in state to mince-pies and the Mansion House? Is it poor Jack of Newgate's
procession, with the sheriff and javelin-men, conducting him on his last
journey to Tyburn? I look into my heart and think that I am as good as my
Lord Mayor, and know I am as bad as Tyburn Jack. Give me a chain and red
gown and a pudding before me, and I could play the part of alderman very
well, and sentence Jack after dinner. Starve me, keep me from books and
honest people, educate me to love dice, gin, and pleasure, and put me on
Hounslow Heath, with a purse before me and I will take it. "And I shall be
deservedly hanged," say you, wishing to put an end to this prosing. I
don't say no. I can't but accept the world as I find it, including a
rope's end, as long as it is in fashion.

Chapter I. An Account Of The Family Of Esmond Of Castlewood Hall

When Francis, fourth Viscount Castlewood, came to his title, and presently
after to take possession of his house of Castlewood, county Hants, in the
year 1691, almost the only tenant of the place besides the domestics was a
lad of twelve years of age, of whom no one seemed to take any note until
my lady viscountess lighted upon him, going over the house, with the
housekeeper on the day of her arrival. The boy was in the room known as
the book-room, or yellow gallery, where the portraits of the family used
to hang, that fine piece among others of Sir Antonio Van Dyck of George,
second viscount, and that by Mr. Dobson of my lord the third viscount,
just deceased, which it seems his lady and widow did not think fit to
carry away, when she sent for and carried off to her house at Chelsey,
near to London, the picture of herself by Sir Peter Lely, in which her
ladyship was represented as a huntress of Diana's court.

The new and fair lady of Castlewood found the sad lonely little occupant
of this gallery busy over his great book, which he laid down when he was
aware that a stranger was at hand. And, knowing who that person must be,
the lad stood up and bowed before her, performing a shy obeisance to the
mistress of his house.

She stretched out her hand--indeed when was it that that hand would not
stretch out to do an act of kindness, or to protect grief and ill-fortune?
"And this is our kinsman,'" she said; "and what is your name, kinsman?"

"My name is Henry Esmond," said the lad, looking up at her in a sort of
delight and wonder, for she had come upon him as a _Dea certe_, and
appeared the most