BY JACQUES JASMIN by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
Longfellow recounts a poignant Occitan folk tale about Baptiste, a young man who leaves his blind sweetheart, Margaret, to marry the more beautiful Angela.
The poem
Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might Rehearse this little tragedy aright; Let me attempt it with an English quill; And take, O Reader, for the deed the will. I At the foot of the mountain height Where is perched Castel Cuille, When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree In the plain below were growing white, This is the song one might perceive On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve: "The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!" This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, Seemed from the clouds descending; When lo! a merry company Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye, Each one with her attendant swain, Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain; Resembling there, so near unto the sky, Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent For their delight and our encouragement. Together blending, And soon descending The narrow sweep Of the hillside steep, They wind aslant Towards Saint Amant, Through leafy alleys Of verdurous valleys With merry sallies Singing their chant: "The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day! It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, With garlands for the bridal laden! The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom, The sun of March was shining brightly, And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly Its breathings of perfume. When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, A rustic bridal, oh! how sweet it is! To sounds of joyous melodies, That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, A band of maidens Gayly frolicking, A band of youngsters Wildly rollicking! Kissing, Caressing, With fingers pressing, Till in the veriest Madness of mirth, as they dance, They retreat and advance, Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest; While the bride, with roguish eyes, Sporting with them, now escapes and cries: "Those who catch me Married verily This year shall be!" And all pursue with eager haste, And all attain what they pursue, And touch her pretty apron fresh and new, And the linen kirtle round her waist. Meanwhile, whence comes it that among These youthful maidens fresh and fair, So joyous, with such laughing air, Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue? And yet the bride is fair and young! Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall? O no! for a maiden frail, I trow, Never bore so lofty a brow! What lovers! they give not a single caress! To see them so careless and cold to-day, These are grand people, one would say. What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress? It is, that half-way up the hill, In yon cottage, by whose walls Stand the cart-house and the stalls, Dwelleth the blind orphan still, Daughter of a veteran old; And you must know, one year ago, That Margaret, the young and tender, Was the village pride and splendor, And Baptiste her lover bold. Love, the deceiver, them ensnared; For them the altar was prepared; But alas! the summer's blight, The dread disease that none can stay, The pestilence that walks by night, Took the young bride's sight away. All at the father's stern command was changed; Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged. Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled; Returned but three short days ago, The golden chain they round him throw, He is enticed, and onward led To marry Angela, and yet Is thinking ever of Margaret. Then suddenly a maiden cried, "Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate! Here comes the cripple Jane!" And by a fountain's side A woman, bent and gray with years, Under the mulberry-trees appears, And all towards her run, as fleet As had they wings upon their feet. It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. She telleth fortunes, and none complain. She promises one a village swain, Another a happy wedding-day, And the bride a lovely boy straightway. All comes to pass as she avers; She never deceives, she never errs. But for this once the village seer Wears a countenance severe, And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white Her two eyes flash like cannons bright Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue, Who, like a statue, stands in view; Changing color as well he might, When the beldame wrinkled and gray Takes the young bride by the hand, And, with the tip of her reedy wand Making the sign of the cross, doth say:-- "Thoughtless Angela, beware! Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom, Thou diggest for thyself a tomb!" And she was silent; and the maidens fair Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear; But on a little streamlet silver-clear, What are two drops of turbid rain? Saddened a moment, the bridal train Resumed the dance and song again; The bridegroom only was pale with fear;-- And down green alleys Of verdurous valleys, With merry sallies, They sang the refrain:-- "The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!" II And by suffering worn and weary, But beautiful as some fair angel yet, Thus lamented Margaret, In her cottage lone and dreary;-- "He has arrived! arrived at last! Yet Jane has named him not these three days past; Arrived! yet keeps aloof so far! And knows that of my night he is the star! Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted, And count the moments since he went away! Come! keep the promise of that happier day, That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted! What joy have I without thee? what delight? Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery; Day for the others ever, but for me Forever night! forever night! When he is gone 't is dark! my soul is sad! I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad. When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude; Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes! Within them shines for me a heaven of love, A heaven all happiness, like that above, No more of grief! no more of lassitude! Earth I forget,--and heaven, and all distresses, When seated by my side my hand he presses; But when alone, remember all! Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call! A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, I need some bough to twine around! In pity come! be to my suffering kind! True love, they say, in grief doth more abound! What then--when one is blind? "Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken! Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave! O God! what thoughts within me waken! Away! he will return! I do but rave! He will return! I need not fear! He swore it by our Saviour dear; He could not come at his own will; Is weary, or perhaps is ill! Perhaps his heart, in this disguise, Prepares for me some sweet surprise! But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see! And that deceives me not! 't is he! 't is he!" And the door ajar is set, And poor, confiding Margaret Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes; 'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries:-- "Angela the bride has passed! I saw the wedding guests go by; Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked? For all are there but you and I!" "Angela married! and not send To tell her secret unto me! O, speak! who may the bridegroom be?" "My sister, 't is Baptiste, thy friend!" A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said; A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks; An icy hand, as heavy as lead, Descending, as her brother speaks, Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat, Suspends awhile its life and heat. She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. At length, the bridal song again Brings her back to her sorrow and pain. "Hark! the joyous airs are ringing! Sister, dost thou hear them singing? How merrily they laugh and jest! Would we were bidden with the rest! I would don my hose of homespun gray, And my doublet of linen striped and gay; Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said!" "I know it!" answered Margaret; Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet, Mastered again; and its hand of ice Held her heart crushed, as in a vice! "Paul, be not sad! 'T is a holiday; To-morrow put on thy doublet gay! But leave me now for a while alone." Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul, And, as he whistled along the hall, Entered Jane, the crippled crone. "Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat! I am faint, and weary, and out of breath! But thou art cold,--art chill as death; My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?" "Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride; And, as I listened to the song, I thought my turn would come erelong, Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. Thy cards forsooth can never lie, To me such joy they prophesy, Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide When they behold him at my side. And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou? It must seem long to him;--methinks I see him now!" Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press: "Thy love I cannot all approve; We must not trust too much to happiness;-- Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less!" "The more I pray, the more I love! It is no sin, for God is on my side!" It was enough; and Jane no more replied. Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold; But to deceive the beldame old She takes a sweet, contented air; Speak of foul weather or of fair, At every word the maiden smiles! Thus the beguiler she beguiles; So that, departing at the evening's close, She says, "She may be saved! she nothing knows!" Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress! Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess! This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!
Longfellow recounts a poignant Occitan folk tale about Baptiste, a young man who leaves his blind sweetheart, Margaret, to marry the more beautiful Angela. Unaware of the betrayal, Margaret waits at home. The poem captures the wedding procession in full swing while contrasting it with Margaret's heartbreak when she discovers the truth. This story explores how love can be unwavering on one side while simultaneously unfaithful on the other.
Line-by-line
Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might / Rehearse this little tragedy aright;
At the foot of the mountain height / Where is perched Castel Cuille,
It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, / With garlands for the bridal laden!
It is, that half-way up the hill, / In yon cottage, by whose walls
Then suddenly a maiden cried, / 'Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate!'
And by suffering worn and weary, / But beautiful as some fair angel yet,
And the door ajar is set, / And poor, confiding Margaret
'Hark! the joyous airs are ringing! / Sister, dost thou hear them singing?
Entered Jane, the crippled crone. / 'Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat!'
Tone & mood
The tone shifts from cheerful and folk-like in Part I to somber and haunting in Part II. Longfellow maintains a straightforward style, keeping emotions palpable without crossing into sentimentality. The wedding chorus echoes back like a haunting reminder. By the conclusion, the poem resembles less a ballad and more a careful exploration of dramatic irony: the reader is aware of everything Margaret is not, and that disconnect is where the true sorrow resides.
Symbols & metaphors
- Blindness — Margaret's blindness symbolizes her emotional vulnerability and her failure to notice Baptiste's betrayal. It heightens her reliance on him; she calls him 'the star of my night,' the only light in her constant darkness.
- The bridal chorus ('The roads should blossom') — The recurring wedding song begins as a cheerful folk celebration but slowly turns into a tool of cruelty. Each time it plays, it signifies another phase of Margaret's unknowingly deepening loss. When Paul hums it at the door, that familiar sound is what ultimately pulls her out of shock and into her grief.
- The golden chain — When Baptiste comes back to the village, the community wraps a 'golden chain' around him and guides him toward Angela. This image reflects the social pressure and community expectation as a beautiful trap — it sparkles, yet it binds him.
- The wax Madonna — After hearing the news, Margaret stands like a wax Madonna dressed as a peasant. The image blends religious suffering with stillness and a pale complexion. She is likened to a devotional object: something that absorbs pain without flinching, existing solely to be gazed at in sorrow.
- Jane's wand and the sign of the cross — Jane uses a thin wand to make the sign of the cross over Angela while delivering her warning. This gesture mixes folk magic with Christian ritual, implying that the truth she shares comes from a source beyond what we usually understand — and that it brings both a blessing and a curse.
- The branch of ivy — Margaret describes herself as "a branch of ivy, dying on the ground," yearning for a bough to wrap around. Ivy traditionally symbolizes faithful attachment and dependence. In this context, it shows that her love is both genuine and clingy, but also that it will wither without support.
Historical context
Jacques Jasmin (1798–1864) was a barber and poet from Agen in Gascony. He wrote in the Occitan dialect and became well-known throughout southern France for his narrative poems that depicted village life. Longfellow came across Jasmin's work and was captivated by its blend of folk simplicity and emotional depth. He published his adaptation in 1866. Longfellow based his version on Jasmin's *Françouneto* (1840), but he significantly shortened and anglicized the story. His opening apology regarding the Lowland Scots dialect references Robert Burns, whose dialect poetry he believed was the closest English-language counterpart to Jasmin's earthy Gascon style. This poem reflects a wider nineteenth-century European fascination with regional folk traditions as authentic expressions of feeling, a trend that spanned from the Romantic movement to the folklore collecting efforts of the Brothers Grimm.
FAQ
Jasmin was a genuine poet from the nineteenth century who wrote in the Occitan dialect. Longfellow named the poem after him to give credit: this piece is an adaptation of Jasmin's work, not an original tale. Longfellow respected Jasmin's talent for portraying rural life with authentic emotion, and the title serves as a way to recognize the source instead of claiming the story as his own.
He refers to the Scots dialect used by poets such as Robert Burns. Jasmin wrote in Occitan, a regional French dialect that has a rough, earthy feel. Longfellow believed that standard English was too refined and literary to convey that same quality, and that the Scots dialect — with its unique folk tradition and regional flavor — would be the best fit. This serves as a compliment to both Jasmin and Burns simultaneously.
Baptiste and Margaret were set to be married. After Margaret lost her sight, her father ended the engagement. Baptiste left the village, and upon his return, he let himself be guided into marrying Angela instead, even though he still thinks about Margaret. He never told Margaret he was back, never visited her, and let her hear about the wedding through her brother. The poem doesn’t portray him as a villain exactly—social pressure and his own weaknesses account for his actions—but it doesn’t excuse him either.
Jane is cautioning Angela that marrying a man who loves someone else is a form of self-sabotage. It's unclear whether she means this literally (implying the marriage could lead to death) or figuratively (suggesting Angela is sacrificing her own shot at true happiness). The poem doesn't specify. What’s important is that Jane recognizes the reality of the situation and voices it, even if the wedding guests ignore her warning while they dance.
Margaret just experienced a heart-wrenching breakup and is feeling stunned, yet she puts on a façade of contentment to shield herself from Jane's sympathy and maintain control over the one thing she has left: her dignity. On some level, she also wants to avoid having the painful truth spoken aloud by someone else. By deceiving Jane into believing she’s oblivious, she keeps her hurt private. It’s a subtle act of self-preservation.
The chorus ('The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom') begins as a simple celebration and recurs at significant points in the story. By the time Paul hums it near Margaret's door, it has transformed into a reminder of all she has lost. Longfellow employs it like a folk ballad uses a refrain: to signify the passage of time, to create rhythm, and to allow the same words to gain deeper meaning with each repetition.
It has strong ballad qualities: a tragic love story, a folk setting, a repeated refrain, and a mix of village characters like the wise crone and the unfaithful lover. However, it’s longer and more novelistic than a traditional ballad, featuring interior monologues and scene-setting that extend beyond typical ballad conventions. It occupies a space between a narrative poem and a ballad, mirroring Jasmin's own unique hybrid style.
The poem leaves us hanging before we discover Margaret's fate. The final twist comes when Jane departs, believing that Margaret is safe because she 'knows nothing,' while in reality, Margaret is fully aware and just keeping it to herself. Longfellow emphasizes the disconnect between Jane's belief and the truth, leaving us uncertain about what happens to Margaret. While the original Jasmin poem carries the story onward, Longfellow's version cuts off here, making the ending feel more like a suspended breath than a resolution.