We have to regret, that though so many springs must have cheered the long life of Sir Uvedale Price, (and which he calls the _dolce prima vera, gioventu dell'anno_, and whose blossoms, flowers, and "profusion of fresh, gay, and beautiful colours and sweets," he so warmly dwelt on in many of his pages,) and though the number of these springs must have nearly equalled those which gilded the days of Lord Kames, of the honourable Horace Walpole, of Mr. Gilpin, and of Joseph Cradock, Esq. yet we have to regret that his classic pen has presented to the public no other efforts of his genius and cultivated taste, than the few respectable ones above stated. Had he chose to have indulged his own powers in describing what has been done towards "embellishing the face of this noble kingdom," (to quote his own words,) we might have perused descriptive pages equal to his own critical and refined review of Blenheim, or of Powis Castle, and of a character as high and pure, as those of Thomas Whateley. In proof of this, we need only refer to many pages in his Essays,--not only when he so well paints the charms of sequestered nature, whether in its deep recesses, _o'er canopied with luscious eglantine_,--in the "modest and retired character of a brook,"--the rural simplicity of a cottage, with its lilacs and fruit trees, its rustic porch, covered with vine or ivy, but when he dwells on the ruins and on "the religious calm" of our abbeys,[103] or on our old mansion-houses, with their terraces, their summer-houses covered with ivy, and mixed with wild vegetation. And we need farther only to refer to those feeling pages in his second volume, where he laments that his own youth and inexperience should (in order to follow the silly folly of _being in the fashion_,) have doomed to sudden and total destruction an old paternal garden, with all its embellishments, and whose destruction revives in these pages all the emotions of his youth; and he concludes these pages of regret, by candidly confessing, that he gained little but "much difficulty, expence and dirt," and that he thus detains his readers in relating what so personally concerns himself, "because there is nothing so useful to others, however humiliating to ourselves, as the frank confession of our errors and of their causes. No man can equally with the person who committed them, impress upon others the extent of the mischief done, and the regret that follows it." It is painful to quit pages so interesting as those that immediately follow this quotation.[104] There are few objects that the enlightened mind of Sir Uvedale has not remarked. Take the following as an instance: