The trial of Eugene Aram for the murder of Daniel Clark of Knaresborough : who was convicted at York Assizes, August 5th, 1759 : to which are added the remarkable defense he made on his trial, his own account of himself, written after his condemnation, with the apology which he left in his cell for the attempt he made on his own life ; also "The dream of Eugene Aram", a poem / by Thomas Hood. With additional information from the 'Gleanings & memoirs' of Norrison Scatcherd.

  • Hood, Thomas, 1799-1845.
Date:
1875
Catalogue details

Licence: Public Domain Mark

Credit: The trial of Eugene Aram for the murder of Daniel Clark of Knaresborough : who was convicted at York Assizes, August 5th, 1759 : to which are added the remarkable defense he made on his trial, his own account of himself, written after his condemnation, with the apology which he left in his cell for the attempt he made on his own life ; also "The dream of Eugene Aram", a poem / by Thomas Hood. With additional information from the 'Gleanings & memoirs' of Norrison Scatcherd. Source: Wellcome Collection.

Provider: This material has been provided by Royal College of Physicians, London. The original may be consulted at Royal College of Physicians, London.

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    And well quoth he, I know for truth, Their pangs must be extreme— Woe, woe, unutterable woe— Who spill life’s sacred stream ! For why ? methought last night I wrought A murder in my dream. One that had never done me wrong— A feeble man and old; I led him to a lonely field. The moon shone clear and cold, Now here, said I, this man shall die And I will have his gold. Two sudden blows with a ragged stick. And one with a heavy stone. One hurried gash with a hasty knife— And then the deed was done ; There was nothing lying at my foot. But lifeless fiesh and bone. Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone. That would not do me ill; And yet I fear’d him all the more For lying there so still: There was a manhood in his look. That murder could not kill. And lo, the universal air Seem’d lit with ghastly flame. Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame; I took the dead man by the hand. And call’d upon his name ! 0 God it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain! But when I touch’d the lifeless clay. The blood gush’d out amain ! For every clot—a buniing shot. Was scorching in my brain! My head was like an ardent coal. My heart was solid ice ; My wretched, wretched soul I knew Was at the devil’s price : A dozen times I groan’d—the dead Had never groan’d but twice. And now from forth the frowning sky, From'the heaven’s topmost height, 1 heard a voice, the awful voice Of the blood avenging sprite; Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead. And hide it from my sight! I took the dreary body up. And cast it in a stream— A sluggish water, black as ink. The depth w'as so extreme ; My gentle boy, remember this Is uotliing but a dream. Down went the corse with a hollow And vanished in the pool; [plunge, Anon I cleans’d my bloody hands. And wash’d my forehead cool. And sat among the urchins young That evening in the schix)l! 0 heaven! to think of their white souls And mine so black and grim ; 1 could not share in childish prayer, .Nor join in evening hymn; Like a devil of the pit I seem’d ’Mid holy cherubim. And peace went with them one and all. And each calm pillow spread ; But guilt was my grim chamberlain That lighted me to bed. And drew my midnight curtains round With fingers bloody red. All night I lay in agony. In anguish dark and deep ; My fever’d eyes I dared not close. But started aghast at sleep. For sin had rendered unto her The keys of hell to keep. All night I lay in agony. From weary chime to chime. With one besetting horrid hint. That rack’d me all the time— A mighty yearning like the first P’ierce impulse unto crime. One stem, tyrannic thought that made All other thoughts its slave ; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave— Stili urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave. Heavily I rose up—as soon As light was in the sky. And sought the black accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye; And I saw the dead in the river bed. For the faithless stream was dry. Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dewdrop from its wing. But I never marked its morning flight, I never heard it sing : For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing ! With breathless speed like a soul in I took him up and ran— [chase There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began ; In a lonesome wood, with heaps of I hid the murder’d man ! [leaves.