Visits to Coldbath cannot under ordinary circumstances be undertaken by any but the most robust. The accommodation is clearly intended for the scum of London, and it is unfair to expect any respectable person to come unless smell-proof and provided with a box of Keating’s insect powder. I received one visit under these revolting conditions, though my subsequent ones left nothing to be desired. Conceive, then, a cell eighteen feet by twelve, fitted with four partitions on either side, divided by a narrow passage, with a warder walking up and down. Into one of these cages the visitor is conducted and locked in. Immediately opposite, and similarly enclosed, is the object of his visit. In appearance they resemble a Cochin China hen-coop; in size they about equal the den of the untameable hyæna in a travelling menagerie. Conversation of a private nature is out of the question, as, indeed, is intended; topical subjects are tabooed, and but for the sake of adding to my experiences I should never have subjected myself or my friend to such nasty conditions. Within a foot of one, and flanked on both sides, was either a costermonger talking to his missus and her frowsy, unvaccinated-looking offspring, or a pickpocket hearing the latest news from the Seven Dials; the Babel consequent being such as to leave no alternative but to say nothing, or shout at the top of one’s voice. There is a snobbishness about this custom that went far to determine me in my course of telephoning as the only way to retaliate effectually on official inconsideration. No one would be foolish enough to expect that a gentleman should be better treated than a costermonger under such painful circumstances, although it would be an act of consideration, involving neither inconvenience nor relaxation of discipline, if some little discretion were exercised, as at Newgate, regarding the visitors. The tread-wheel occupies a prominent position in prison life. There was none at Coldbath on my arrival, the old one having been burnt down a short time previously. There is a delightful interpretation to the three magic letters, C. B. F. (Cold Bath Fields), that long puzzled me, and which takes its origin—as I heard—from the ancient structure. I had frequently heard this cheerful place referred to as “The Farm,” and on enquiry it was explained that it was facetiously known as “Charley Bates’s Farm.” “Charley,” it appears, was a peculiarly ferocious turnkey that some years ago superintended the tread-wheel, but whether burnt, like his toy, or still burning, or alive, I have not the remotest idea. Its successor was now being rapidly built, and all the artisan talent procurable was laid on, in order to complete without delay this necessary adjunct to hard labour. A reference to the “system of progressive stages” will obviate my repeating many details as to the particular men put to this punishment, etc.