"It was in his walks," writes the son, "between Aldeburgh and Beccles that Mr.Crabbe passed through the very scenery described in the first part of _The Lover's Journey_; while near Beccles, in another direction, he found the contrast of rich vegetation introduced in the latter part of that tale; nor have I any doubt that the _disappointment_ of the story figures out something that, on one of these visits, befell himself, and the feelings with which he received it.
"Gone to a friend, she tells me;--I commend Her purpose: means she to a female friend ?" "For truth compels me to say, that he was by no means free from the less amiable sign of a strong attachment--jealousy." The story is of the slightest--an incident rather than a story.

The lover, joyous and buoyant, traverses the dreary coast scenery of Suffolk, and because he is happy, finds beauty and charm in the commonest and most familiar sights and sounds of nature: every single hedge-row blossom, every group of children at their play.

The poem is indeed an illustration of Coleridge's lines in his ode _Dejection_: "O Lady, we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does Nature live,-- Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud." All along the road to his beloved's house, nature wears this "wedding-garment." On his arrival, however, the sun fades suddenly from the landscape.

The lady is from home: gone to visit a friend a few miles distant, not so far but that her lover can follow,--but the slight, real or imaginary, probably the latter, comes as such a rebuff, that during the "little more--how far away!" that he travels, the country, though now richer and lovelier, seems to him (as once to Hamlet) a mere "pestilent congregation of vapours." But in the end he finds his mistress and learns that she had gone on duty, not for pleasure,--and they return happy again, and so happy indeed, that he has neither eyes nor thoughts for any of nature's fertilities or barrennesses--only for the dear one at his side.
I have already had occasion to quote a few lines from this beautiful poem, to show Crabbe's minute observation--in his time so rare--of flowers and birds and all that makes the charm of rural scenery--but I must quote some more: "'Various as beauteous, Nature, is thy face,' Exclaim'd Orlando: 'all that grows has grace: All are appropriate--bog, and marsh, and fen, Are only poor to undiscerning men; Here may the nice and curious eye explore How Nature's hand adorns the rushy moor, Here the rare moss in secret shade is found, Here the sweet myrtle of the shaking ground; Beauties are these that from the view retire, But well repay th' attention they require; For these my Laura will her home forsake, And all the pleasures they afford, partake.'" And then follows a masterly description of a gipsy encampment on which the lover suddenly comes in his travels.

Crabbe's treatment of peasant life has often been compared to that of divers painters--the Dutch school, Hogarth, Wilkie, and others--and the following curiously suggests Frederick Walker's fine drawing, _The Vagrants_: "Again, the country was enclosed, a wide And sandy road has banks on either side; Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear'd, And there a gipsy tribe their tent had rear'd; 'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun, And they had now their early meal begun, When two brown boys just left their grassy seat, The early Trav'ller with their prayers to greet: While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, He saw their sister on her duty stand; Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly, Prepared the force of early powers to try; Sudden a look of languor he descries, And well-feigned apprehension in her eyes; Train'd but yet savage in her speaking face, He mark'd the features of her vagrant race; When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd The vice implanted in her youthful breast: Forth from the tent her elder brother came, Who seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame The young designer, but could only trace The looks of pity in the Trav'ller's face: Within, the Father, who from fences nigh Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by.
On ragged rug, just borrowed from the bed, And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd, Reclined the Wife, an infant at her breast; In her wild face some touch of grace remain'd, Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd; Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate Were wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants to state, Cursing his tardy aid--her Mother there With gipsy-state engross'd the only chair; Solemn and dull her look; with such she stands, And reads the milk-maid's fortune in her hands, Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years, Each feature now the steady falsehood wears.
With hard and savage eye she views the food, And grudging pinches their intruding brood; Last in the group, the worn-out Grandsire sits Neglected, lost, and living but by fits: Useless, despised, his worthless labours done, And half protected by the vicious Son, Who half supports him; he with heavy glance Views the young ruffians who around him dance; And, by the sadness in his face, appears To trace the progress of their future years: Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat! What shame and grief, what punishment and pain, Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain-- Ere they like him approach their latter end, Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend! But this Orlando felt not; 'Rogues,' said he, 'Doubtless they are, but merry rogues they be; They wander round the land, and be it true They break the laws--then let the laws pursue The wanton idlers; for the life they live, Acquit I cannot, but I can forgive.' This said, a portion from his purse was thrown, And every heart seem'd happy like his own." _The Patron_, one of the most carefully elaborated of the Tales, is on an old and familiar theme.