Konx Om Pax

fields Captain Fuller is a master dramatist, and we have no hesitation in predicting that modern readers, weary of the sordid and tawdry tediousness of gutter realism and Utopia idealism, will find in this book a satisfaction of many a heartache. The SEEKBR says: Years ago, the saintly Novalis called Baruch de Spinoza “ that God-intoxicated Man.” What would he have said had he lived to-day, and looked upon the face of Aleister Crowley, that glory revealed to us by the genius of Captain 1. F. C. Fuller? Crowley has been reproached in some thoughtless or malicious quarters for his ignorance or tolerance of evil. But is this not because the holiness of his life and thought keeps him so close to his divine Master that he can only see good in all he gazes on? It is the eagle, ever steadfastly beholding the sun, that swoops down upon carrion, and thanks God for the meal. It is the urblind race of miserable men that turn fastidioust from wholesome and natural f . However this may be, it is undoubtedly no easy task to follow the royal bird in his dazzling flight through illimitable oathyr. Yet the attempt will avail us much; even if we can rise only some few feet above the ground, we may say, “something attempted, something done.” And as we grow bolder, we shall be more at ease in the new ele ment, or even, like the sparrow on the eagle’s back, equal the splendid soaring of our princely pioneer. For those to whom much of Crowley is obscure, no better lamp can be found than this brilliant book of Captain Fuller. A. Quiller, in the Unsacraanm Ravraw, says: IN THE LAND OF OPHIR Here is a master-voice in song; here is a hand which has “ waked to ecstasy the living-lyre.” It him indeed been the lot of few men to be the author of thirty-two books and still remain unknown; but it has been the lot of none to sing songs of so divine a melody and so diabolic a discord; since the days when Solomon the King vied with the bul-buls in the rose-bowers of Sharon, and showered urple kisses on the jet-black thighs of strange women amongst the white lilies in the alley of Jordan. As we open this regal book, all the gold of Ophir and the glitterin jewels of Havilah flash before our wondering eyes. And once a in we wander ro h the scented gardens of Shiraz and drink deep of the go] en vintage of Omar. ll is a melody of joy, an ecstasy of bliss, a ra ture of bewildering love; and Captain Fuller has indeed proved himself to be a wortliy cicerone to guide the seeker after the kisses of God across the labyrinthine darkness of Mines as well as through the cool groves of Eleusis, “child-like dreaming in the bosom of silvery Attica by the blue [Egean sea.” Always picturesque, he writes with a generous enthusiasm, which is pleasant to find in these egenerate days, when po ular opinion, hydra-headed, moves with a single purpose to slay the thinker and eslaver a Hall Caine with its coprophagic s cephanc . But Crowley, this second Hercules, has little to fear with so trusty an olaus by is side. In this epoch-making work—we might almost exclaim this one book of the geologic period—Captain Fuller has with a clarion blast, seldom heard in the Salvation hubbub of this age of boisterous bassoons, heralded in our unknown knight, who, with the ravaging roar of ten thousand thunders, has flung down before the world his adaman tine gauntlet of Ecstatic Truth, which has sent the Old World a-tottering like Bacchus in his cups, and the sparks flying upwards, blinding the starry eyes of God. In this literary cataclysm the hosts of Corelli will be swallowed up, and above the bubblin suction of unkissed lips will the voice of Crowley, like the bellowing of a love-frenzi bull, reclaim himself lacehus—the Second Christ, and ofi'er to us, the crucified thieves of this modern Golgotha, the Cup of Multiscient Joy, that goblet of Everlasting Ecstasy. Hark: 4