The prison bell rang at half-past five, and we were expected to rise and be ready to descend into the day-yard at six. At eight, they brought us a brown porringer, full of “skilly”—for it was such bad unpalatable oatmeal gruel that it deserved the name—and a loaf of coarse, dark-coloured bread. At twelve at noon, they unlocked the door of our day-room, and threw upon the deal table a netful of boiled potatoes, in their skins, and a paper of salt—for dinner. At five in the evening they brought us half a porringer of “skilly,” but no bread. At six, we were trooped off, and locked up in our sleeping cells for the next twelve hours. I demanded better food; and was told I could not have it. I asked to write to my wife, and receive a letter from her; but still they refused. One day I slipped past one of the turnkeys as he unlocked our day-room door, ran along the passages, and got to the governor’s room, and thundered at it till he came out in alarm. “Give me food that I can eat,” I said, “or some of you shall pay for it.” “Go back—get away to your day-room,” cried the governor. “I will, if you will give me something to eat,” I said. “Here—come here and take him away!” cried the governor to two of the turnkeys who had just then appeared, but who looked sorely affrighted. “I’ll knock the first man down who dares to touch me,” said I; and the turnkeys stood still. The governor burst into laughter, for he saw they were plainly in a fix. “What d’ye want to eat, Cooper?” said he in a gentle tone; “tell me, and I’ll give it you.” “All I want of you at present,” said I, “is a cup of good coffee, and a hearty slice of bread and butter. When I can speak to the magistrates, I shall ask for something more.” And I did ask the magistrates; but they would not yield. So I led the officers of the prison a sorely harassing life—poor fellows! I was ever knocking at the door, or shattering the windows, or asking for the surgeon or governor, or troubling them in one way or other. A CHARTIST HYMN (1843). =Source.=—_The Life of Thomas Cooper_, written by himself. (London: 1872.) Sons of poverty assemble, Ye whose hearts with woe are riven, Let the guilty tyrants tremble, Who your hearts such pain have given. We will never From the shrine of truth be driven. Must ye faint—ah! how much longer? Better by the sword to die Than to die of want and hunger: They heed not your feeble cry: Lift your voices— Lift your voices to the sky. Rouse them from their silken slumbers, Trouble them amidst their pride: Swell your ranks, augment your numbers, Spread the Charter far and wide! Truth is with us: God Himself is on our side.