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Correspondence from George MacNie Cowie to Aleister Crowley
14 Glenisla Gardens, Edinburgh.
5 Jan 15.
Care Frater
The Wednesday after I wrote was such a rush day that the ransack of the Advocates was impossible. Yesterday I hoped to manage it, but found myself laid on my back in bed all day. Unusual. Today I've been out but not very fit, and tomorrow I'll be busy I fear. It was not till Saturday that it entered my tortoise-like mind that the man to help me out was Gardner whom I occasionally have bought books from, and who is an expert in this kind of literature. (He is one of Wynn Westcott's [William Wynn Westcott] crowd and a VIII degree no less. You'll probably know what that is worth in the Ros[icrucian] Soc[iety]. I wrote and he gave me the names of three books. I wired today for him to send me the one he considered best, and if it comes in time, I will send it on an excerpt by this same mail. He tells me the original was in Arabic (which would be even better for your purpose?) and that the various Greek and Latin translations are a matter of dispute. If it doesn't come by this mail you can count on it by the next.
The Boleskine lease has at last come for my (the final) signature, so we are secure. That dear Mrs Brooks hasn't come up with the scratch with the rent. Hun! There was a demand today for the fire insurance and a merry letter from Inverness to state that a payment of one third more was compulsory on the tax. (War!) I should be in a sad way but for the hope that dollars will materialise by Monday next. Good!
As I will be busy tomorrow I am scribbling this tonight to be sure of catching the mail with one thing at least. No letter complete without insulting remarks on the Huns. I thought nothing of the cutting you sent. It's a very thin excuse of the Americas for keeping out of the pie. Nobody expects, for instance, that the Cossacks will act like kid gloved plaster saints when they get into Prussia. The Huns will whine that it isn't playing the-game-fair, of course. They think the heads I win tails you lose game was their game. Fools. No, Miss America, go on worshipping the great god Dollars, and be dishonoured for ever. Your very thin excuse won't wash. I have spoken.
No time to worry you re other matters. Let them simmer for a bit. Chaos is taking shape with tortoise like rapidity. More anon. Vale frater! Pax vobiscum! But
F oe to P russians.
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