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Correspondence from George MacNie Cowie to Aleister Crowley
14 Glenisla Gardens, Edinburgh.
Dec 23. 1914.
From G.C.M. VII Degree (below zero) Maddened Moneyless Mystics These—
Care Frater
Your little joke came off. Seeing a registered letter my first wild plunge was for the million dollar cheque sure to be enclosed. Sold again. But it's a good idea registering letters and if this one is so, it isn't revenge, but respectful imitation of a Great Idea which would at first have made me less hasty about pitching ten whole bob away under the Atlantic. But that's really perhaps because, as the date on your letter shows you must have missed a mail, as perhaps I did too, and as the young lady did when driven to remark "he cometh not" (To avoid giving you pain—the quot[ation] is from Robert Burns.)
I am glad to see you are weakening about the Huns. An arch but foolish bishop here thoughtfully sat down in the arm chair to recall sacred memories of Gott's pet and the Hun of a chair turned red hot and he couldn't endure his end on it after, poor parson. You'll know by this time that the gallant fellows after thoughtfully avoiding our contemptible little fleet (for fear of hurting it) spent a merry hour in defiance of the formidable fortification of Scarborough (one enormous gun 3 centuries old on a hotel lawn) and in face of fearful odds and with Gott's help put an end to several ferocious infants, wimmen folks, and a few negligable men. St Giles here, presents just the kind of target they like, so probably we'll get cinematographed too. It doesn't show a bad spirit by the way, that Scarborough is crowded and excursion trains go packed to that scene of frightfulness. It's not the murder I mind, death isn't much, it's the vileness and baseness of the Hunnish mind and its stupidity besides—And worse and wickeder than all they have no sense of humour! I turn back to the first page of this and console myself. I'm assured I'm not a German.
There isn't going to be any quintuple alliance in 1915. Who'd trust a German's word again? I'm not rabid, really, But I didn't like your kindness to Kaisers and you'll get that rubbed into you for ever, now. I know quite well of course that you'll see sub-lunary things with a detachment and from a view point the rest of us haven't attained to, and I keep that in mind. But may I be steamrollered if the playful little atrocities and sneakthieveishness of the Huns are exaggerated by the papers—I like what you say about the Press. You who are living just where the invention of 'news' to feed the crowd with is—oh what isn't it? No newspaper, in the nature of things can tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Here on the whole we manage to be pretty decent, the Hun press is gagged, bound and throttled, and doesn't count. But America. Cable 'Audacious attempt to explode Huns' Mines" and you get 2 pages illustrated of scare lines and thrilling details of the loss of a Super D. down to the Captains last words to send his mother. The censoring has often been silly and useless, but its on the whole better than letting some egregious Russell give away the whole show in the Times and supply the Hunnish staff with the very details they want. Fortunately if there's anyone whose a worse fool than the Censor, it's the Kaiser—Pretty fool I am too, to waste time and paper damning the Huns when there are hundreds of other things to say.
The lease [on Boleskine House] hasn't got completed yet but there's no hitch that I know of. We are in for over £20 worth of sanitary and other repairs unavoidable, and wise I think if only to set a shining example to the tenant. I'd have preferred to get the thing done in detail but as everything has to come from Inverness its cheaper to have all done at once.
I hope Mrs B[rook] will have the decency to pay up the quarter in advance. It would get me out of a hole, and would let me clear the studio rent. I relentlessly sent Hammond [Benjamin Charles Hammond] only 30/- last time, but he wrote so pitiful a letter I was driven to over draw my account again and let him have £3. Foolish, really, I should have insisted on seeing all the proofs first. There's only 30/- more due and I'll hold it back, till— But Hammond says there are extras beyond the £30. I don't quite understand.
Mother's [Leila Waddell] last letter was quite cheerful and she seems all right.
[Note: The remainder of the text may belong to a different letter.]
Goodness what a lot one still has to learn. And the time is getting short too. It's much better to worry out things for one's self, but give me hints please when I'm on or off the track, so as to not waste time in no-roads.
Med[itation] goes well enough, but it's a long long way to Tipheethararay by that road, when one can only travel at some poor 40 or 60 minutes a day. A good point is that I can now, in an imperfect and shaky way detach as it were, the will from the mind, keeping it intent on one point, without any actual idea or ideas, just holding it motionless, till the idea pops up its damn head that I am doing it or that I should do the trick this time, or that Brother Body is moaning or that Dog of Evil, the Mind whimpering in its sleep, etc etc etc etc.
Lots more to say, but no time to write it. Mater [Leila Waddell] should arrive by the Lusitania 2 or 3 days after you get this—at least her doom is sealed, passage booked and if these goods from Heaven are not delivered it isn't the fault of
F[iat] P[ax]
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