Turning up from the Embankment, we pass a very antique row of houses, Paradise Walk, with its heavy-browed eaves, grimed, tiled roofs and little gardens in front, a general decay over all. This curious range of buildings, which is in Wren’s style, is worth a few moments’ inspection, especially the one with the effective bit of old iron gateway; as well as the strange institution which forms the last house, entitled “The School of Discipline,” which, it seems, has been flourishing--for it would not have endured over sixty years otherwise--since 1825. It was founded by the worthy Elizabeth Fry for the training of servant girls. What the “discipline” is, what the school, are things not generally known. It was hard by here that a few years ago a ghastly bit of sensation engaged the attention of the penny papers and their special reporters, who invaded these sleepy precincts. Two young men arriving from the country, flush of money, took up their abode in some disreputable house, where they revelled for a week till their resources were exhausted, when both attempted suicide, one succeeding. It proved that they had embezzled the moneys of their employer, and then fled to London, burying themselves in this obscure region, where they escaped detection. Further on we reach the green in front of the Hospital. This must have had a fine effect when the Hospital could only be seen from the bottom of this great expanse; but now the high road has been ruthlessly cut across it, with no effect but that of convenience. The old overhanging public-house, the “Duke of York,” is curious, and gives the _locale_ a sort of rural air. But this, indeed, is shared by the King’s Road, which has a sort of special country-town air, as distinct as what merry Islington offers. This is the scene of Wilkie’s famous picture of the Chelsea veterans receiving the news of the Waterloo victory. There is an air of retired and retiring simplicity in the shops and little by-streets. The quaint “physick” gardens belonging to the Apothecaries--a benefaction of Sir Hans Sloane--will next attract the eye, if only by the magnificent old yew which rises grim and sepulchral in the centre. Whether the apothecaries walk in this piece of ground and peep over the rails at the passing boats on the river is uncertain--they surely do not “cull simples,” for they can buy them cheaper than grow them. But it is a pleasing inclosure--a surprise, considering its position--suited to calm tranquillity and meditation. CHAPTER XXIX. PUTNEY--FULHAM.