The Angry Exile: By a man's works shall you know him

The Hangman

Into our town the Hangman came,
Smelling of gold and blood and flame.
And he paced our bricks with a diffident air,
And built his frame in the courthouse square.
The scaffold stood by the courthouse side,
Only as wide as the door was wide;
A frame as tall, or little more,
Than the capping sill of the courthouse door.
And we wondered, whenever we had the time,
Who the criminal, what the crime
That the Hangman judged with the yellow twist
of knotted hemp in his busy fist.
And innocent though we were, with dread,
We passed those eyes of buckshot lead --
Till one cried: "Hangman, who is he
For whom you raised the gallows-tree?"
Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
And he gave us a riddle instead of reply:
"He who serves me best," said he,
"Shall earn the rope of the gallows-tree."
And he stepped down, and laid his hand
On a man who came from another land.
And we breathed again, for another's grief
At the Hangman's hand was our relief
And the gallows-frame on the courthouse lawn
By tomorrow's sun would be struck and gone.
So we gave him way, and no one spoke,
Out of respect for his Hangman's cloak.
The next day's sun looked mildly down
On roof and street in our quiet town,
And stark and black in the morning air
Was the gallows-tree in the courthouse square.
And the Hangman stood at his usual stand
With the yellow hemp in his busy hand;
With his buckshot eye and his jaw like a pike
And his air so knowing and business-like.
And we cried, "Hangman, have you not done
Yesterday, with the foreign one?"
Then we fell silent, and stood amazed,
"Oh, not for him was the gallows raised."
He laughed a laugh as he looked at us:
"Did you think I'd gone to all this fuss
To hang one man? That's a thing I do
To stretch a rope when the rope is new."
Then one cried "Murder!" and one cried "Shame!"
And into our midst the Hangman came
To that man's place. "Do you hold," said he,
"with him that was meant for the gallows-tree?"
And he laid his hand on that one's arm.
And we shrank back in quick alarm!
And we gave him way, and no one spoke
Out of fear of his Hangman's cloak.
That night we saw with dread surprise
The Hangman's scaffold had grown in size.
Fed by the blood beneath the chute,
The gallows-tree had taken root;
Now as wide, or a little more,
Than the steps that led to the courthouse door,
As tall as the writing, or nearly as tall,
Halfway up on the courthouse wall.
The third he took -- we had all heard tell --
Was a usurer, and an infidel.
"What," said the Hangman "have you to do
With the gallows-bound, and he a Jew?"
And we cried out, "Is this one he
Who has served you well and faithfully?"
The Hangman smiled: "It's a clever scheme
to try the strength of the gallows-beam."
The fourth man's dark, accusing song
Had scratched our comfort hard and long;
"And what concern," he gave us back.
"Have you for the doomed -- the doomed and Black?"
The fifth. The sixth. And we cried again,
"Hangman, Hangman, is this the man?"
"It's a trick," he said. "that we hangmen know
For easing the trap when the trap springs slow."
And so we ceased, and asked no more,
As the Hangman tallied his bloody score.
And sun by sun, and night by night,
The gallows grew to monstrous height.
The wings of the scaffold opened wide
Till they covered the square from side to side;
And the monster cross-beam, looking down,
Cast its shadow across the town.
Then through the town the Hangman came,
Through the empty streets, and called my name --
And I looked at the gallows soaring tall,
And thought, "There is no one left at all
For hanging, and so he calls to me
To help pull down the gallows-tree."
So I went out with right good hope
To the Hangman's tree and the Hangman's rope.
He smiled at me as I came down
To the courthouse square through the silent town.
And supple and stretched in his busy hand
Was the yellow twist of the hempen strand.
And he whistled his tune as he tried the trap,
And it sprang down with a ready snap --
And then with a smile of awful command
He laid his hand upon my hand.
"You tricked me. Hangman!," I shouted then,
"That your scaffold was built for other men...
And I no henchman of yours," I cried,
"You lied to me, Hangman. Foully lied!"
Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
"Lied to you? Tricked you?" he said. "Not I.
For I answered straight and I told you true --
The scaffold was raised for none but you.
For who has served me more faithfully
Then you with your coward's hope?" said he,
"And where are the others who might have stood
Side by your side in the common good?"
"Dead," I whispered. And amiably
"Murdered," the Hangman corrected me:
"First the foreigner, then the Jew...
I did no more than you let me do."
Beneath the beam that blocked the sky
None had stood so alone as I.
The Hangman noosed me, and no voice there
Cried "Stop!" for me in the empty square.

Maurice Ogden

Saturday, 30 July 2011

By a man's works shall you know him

Years ago I had a good chuckle when I read that Al Gore, the Al Gore who was talking about a 6 metre sea level rise because of warble gloaming, bought a condo only a few hundred metres from San Francisco bay. There, I said to myself, goes a man who has either forgotten the doom he's predicted, has a lot of confidence (arguably misplaced) in it being averted, or didn't really believe what he was saying in the first place. Which of those depends on whether you think he's mad, stupid or over-egging the warble gloaming pudding in an effort to getting everyone on board and taking the action I'm sure he sincerely believes is necessary. Catastrophists would no doubt disagree, perhaps pointing out that the Goreacle's condo is on ground more than 6m above sea level, but it doesn't change the fact that that kind of rise will cause a lot of disruption nearby and buying property there wouldn't be a smart move if you really think it's going to happen.

However, if Andrew Bolt in the Herald Sun is correct then Gore has been outdone in a big way by Australia's Professor Tim Flannery.

Flannery in 2006 warned we could be on the brink of causing the seas to rise by 25m if we did not slash our emissions.
"Picture an eight-storey building by a beach, then imagine waves lapping its roof," he said dramatically.
"So anyone with a coastal view from their bedroom window or kitchen window is likely to lose their house as a result of that change."
So how terrifying it must be for Flannery as he gets his breakfast each morning to look up and see the estuarine waters of the Hawkesbury, just 5m from his waterfront home on Coba Point.
Why hasn't he sold up and moved to higher ground? Is it because even he doesn't believe his absurd scare?

Good question, though again Coba Point isn't all in the danger zone and rises to over 100m according to Google Earth. Unfortunately all of the visible houses, and presumably Tim Flannery's is one of them, are practically on the beach, and beaches tend to be rather close to sea level.

Perhaps Tim's planning on pulling it uphill when the waters get too close.

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Twenty_Rothmans · 712 weeks ago

I hope that Professor Tim Flannery hasn't been told yet about the boogie-man under his bed, or the dangers of second-hand smoke.

Like all of these dreamers, his mission is funded by people who make things in factories, the cleaners who clean the toilets in those factories, the girls who sell pies to the men who work in those factories, and everybody else who has a real job.

I don't blame Flannery so much - I guess he wants to be rich and famous and has found his niche. I do blame the sycophants who'll believe anything without asking what the angle is, and why weather, in the course of our own generation, is suddenly supposed to have become completely stable and predictable. Mummy's here. Oh, is poor baby hungry? Here...

I suppose that academics, unlike the rest of us who break our backs for a living, live in some Utopia where everything is just wonderful. I wish I had the job of cleaning this specimen's hotel room when he was off to some conference for which I was paying.

ALWAYS rinse your toothbrush first in hotel rooms :-)

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Angry_Exile 90p · 712 weeks ago

Oooh, nice thinking. Let's send him a cylinder of CO2 in a tiger skin and ivory holder with a label reading "Handled by smokers" on the side. They'll hear his head pop on the other side of the country.

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