Quod Erat Demonstrandum
"That this is doctrine, simple, ancient, true;
Such is life's trial, as old Earth smiles and knows.
If you loved only what were worth your love,
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you;
Make the low nature better by your throes!
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!"
—R. Browning.
Any afternoon, between three and five, you will probably find in the Club Library, somewhere near the S T E and T R A Bookcase, a thin, restless-eyed man of perhaps five-and-fifty years of age. He will answer to the name of Pennethorne—Cornelius Pennethorne—and he can sometimes be trusted to converse in a fairly rational manner. Generally, however, he is chock-full of nonsensical ideas, founded on what he calls "Inferences from Established Principles," and these make it almost impossible for him to do anything, from tying his bootlace to reducing his Overdraft, except on theories of his own determining.
He sold out of the Army because he had proved to the War Office that the science of modern warfare was founded on an entirely wrong basis, and the greyheads refused his aid to set it right. So, washing his hands of the whole affair, he came to Australia. This was in '69, or perhaps '70.
Knowing nothing about station work, he gave sixty thousand pounds for a property on the Diamantina, in order to demonstrate his own theories on cattle-breeding. And when they proved unworkable, he spent a small fortune inventing a gold-crushing plant—another failure. In similar manner all his pet projects faded away, one after another, like cats'-paws on a big lagoon.
But he learnt nothing from these rebuffs, and there was no kudos to be gained by showing him what an utter ass he really was. You can reason with some men, but not with Pennethorne: he came from obstinate Cornish stock; and as soon as he saw the theory of the moment a failure, he threw it away and dived deeper still into something else.
When he had exhausted cattle-breeding, horse-breaking, irrigation and gold-mining, he hunted about for some other channel in which to sink his money; but for the moment nothing came to hand.
Then some one sent him a pamphlet entitled "The Folklore of our Aboriginal Predecessors," or something of an equally idiotic nature; and in this he saw a fresh opening. His district was infested with blacks, so he plunged holus-bolus into their private affairs. He argued that the theory of their treatment was altogether wrong, and for three months he choked the Colonial Press with lengthy screeds denouncing every one concerned in their government. Beginning with the Protector of Aboriginals and his staff, he took in the Commissioner of Police, and clergy of all denominations. Then, working through the Legislative and Executive Councils, he finished with a great blare at the Governor himself. It never, for an instant, struck him that he was making an egregious ass of himself. That, probably, would be some one else's theory.