The following story is true, or allegedly true: the suicide of a young, spurned lady who took her own life in the pre-Victorian age in Dundee. Her death was the subject of a broadsheet printed and circulated in the town, which became so popular it was reprinted in Edinburgh. While the supposed missive from the doomed young woman, who took her life on 28th July, 1823, has all the styling of a lurid bit of fictional prose, we are assured it is real. If so, how did the the broadside publisher get hold of it, and what was the effect on the family?
The young lady is said to have hanged herself in her own bedroom following her betrayed by this unnamed naval Captain. The reader is advised to decide for themselves whether it is a true story or not.
Dear Captain - if my exhausted spirits would support my
trembling hand, whilst I write a few lines to ease a broken heart, it would be
the last office I should require them to do. Then they may leave me; then may I
find in the grave a retreat from the scorn of men. How is my gold become dim,
and my most fine gold become dross. I do
not now command you by awful name of virtue, to accuse you of the basest
ingratitude; ah no! the scene is entirely changed; you have robbed me - cruelly
robbed me of the brightest gem in the female’s character, and I come as an
humble supplicant; Is this possible - am
I awake, or do I dream? Ah! poor deluded girl, think not what you were, but
what you are; how can I rest from calling to remembrance those days of
innocence and peace, when, with a serene countenance and sincere heart I could look
up to heaven , and beg that the God of purity would be my protector; but ah!
how am I changed, how is my virtue faded, how doth conscience guilt fill my soul,
while blushes cover my face; sad reflections on my present state hurry me to mediate
on the future, which opens so tremendous a scene to my view, as to strike me
back in doleful remembrance of the past.
Now Whither
shall I fly to find relief?
What charitable
hand will aid me now?
What stay my
failing steps, support my ruins,
And heal my
wounded hand with balmy comfort.
If I fly to my parents, who were once my comfort, they,
bathed in tears, cry out, you have brought our grey hairs with sorrow to the
grave, - If, to get one moment’s ease, I wander into the fields, every flower I
see seems to say, We are pure. Thus is all nature armed against me. And on
whose account do I seem to be forsaken by heaven and earth? - on your account,
who strove to gain my affections, and become master of them; and now you
triumph over me - laugh at me, for trusting to your honour, and putting
confidence in your word!
-O
inconstant men!
How will you promise! - how deceive!
O hypocrisy! how couldest thou wear so winning a form!
Generosity where art thou fled? Honour, hast thou forsaken the human race? Look
on my distress, O my God. Dispise me not, O my friends, Forgive me, my
distressed parents; then may the cold grave receive me into its peaceful
recesses, where my shame may be buried in eternal oblivion. Now, if your heart
be not as hard as adamant, if your conscience is not seared with a hot iron,
some past scenes must appear to your view. I do not now summon you to appear at
His awful tribunal; I find you are still too near my heart; for all your
cruelty to me, my return is - May you, in the hour of death find consolation
from your God and Judge, you have denied to your AMELIA
H.
P.S. With soothing wiles you won my easy heart,
You sigh’d, you vow’d, but, ah! you
feigned the smart:
Sure of all fiends the blackest we
can find,
Are you ingrates, that stab our
peace of mind.
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