Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. “Where am I?” he muttered. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. And the door was suddenly thrown open, and the two janizaries felled to the ground by the strong arm of the stalwart robber. If you hang Jack Sheppard, you'll cut off the flower o' the purfession.
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