by vast piles of brand-new masonry.
There rose out of the sandhills and heaths of the Norfolk coast a
huge bulk of stone, like a modern hotel in a watering-place; but
there was no parade, no lodging-houses, and no pier at Yarmouth
then, and this gigantic building on the outskirts of the town was
built to house one solitary old gentleman without any children--
Sir John Fastolf, who had fought at Agincourt and acquired great
wealth. He had fought at Agincourt and got but little reward. No
one took his advice. Men spoke ill of him behind his back. He was
well aware of it; his temper was none the sweeter for that. He was
a hot-tempered old man, powerful, embittered by a sense of
grievance. But whether on the battlefield or at court he thought
perpetually of Caister, and how, when his duties allowed, he would
settle down on his father's land and live in a great house of his
own building.
The gigantic structure of Caister Castle was in progress not so
many miles away when the little Pastons were children. John
Paston, the father, had charge of some part of the business, and
the children listened, as soon as they could listen at all, to talk
of stone and building, of barges gone to London and not yet
returned, of the twenty-six private chambers, of the hall and
chapel; of foundations, measurements, and rascally work-people.
1100152168
where John Paston was buried, naturally enough, since his house was
only a mile or so away, lying on low ground by the sea, twenty
miles north of Norwich. The coast is dangerous, and the land, even
in our time, inaccessible. Nevertheless, the little bit of wood at
Bromholm, the fragment of the true Cross, brought pilgrims
incessantly to the Priory, and sent them away with eyes opened and
limbs straightened. But some of them with their newly-opened eyes
saw a sight which shocked them--the grave of John Paston in
Bromholm Priory without a tombstone. The news spread over the
country-side. The Pastons had fallen; they that had been so
powerful could no longer afford a stone to put above John Paston's
head. Margaret, his widow, could not pay her debts; the eldest
son, Sir John, wasted his property upon women and tournaments,
while the younger, John also, though a man of greater parts,
thought more of his hawks than of his harvests.
The pilgrims of course were liars, as people whose eyes have just
been opened by a piece of the true Cross have every right to be;
but their news, none the less, was welcome. The Pastons had risen
in the world. People said even that they had been bondmen not so
very long ago. At any rate, men still living could remember John's
grandfather Clement tilling his own land, a hard-working peasant;
and William, Clement's son, becoming a judge and buying land; and
John, William's son, marrying well and buying more land and quite
lately inheriting the vast new castle at Caister, and all Sir
John's lands in Norfolk and Suffolk. People said that he had
forged the old knight's will. What wonder, then, that he lacked a
tombstone? But, if we consider the character of Sir John Paston,
John's eldest son, and his upbringing and his surroundings, and the
relations between himself and his father as the family letters
reveal them, we shall see how difficult it was, and how likely to
be neglected--this business of making his father's tombstone.
For let us imagine, in the most desolate part of England known to
us at the present moment, a raw, new-built house, without
telephone, bathroom or drains, arm-chairs or newspapers, and one
shelf perhaps of books, unwieldy to hold, expensive to come by.
The windows look out upon a few cultivated fields and a dozen
hovels, and beyond them there is the sea on one side, on the other
a vast fen. A single road crosses the fen, but there is a hole in
it, which, one of the farm hands reports, is big enough to swallow
a carriage. And, the man adds, Tom Topcroft, the mad bricklayer,
has broken loose again and ranges the country half-naked,
threatening to kill any one who approaches him. That is what they
talk about at dinner in the desolate house, while the chimney
smokes horribly, and the draught lifts the carpets on the floor.
Orders are given to lock all gates at sunset, and, when the long
dismal evening has worn itself away, simply and solemnly, girt
about with dangers as they are, these isolated men and women fall
upon their knees in prayer.
In the fifteenth century, however, the wild landscape was broken
suddenly and very strangely by vast piles of brand-new masonry.
There rose out of the sandhills and heaths of the Norfolk coast a
huge bulk of stone, like a modern hotel in a watering-place; but
there was no parade, no lodging-houses, and no pier at Yarmouth
then, and this gigantic building on the outskirts of the town was
built to house one solitary old gentleman without any children--
Sir John Fastolf, who had fought at Agincourt and acquired great
wealth. He had fought at Agincourt and got but little reward. No
one took his advice. Men spoke ill of him behind his back. He was
well aware of it; his temper was none the sweeter for that. He was
a hot-tempered old man, powerful, embittered by a sense of
grievance. But whether on the battlefield or at court he thought
perpetually of Caister, and how, when his duties allowed, he would
settle down on his father's land and live in a great house of his
own building.
The gigantic structure of Caister Castle was in progress not so
many miles away when the little Pastons were children. John
Paston, the father, had charge of some part of the business, and
the children listened, as soon as they could listen at all, to talk
of stone and building, of barges gone to London and not yet
returned, of the twenty-six private chambers, of the hall and
chapel; of foundations, measurements, and rascally work-people.
The Common Reader
Not so very far off lie more ruins--the ruins of Bromholm Priory,
where John Paston was buried, naturally enough, since his house was
only a mile or so away, lying on low ground by the sea, twenty
miles north of Norwich. The coast is dangerous, and the land, even
in our time, inaccessible. Nevertheless, the little bit of wood at
Bromholm, the fragment of the true Cross, brought pilgrims
incessantly to the Priory, and sent them away with eyes opened and
limbs straightened. But some of them with their newly-opened eyes
saw a sight which shocked them--the grave of John Paston in
Bromholm Priory without a tombstone. The news spread over the
country-side. The Pastons had fallen; they that had been so
powerful could no longer afford a stone to put above John Paston's
head. Margaret, his widow, could not pay her debts; the eldest
son, Sir John, wasted his property upon women and tournaments,
while the younger, John also, though a man of greater parts,
thought more of his hawks than of his harvests.
The pilgrims of course were liars, as people whose eyes have just
been opened by a piece of the true Cross have every right to be;
but their news, none the less, was welcome. The Pastons had risen
in the world. People said even that they had been bondmen not so
very long ago. At any rate, men still living could remember John's
grandfather Clement tilling his own land, a hard-working peasant;
and William, Clement's son, becoming a judge and buying land; and
John, William's son, marrying well and buying more land and quite
lately inheriting the vast new castle at Caister, and all Sir
John's lands in Norfolk and Suffolk. People said that he had
forged the old knight's will. What wonder, then, that he lacked a
tombstone? But, if we consider the character of Sir John Paston,
John's eldest son, and his upbringing and his surroundings, and the
relations between himself and his father as the family letters
reveal them, we shall see how difficult it was, and how likely to
be neglected--this business of making his father's tombstone.
For let us imagine, in the most desolate part of England known to
us at the present moment, a raw, new-built house, without
telephone, bathroom or drains, arm-chairs or newspapers, and one
shelf perhaps of books, unwieldy to hold, expensive to come by.
The windows look out upon a few cultivated fields and a dozen
hovels, and beyond them there is the sea on one side, on the other
a vast fen. A single road crosses the fen, but there is a hole in
it, which, one of the farm hands reports, is big enough to swallow
a carriage. And, the man adds, Tom Topcroft, the mad bricklayer,
has broken loose again and ranges the country half-naked,
threatening to kill any one who approaches him. That is what they
talk about at dinner in the desolate house, while the chimney
smokes horribly, and the draught lifts the carpets on the floor.
Orders are given to lock all gates at sunset, and, when the long
dismal evening has worn itself away, simply and solemnly, girt
about with dangers as they are, these isolated men and women fall
upon their knees in prayer.
In the fifteenth century, however, the wild landscape was broken
suddenly and very strangely by vast piles of brand-new masonry.
There rose out of the sandhills and heaths of the Norfolk coast a
huge bulk of stone, like a modern hotel in a watering-place; but
there was no parade, no lodging-houses, and no pier at Yarmouth
then, and this gigantic building on the outskirts of the town was
built to house one solitary old gentleman without any children--
Sir John Fastolf, who had fought at Agincourt and acquired great
wealth. He had fought at Agincourt and got but little reward. No
one took his advice. Men spoke ill of him behind his back. He was
well aware of it; his temper was none the sweeter for that. He was
a hot-tempered old man, powerful, embittered by a sense of
grievance. But whether on the battlefield or at court he thought
perpetually of Caister, and how, when his duties allowed, he would
settle down on his father's land and live in a great house of his
own building.
The gigantic structure of Caister Castle was in progress not so
many miles away when the little Pastons were children. John
Paston, the father, had charge of some part of the business, and
the children listened, as soon as they could listen at all, to talk
of stone and building, of barges gone to London and not yet
returned, of the twenty-six private chambers, of the hall and
chapel; of foundations, measurements, and rascally work-people.
where John Paston was buried, naturally enough, since his house was
only a mile or so away, lying on low ground by the sea, twenty
miles north of Norwich. The coast is dangerous, and the land, even
in our time, inaccessible. Nevertheless, the little bit of wood at
Bromholm, the fragment of the true Cross, brought pilgrims
incessantly to the Priory, and sent them away with eyes opened and
limbs straightened. But some of them with their newly-opened eyes
saw a sight which shocked them--the grave of John Paston in
Bromholm Priory without a tombstone. The news spread over the
country-side. The Pastons had fallen; they that had been so
powerful could no longer afford a stone to put above John Paston's
head. Margaret, his widow, could not pay her debts; the eldest
son, Sir John, wasted his property upon women and tournaments,
while the younger, John also, though a man of greater parts,
thought more of his hawks than of his harvests.
The pilgrims of course were liars, as people whose eyes have just
been opened by a piece of the true Cross have every right to be;
but their news, none the less, was welcome. The Pastons had risen
in the world. People said even that they had been bondmen not so
very long ago. At any rate, men still living could remember John's
grandfather Clement tilling his own land, a hard-working peasant;
and William, Clement's son, becoming a judge and buying land; and
John, William's son, marrying well and buying more land and quite
lately inheriting the vast new castle at Caister, and all Sir
John's lands in Norfolk and Suffolk. People said that he had
forged the old knight's will. What wonder, then, that he lacked a
tombstone? But, if we consider the character of Sir John Paston,
John's eldest son, and his upbringing and his surroundings, and the
relations between himself and his father as the family letters
reveal them, we shall see how difficult it was, and how likely to
be neglected--this business of making his father's tombstone.
For let us imagine, in the most desolate part of England known to
us at the present moment, a raw, new-built house, without
telephone, bathroom or drains, arm-chairs or newspapers, and one
shelf perhaps of books, unwieldy to hold, expensive to come by.
The windows look out upon a few cultivated fields and a dozen
hovels, and beyond them there is the sea on one side, on the other
a vast fen. A single road crosses the fen, but there is a hole in
it, which, one of the farm hands reports, is big enough to swallow
a carriage. And, the man adds, Tom Topcroft, the mad bricklayer,
has broken loose again and ranges the country half-naked,
threatening to kill any one who approaches him. That is what they
talk about at dinner in the desolate house, while the chimney
smokes horribly, and the draught lifts the carpets on the floor.
Orders are given to lock all gates at sunset, and, when the long
dismal evening has worn itself away, simply and solemnly, girt
about with dangers as they are, these isolated men and women fall
upon their knees in prayer.
In the fifteenth century, however, the wild landscape was broken
suddenly and very strangely by vast piles of brand-new masonry.
There rose out of the sandhills and heaths of the Norfolk coast a
huge bulk of stone, like a modern hotel in a watering-place; but
there was no parade, no lodging-houses, and no pier at Yarmouth
then, and this gigantic building on the outskirts of the town was
built to house one solitary old gentleman without any children--
Sir John Fastolf, who had fought at Agincourt and acquired great
wealth. He had fought at Agincourt and got but little reward. No
one took his advice. Men spoke ill of him behind his back. He was
well aware of it; his temper was none the sweeter for that. He was
a hot-tempered old man, powerful, embittered by a sense of
grievance. But whether on the battlefield or at court he thought
perpetually of Caister, and how, when his duties allowed, he would
settle down on his father's land and live in a great house of his
own building.
The gigantic structure of Caister Castle was in progress not so
many miles away when the little Pastons were children. John
Paston, the father, had charge of some part of the business, and
the children listened, as soon as they could listen at all, to talk
of stone and building, of barges gone to London and not yet
returned, of the twenty-six private chambers, of the hall and
chapel; of foundations, measurements, and rascally work-people.
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The Common Reader
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013740457 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/09/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 218 KB |
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