So long ago as 1767 a project was set afoot for building a town on the summit of Shooter's Hill, but it came to nothing, which is not at all strange when one considers how constantly the dwellers there would have been obliged to run the gauntlet of the gentlemen whom Americans happily call "road-agents." And here is a sample of what would happen now and again, taken, not from the romantic pages of "Don Juan," nor from Dickens' "Tale of Two Cities," but from the sober and truthful columns of a London paper, under date of 1773. "On Sunday night," we read, "about ten o'clock, Colonel Craige and his servant were attacked near Shooter's Hill by two highwaymen, well mounted, who, on the colonel's declaring he would not be robbed, immediately fired and shot the servant's horse in the shoulder. On this the footman discharged a pistol, and the assailants rode off with great precipitation." That they rode off with nothing else shows how effectually the colonel and his servant, by firmly grasping the nettle danger, plucked the flower safety. [Sidenote: DON JUAN] It was by similarly bold conduct that Don Juan put to flight no fewer than four assailants on this very spot. Arrived thus far from Dover, he had alighted, and was meditatively pacing along the road behind his carriage when---- But there! It had best be read in Byron's verse, and let no one cry out upon me for quoting "Don Juan," and say the thing is nothing new, lest I, in turn, call fie upon him for an undue acquaintance with that "wicked" poem-- ... Juan now was borne, Just as the day began to wane and darken, O'er the high hill which looks, with pride or scorn, Toward the great city. Ye who have a spark in Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn, According as you take things well or ill; Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill! * * * * * A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head--and there is London Town! * * * * * Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill: Sunset the time, the place the same declivity Which looks along that vale of good and ill Where London streets ferment in full activity; While everything around was calm and still, Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he Heard; and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum Of cities, that boil over with their scum.