The Magic Story (Condensed Classics)

The Mysterious Classic of Self-Transformation

Frederick van Rensselaer Dey, Mitch Horowitz

• Publisher: G&D Media
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781722526290
• Topic: Personal Development
• Subtopic: Personal Success

Discover the Mysterious "You" Who Cannot Fail The Magic Story —one of the most intriguing and powerful works of inspiration ever written—reveals the unknown but entirely real you: a stronger, resilient, and more capable being who shadows your daily existence and requires only that you invite it in. In this imaginary but starkly real tale, author Frederick van Rensselaer Dey (1861–1922) reveals this "plus-entity" and how to encounter it. Originally published in 1900, Dey's beguiling and instructive story is a "magic key" for all who wish to become the person they are truly intended to be.This volume includes the complete text, an original publisher's preface, and a new introduction by spiritual thinker Mitch Horowitz making it the signature edition of Dey's mysterious classic."Since earliest childhood, " Mitch writes in the introduction, "you have probably felt, as I have, that you are two selves. Be guided by the principle of The Magic Story: select the self that builds you. It represents a more powerful choice than may at first appear."

PART ONE

I WAS sitting alone in the café, and had just reached for the sugar preparatory to putting it into my coffee. Outside, the weather was hideous. Snow and sleet came swirling down, and the wind howled frightfully. Every time the outer door opened, a draft of unwelcome air penetrated the uttermost corners of the room. Still, I was comfortable. The snow and sleet and wind conveyed nothing to me except an abstract thanksgiving that I was where it could not affect me. While I dreamed and sipped my coffee, the door opened and closed, and admitted—Sturtevant.

Sturtevant was an undeniable failure, but, withal, an artist of more than ordinary talent. He had, however, fallen into the rut traveled by ne’er-do-wells, and was out at the elbows as well as insolvent.

As I raised my eyes to Sturtevant’s, I was conscious of mild surprise at the change in his appearance. Yet he was not dressed differently. He wore the same threadbare coat in which he always appeared, and the old brown hat was the same. And yet there was something new and strange in his appearance. As he swished his hat around to relieve it of the burden of snow deposited by the howling nor’wester, there was something new in the gesticulation. I could not remember when I had invited Sturtevant to dine with me, but involuntarily I beckoned to him. He nodded, and presently seated himself opposite to me. I asked him what he would have, and he, after scanning the bill of fare carelessly, ordered from it leisurely, and invited me to join him in coffee for two. I watched him in stupid wonder, but, as I had invited the obligation, I was prepared to pay for it, although I knew I hadn’t sufficient cash to settle the bill. Meanwhile, I noted the brightness of his usual lackluster eyes, and the healthful, hopeful glow upon his cheek, with increasing amazement.

“Have you lost a rich uncle?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, calmly, “but I have found my mascot.”

“Brindle bull, or terrier?” I inquired.

“Currier,” said Sturtevant, at length, pausing with his coffee cup half way to his lips, “I see that I have surprised you. It is not strange, for I am a surprise to myself. I am a new man, a different man,—and the alteration has taken place in the last few hours. You have seen me come into this place broke’ many a time, when you have turned away, so that I would think you did not see me. I knew why you did that. It was not because you did not want to pay for a dinner, but because you did not have the money to do it. Is that your check? Let me have it. Thank you. I haven’t any money with me to-night, but I,—well, this is my treat.”

He called the waiter to him, and, with an inimitable flourish, signed his name on the backs of the two checks, and waved him away. After that he was silent a moment while he looked into my eyes, smiling at the astonishment which I in vain strove to conceal.

“Do you know an artist who possesses more talent than I?” he asked, presently. “No. Do you happen to know anything in the line of my profession that I could not accomplish, if I applied myself to it? No. You have been a reporter on the dailies for—how many?—seven or eight years. Do you remember when I ever had any credit until to-night? No. Was I refused just now? You have seen for yourself. To-morrow my new career begins. Within a month I shall have a bank account. Why? Because I have discovered the secret of success.”

“Yes,” he continued, when I did not reply, “my fortune is made. I have been reading a strange story, and, since reading it, I feel that my fortune is assured. It will make your fortune, too. All you have to do is to read it. You have no idea what it will do for you. Nothing is impossible after you know that story. It makes everything as plain as A, B, C. The very instant you grasp its true meaning, success is certain. This morning I was a hopeless, aimless bit of garbage in the metropolitan ash can; tonight I wouldn’t change places with a millionaire. That sounds foolish, but it is true. The millionaire has spent his enthusiasm; mine is all at hand.”

“You amaze me,” I said, wondering if he had been drinking absinthe. “Won’t you tell me the story? I should like to hear it.”

“Certainly. I mean to tell it to the whole world. It is really remarkable that it should have been written and should remain in print so long, with never a soul to appreciate it until now. This morning I was starving. I hadn’t any credit, nor a place to get a meal. I was seriously meditating suicide. I had gone to three of the papers for which I had done work, and had been handed back all that I had submitted. I had to choose quickly between death by suicide and death slowly by starvation. Then I found the story and read it. You can hardly imagine the transformation. Why, my dear boy, everything changed at once—and there you are.”

“But what is the story, Sturtevant?”

“Wait; let me finish. I took those same old drawings to other editors, and every one of them was accepted at once.”

“Can the story do for others what it has done for you? For example, would it be of assistance to me?” I asked.

“Help you? why not? Listen and I will tell it to you, although, really, you should read it. Still, I will tell it as best I can. It is like this: you see—,” The waiter interrupted us at that moment. He informed Sturtevant that he was wanted at the telephone, and, with a word of apology, the artist left the table. Five minutes later I saw him rush out into the sleet and wind and...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Introduction
• Preface
• Part One
• Chapter One
• Part Two
• Chapter Two
• About the Author