along a passage, at the end of those upper yards which join the prison wing; the prisoners are therefore in their passage to and from the sleeping cells, concealed from the others; should there at any time be a greater number of prisoners belonging to the ward on the ground floor than there are sleeping cells they are then taken to the spare cells in the wards above through a door at the end of the upper yard, and yet concealed from those classes in the sunk yards.  All our prison buildings hitherto erected are hid from the sight by the high boundary wall that encloses them, producing nothing interesting to the citizen or the traveller but a monotonous facade.  Mr. Brown has obviated this in the gaol before us, by having raised towers on the ends of the four wings, which, with the top of the governor’s house, mill, and infirmary, being seen rising above the boundary wall and entrance front, produces to the eye of the spectator on approaching the prison a tout ensemble truly imposing and grand.

ARCHITECTUS.

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LIVING AUTHORS.

No. 1.

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Bernard Barton.

  “Sheltered, but not to social duties lost;
  Secluded, but not buried; and with song
  Cheering his days.”

The productions of Mr. Barton are doubtless familiar to most of our readers, and from them they have learnt much of the amiable turn of the poet’s character.  Mr. Barton’s compositions afford indications of genuine feeling, of deep affection, of benevolence, sympathy, taste, and integrity; he seems to have an ear ever on the listen for the accents of charity, patriotism, and religion; where human anguish causes the tear to start, there he would fain be to soothe and alleviate.  Such is the character of the poet, and in the following sketch such will be proved to be the character of the man.

Bernard Barton was born in the vicinity of London, on the 31st of January, 1784.  His father was in trade in the metropolis, whither he had come from his native place, Carlisle.  Bernard had the misfortune to lose his mother one month after his birth:  her maiden name was Mary Done, and she was a native of Rockcliffe, Cumberland; she died at the early age of thirty-two.  The following lines To a Profile evince the feelings with which our poet still cherishes her memory, or rather the recollection of what has been told him respecting her:—­

  “I knew thee not! then wherefore gaze
    Upon thy silent shadow there,
  Which so imperfectly portrays
    The form thy features used to wear? 
  Yet have I often looked at thee,
  As if those lips could speak to me.

  I knew thee not! and thou couldst know,
    At best, but little more of one
  Whose pilgrimage on earth below
    Commenced, just ere thy own was done;
  For few and fleeting days were thine,
  To hope or fear for lot of mine.