took a week off in March to go to Philadelphia, where the great
Billy Sunday was conducting a revival. The immense notoriety of
the man, and the incompatibility of the accounts which my
queries elicited, determined me, like the man in the gospel, to
hear and see for myself. I ran the fox to earth in a vast wooden
tabernacle; I forget what won by a narrow margin on points; and
when he came to New York where they had built a barn bigger than
the Albert Hall for the purpose, he could not even get an
audience. Beelzebub had the best of every round. Shrewd to the
last, he retired from the ring and left Lucifer with the
laurels. He had had a great time and had made his pile. I
suppose, at this hour, he is sitting under his own vine and fig
tree, meditating with cynical enjoyment the Shakespearean
aphorism, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!" and on Sundays
that sublime saying of the Saviour
who had saved him if he had never saved anyone else
"Ye are of more value than many sparrows."
— The Confessions of Aleister Crowley.
New York, NY. Hill and Wang, 1969. Page 765.