THE MAGIC

STORY
By Frederick Van Rensselaer Dey
(First published in Success Magazine in 1900)

New electronic edition brought to you by Doktor Snake

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AN IMMEDIATE worldwide sensation was created after The Magic Story first appeared
in 1900 in Success Magazine. After thousands of requests for a reprint, a tiny, silver
book was published. The silver book is hard to find today. But I've made The Magic
Story available as an e-book so you too can enjoy its inspiring message.

The book is in two parts:

CHAPTER ONE: Reveals the story of Sturtevant, a starving artist whose life was
changed overnight after he bought an old, ragged scrapbook for three cents. In the
scrapbook he found what he described as a magic story. Everyone he told the story to
prospered by it. It seemed to change reader's lives for the better - like magic.

CHAPTER TWO: Is the actual magic story, as found by Sturtevant. It was written by an
old man a hundred years or so before Sturtevant came upon it. It is one of the most
remarkable stories you will ever come across.

END PAGES: A short biography of Frederick Van Rensselaer Dey, the author of The
Magic Story.

Doktor Snake
Eastside of Paradise
www.DoktorSnake.com

2
 Chapter One
How the Magic Story was found....
I WAS SITTING ALONE in the cafe 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 noticed
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
tonight, 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 for 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 possess
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

3
been a reporter for the dailies for - how many? - seven or eight years. Do you remember
when I ever had any credit until tonight? No. Was I refused just now? You have seen for
yourself. Tomorrow 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 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 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 on 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 disappear. Within the
recollection of the frequenters of that cafe, Sturtevant had never before been called out
by telephone. That, of itself, was substantial proof of a change in his circumstances.

***

One night, on the street, I encountered Avery, a former college chum, then a reporter on
one of the evening papers. It was about a month after my memorable interview with
Sturtevant, which, by that time, was almost forgotten.

"Hello, old chap," he said; "how's the world using you? Still on space?" "Yes," I replied,
bitterly, "with prospects of being on the town, shortly. But you look as if things were

4
coming your way. Tell me all about it."

"Things have been coming my way, for a fact, and it is all remarkable, when all is said.
You know Sturtevant, don't you? It's all due to him. I was plumb down on my luck, -
thinking of the morgue and all that, - looking for you, in fact, with the idea you would
lend me enough to pay my room rent, when I met Sturtevant. He told me a story, and,
really, old man, it is the most remarkable story you ever heard; it made a new man out
of me. Within twenty-four hours I was on my feet and I've hardly known a care or a
trouble since."

Avery's statement, uttered calmly, and with the air of one who had merely pronounced
an axiom, recalled to my mind the conversation with Sturtevant in the cafe that stormy
night, nearly a month before. "It must be a remarkable story," I said, incredulously.
"Sturtevant mentioned it to me once. I have not seen him since. Where is he now?" "He
has been making war sketches in Cuba, at two hundred a week; he's just returned. It is
a fact that everybody who has heard the story has done well since. There are Cosgrove
and Phillips, - friends of mine, - you don't know them. One's a real estate agent; the
other's a broker's clerk, Sturtevant told them the story, and they have experienced the
same results that I have; and they are not the only ones.

"Do you know the story?" I asked. "Will you try its effect on me?" "Certainly; with the
greatest pleasure in the world. I would like to have it printed in big black type, and
posted on the elevated stations throughout New York. It certainly would do a lot of good,
and it's as simple as A, B, C: like living on a farm. Excuse me a minute, will you? I see
Danforth over there. Back in a minute, old chap." If the truth be told, I was hungry. My
pocket at that moment contained exactly five cents; just enough to pay my fare up-town,
but insufficient also to stand the expense of filling my stomach.

There was a "night owl" wagon in the neighborhood, where I had frequently "stood up"
the purveyor of midnight dainties, and to him I applied. He was leaving the wagon as I
was on the point of entering it, and I accosted him. "I'm broke again," I said, with
extreme cordiality. "You'll have to trust me once more. Some ham and eggs, I think, will
do for the present." He coughed, hesitated a moment, and then re-entered the wagon
with me. "Mr. Currier is good for anything he orders'" he said to the man in charge; "one
of my old customers. This is Mr. Bryan, Mr. Currier. He will take good care of you, and
'stand for' you, just the same as I would. The fact is, I have sold out. I've just turned over
the outfit to Bryan. By the way, isn't Mr. Sturtevant a friend of yours?" I nodded.

I couldn't have spoken if I had tried. "Well," continued the ex-"night owl" man, "he came
in here one night, about a month ago, and told me the most wonderful story I ever
heard. I've just bought a place in Eighth Avenue, where I am going to run a regular
restaurant - near Twenty-third Street. Come and see me." He was out of the wagon and
the sliding door had been banged shut before I could stop him; so I ate my ham and
eggs in silence, and resolved that I would hear that story before I slept. In fact, I began
to regard it with superstition.

If it had made so many fortunes, surely it should be capable of making mine. The
certainty that the wonderful story - I began to regard it as magic - was in the air,
possessed me. As I started to walk homeward, fingering the solitary nickel in my pocket

5
and contemplating the certainty of riding downtown in the morning, I experienced the
sensation of something stealthily pursuing me, as if Fate were treading along behind
me, yet never overtaking, and I was conscious that I was possessed with or by the
story.

When I reached Union Square, I examined my address book for the home of Sturtevant.
It was not recorded there. Then I remembered the cafe in University Place, and,
although the hour was late, it occurred to me that he might be there. He was! In a far
corner of the room, surrounded by a group of acquaintances, I saw him. He discovered
me at the same instant, and motioned to me to join them at the table. There was no
chance for the story, however. There were half a dozen around the table, and I was the
furthest removed from Sturtevant. But I kept my eyes upon him, and bided my time,
determined that, when he rose to depart, I would go with him.

A silence, suggestive of respectful awe, had fallen upon the party when I took my seat.
Everyone had seemed to be thinking, and the attention of all was fixed upon Sturtevant.
The cause was apparent. He had been telling the story. I had entered the cafe just too
late to hear it. On my right, when I took my seat, was a doctor; on my left a lawyer.
Facing me on the other side was a novelist with whom I had some acquaintance. The
others were artists and newspaper men.

"It's too bad, Mr. Currier," remarked the doctor; "you should have come a little sooner,
Sturtevant has been telling us a story; it is quite wonderful, really. I say, Sturtevant,
won't you tell that story again, for the benefit of Mr. Currier?" "Why yes. I believe that
Currier has, somehow, failed to hear the magic story, although, as a matter of fact, I
think he was the first one to whom I mentioned it at all. It was here, in this cafe, too, - at
this very table.

Do you remember what a wild night that was, Currier? Wasn't I called to the telephone,
or something like that? To be sure! I remember, now; interrupted just at the point when I
was beginning the story. After that I told it to three or four fellows, and it 'braced them
up,' as it had me. It seems incredible that a mere story can have such a tonic effect
upon the success of so many persons who are engaged in such widely different
occupations, but that is what it has done. It is a kind of never-failing remedy, like a
cough mixture that is warranted to cure everything, from a cold in the head to galloping
consumption. There was Parsons, for example. He is a broker, you know, and had been
on the wrong side of the market for a month. He had utterly lost his grip, and was on the
verge of failure. I happened to meet him at the time he was feeling the bluest, and
before we parted, something brought me around to the subject of the story, and I related
it to him. It had the same effect on him as it had on me, and has had on everybody who
has heard it, as far as I know.

I think you will all agree with me, that it is not the story itself that performs the surgical
operation on the minds of those who are familiar with it; it is the way it is told, - in print, I
mean. The author has, somehow, produced a psychological effect which is
indescribable. The reader is hypnotized. He receives a mental and moral tonic.

Perhaps, doctor, you can give some scientific explanation of the influence exerted by
the story. It is a sort of elixir manufactured out of words, eh?" From that the company

6
entered upon a general discussion of theories. Now and then slight references were
made to the story itself, and they were just sufficient to tantalize me, - the only one
present who had not heard it.

At length, I left my chair, and passing around the table, seized Sturtevant by one arm,
and succeeded in drawing him away from the party. "If you have any consideration for
an old friend who is rapidly being driven mad by the existence of that confounded story,
which Fate seems determined that I shall never hear, you will relate it to me now," I
said, savagely. Sturtevant stared at me in wild surprise. "All right," he said. "The others
will excuse me for a few moments, I think. Sit down here, and you shall have it. I found it
pasted in an old scrapbook I purchased in Ann Street, for three cents and there isn't a
thing about it by which one can get any idea in what publication it originally appeared, or
who wrote it. When I discovered it, I began casually to read it, and in a moment I was
interested. Before I left it, I had read it through many times, so that I could repeat it
almost word for word. It affected me strangely, - as if I had come in contact with some
strong personality.

There seems to be in the story a personal element that applies to every one who reads
it. Well, after I had read it several times, I began to think it over. I couldn't stay in the
house, so I seized my coat and hat and went out. I must have walked several miles,
buoyantly, without realizing that I was the same man, who, in only a short time before,
had been in the depths of despondency. That was the day I met you here, - you
remember." We were interrupted at that instant by a uniformed messenger, who handed
Sturtevant a telegram. It was from his chief, and demanded his instant attendance at the
office. The sender had already been delayed an hour, and there was no help for it; he
must go at once. "Too bad!" said Sturtevant, rising and extending his hand.

"Tell you what I'll do, old chap. I'm not likely to be gone any more than an hour or two.
You take my key and wait for me in my room. In the escritoire near the window you will
find an old scrapbook bound in rawhide. It was manufactured, I have no doubt, by the
author of the magic story. Wait for me in my room until I return."

I found the book without difficulty. It was a quaint, home-made affair, covered, as
Sturtevant had said, with rawhide, and bound with leather thongs. The pages formed an
odd combination of yellow paper, vellum and homemade parchment. I found the story,
curiously printed on the last-named material. It was quaint and strange. Evidently, the
printer had "set" it under the supervision of the writer. The phraseology was an unusual
combination of seventeenth and eighteenth century mannerisms, and the interpolation
of italics and capitals could have originated in no other brain than that of its author. In
reproducing the following story, the peculiarities of type, etc. are eliminated, but in other
respects it remains unchanged.

***

7
 Chapter Two
The Magic Story
by
Unknown Author

INASMUCH as I have evolved from my experience the one great secret of success for
all worldly undertakings, I deem it wise, now that the number of my days is nearly
counted, to give to the generations that are to follow me the benefit of whatsoever
knowledge I possess. I do not apologize for the manner of my expression, nor for the
lack of literary merit, the latter being its own apology. Tools much heavier than the pen
have been my portion, and moreover, the weight of years has somewhat palsied the
hand and brain; nevertheless, the fact I can tell, and what I deem the meat within the
nut. What mattereth it, in what manner the shell be broken, so that the meat be obtained
and rendered useful? I doubt not that I shall use, in the telling, expressions that have
clung to my memory since childhood; for, when men attain the number of my years,
happenings of youth are like to be clearer to their perceptions than are events of recent
date; nor doth it matter much how a thought is expressed, if it be wholesome and
helpful, and findeth the understanding.

Much have I wearied my brain about the question, how best to describe this recipe for
success that I have discovered, and it seemeth advisable to give it as it came to me;
that is, if I relate somewhat of the story of my life, the directions for agglomerating the
substances, and supplying the seasoning for the accomplishment of the dish, will plainly
be perceived. Happen they may; and that men may be born generations after I am dust,
who will live to bless me for the words I write.

***

My father, then, was a seafaring man who, early in life, forsook his vocation, and settled
on a plantation in the colony of Virginia, where, some years thereafter, I was born,
which event took place in the year 1642; and that was over a hundred years ago. Better
for my father had it been, had he hearkened to the wise advice of my mother, that he
remain in the calling of his education; but he would not have it so, and the good vessel
he captained was bartered for the land I spoke of. Here beginneth the first lesson to be
acquired:----

Man should not be blinded to whatsoever merit exists in the opportunity which he hath
in hand, remembering that a thousand promises for the future should weigh as naught
against the possession of a single piece of silver.

When I had achieved ten years, my mother's soul took flight, and two years thereafter
my worthy father followed her. I, being their only begotten, was left alone; howbeit, there
were friends who, for a time, cared for me; that is to say, they offered me a home
beneath their roof, - a thing which I took advantage of for the space of five months.
From my father's estate there came to me naught; but, in the wisdom that came with
increasing years, I convinced myself that his friend, under whose roof I lingered for
some time, had defrauded him, and therefore me.

8
Of the time from the age of twelve and a half until I was three and twenty, I will make no
recital here, since that time hath naught to do with this tale; but some time after, having
in my possession the sum of sixteen guineas, ten, which I had saved from the fruits of
my labor, I took ship to Boston town, where I began to work first as a cooper, and
thereafter as a ship's carpenter, although always after the craft was docked; for the sea
was not amongst my desires.

Fortune will sometimes smile upon an intended victim because of pure perversity of
temper. Such was one of my experiences. I prospered, and at seven and twenty, owned
the yard wherein, less than four years earlier, I had worked for hire. Fortune, howbeit, is
a jade who must be coerced; she will not be coddled. Here beginneth the second lesson
to be acquired:

Fortune is ever elusive, and can only be retained by force. Deal with her tenderly and
she will forsake you for a stronger man. (In that, me-thinks, she is not unlike other
women of my knowledge.)

About this time, disaster (which is one of the heralds of broken spirits and lost resolve),
paid me a visit. Fire ravaged my yards, leaving me nothing in its blackened paths but
debts, which I had not the coin wherewith to defray. I labored with my acquaintances,
seeking assistance for a new start, but the fire that had burned my competence,
seemed also to have consumed their sympathies. So it happened, within a short time,
that not only had I lost all, but I was hopelessly indebted to others; and for that they cast
me into prison. It is possible that I might have rallied from my losses but for this last
indignity, which broke down my spirits so that I became utterly despondent. Upward of a
year I was detained within the gaol; and, when I did come forth, it was not the same
hopeful, happy man, content with his lot, and with confidence in the world and its
people, who had entered there.

Life has many pathways, and of them by far the greater number lead downward. Some
are precipitous, others are less abrupt; but ultimately, no matter at what inclination the
angle may be fixed, they arrive at the same destination, - failure. And here beginneth
the third lesson:

Failure exists only in the grave. Man, being alive, hath not yet failed; always he may
turn about and ascend by the same path he descended by; and there may be one that
is less abrupt (albeit longer of achievement), and more adaptable to his condition.

When I came forth from prison, I was penniless. In all the world I possessed naught
beyond the poor garments which covered me, and a walking stick which the turnkey had
permitted me to retain, since it was worthless. Being a skilled workman, howbeit, I
speedily found employment at good wages; but, having eaten of the fruit of worldly
advantage, dissatisfaction possessed me. I became morose and sullen; whereat, to
cheer my spirits, and for the sake of forgetting the losses I had sustained, I passed my
evenings at the tavern. Not that I drank overmuch of liquor, except on occasion (for I
have ever been somewhat abstemious), but that I could laugh and sing, and parry wit
and badinage with my ne'er-do-well companions; and here might be included the fourth
lesson:

9
Seek comrades among the industrious, for those who are idle will sap your energies
from you.

It was my pleasure at that time to relate, upon slight provocation, the tale of my
disasters, and to rail against the men whom I deemed to have wronged me, because
they had seen fit not to come to my aid. Moreover, I found childish delight in filching
from my employer, each day, a few moments of the time for which he paid me. Such a
thing is less honest than downright theft.

This habit continued and grew upon me until the day dawned which found me not only
without employment, but also without character, which meant that I could not hope to
find work with any other employer in Boston town.

It was then that I regarded myself a failure. I can liken my condition at that time for
naught more similar than that of a man who, descending the steep side of a mountain,
loses his foothold. The farther he slides, the faster he goes. I have also heard this
condition described by the word Ishmaelite, which I understand to be a man whose
hand is against everybody, and who thinks that the hands of every other man are
against him; and here beginneth the fifth lesson:

The Ishmaelite and the leper are the same, since both are abominations in the sight of
man, - albeit they differ much, in that the former may be restored to perfect health. The
former is entirely the result of imagination; the latter has poison in his blood.

I will not discourse at length upon the gradual degeneration of my energies. It is not
meet ever to dwell much upon misfortunes (which saying is also worthy of
remembrance). It is enough if I add that the day came where I possessed naught
wherewith to purchase food and raiment, and I found myself like unto a pauper, save at
infrequent times when I could earn a few pence, or mayhap, a shilling. Steady
employment I could not secure, so I became emaciated in body, and naught but
skeleton in spirit.

My condition, then, was deplorable; not so much for the body, be it said, as for the
mental part of me, which was sick unto death. In my imagination I deemed myself
ostracized by the whole world, for I had sunk very low indeed; and here beginneth the
sixth and final lesson to be acquired, (which cannot be told in one sentence, nor in one
paragraph, but must needs be adopted from the remainder of this tale).

***

Well do I remember my awakening, for it came in the night, when, in truth, I did awake
from sleep. My bed was a pile of shavings in the rear of the cooper shop where once I
had worked for hire; my roof was the pyramid of casks, underneath which I had
established myself. The night was cold, and I was chilled, albeit, paradoxically, I had
been dreaming of light and warmth and of the depletion of good things. You will say,
when I relate the effect the vision had on me, that my mind was affected. So be it, for it
is the hope that the minds of others might be likewise influenced which disposes me to
undertake the labor of this writing. It was the dream which converted me to the belief -
nay, to the knowledge - that I was possessed of two entities: and it was my own better

10
self that afforded me the assistance for which I had pleaded in vain from my
acquaintances. I have heard this condition described by the word "double."
Nevertheless, that word does not comprehend my meaning. A double, can be naught
more than a double, neither half being possessed of individuality. But I will not
philosophize, since philosophy is naught but a suit of garments for the decoration of a
dummy figure.

Moreover, it was not the dream itself which affected me; it was the impression made by
it, and the influence that it exerted over me, which accomplished my enfranchisement.
In a word, then, I encouraged my other identity. After toiling through a tempest of snow
and wind, I peered into a window and saw that other being. He was rosy with health;
before him, on the hearth, blazed a fire of logs; there was a conscious power and force
in his demeanor; he was physically and mentally muscular. I rapped timidly upon the
door, and he bade me enter. There was a not unkindly smile of derision in his eyes as
he motioned me to a chair by the fire; but he uttered no word of welcome; and, when I
had warmed myself, I went forth again into the tempest, burdened with the shame which
the contrast between us had forced upon me. It was then that I awoke; and here cometh
the strange part of my tale, for, when I did awake, I was not alone. There was a
Presence with me; intangible to others, I discovered later, but real to me.

The Presence was in my likeness, yet it was strikingly unlike. The brow, not more lofty
than my own, yet seemed more round and full; the eyes, clear, direct, and filled with
purpose, glowed with enthusiasm and resolution; the lips, chin, - ay, the whole contour
of face and figure was dominant and determined.

He was calm, steadfast, and self-reliant; I was cowering, filled with nervous trembling,
and fearsome of intangible shadows. When the Presence turned away, I followed, and
throughout the day I never lost sight of it, save when it disappeared for a time beyond
some doorway where I dared not enter; at such places, I awaited its return with
trepidation and awe, for I could not help wondering at the temerity of the Presence (so
like myself, and yet so unlike), in daring to enter where my own feet feared to tread.

It seemed also as if purposely, I was led to the place and to the men where, and before
whom I most dreaded to appear; to offices where once I had transacted business; to
men with whom I had financial dealings. Throughout the day I pursued the Presence,
and at evening saw it disappear beyond the portals of a hostelry famous for its cheer
and good living. I sought the pyramid of casks and shavings.

Not again in my dreams that night did I encounter the Better Self (for that is what I have
named it), albeit, when, perchance, I awakened from slumber, it was near to me, ever
wearing that calm smile of kindly derision which could not be mistaken for pity, nor for
condolence in any form. The contempt of it stung me sorely.

The second day was not unlike the first, being a repetition of its forerunner, and I was
again doomed to wait outside during the visits which the Presence paid to places where
I fain would have gone had I possessed the requisite courage. It is fear which deporteth
a man's soul from his body and rendereth it a thing to be despised. Many a time I
essayed to address it but enunciation rattled in my throat, unintelligible; and the day
closed like its predecessor.

11
This happened many days, one following another, until I ceased to count them; albeit, I
discovered that constant association with the Presence was producing an effect on me;
and one night when I awoke among the casks and discerned that he was present, I
made bold to speak, albeit with marked timidity.

"Who are you?" I ventured to ask; and I was startled into an upright posture by the
sound of my own voice; and the question seemed to give pleasure to my companion, so
that I fancied there was less of derision in his smile when he responded.

"I am that I am," was the reply. "I am he who you have been; I am he who you may be
again; wherefore do you hesitate? I am he who you were, and whom you have cast out
for other company. I am the man made in the image of God, who once possessed your
body. Once we dwelt within it together, not in harmony, for that can never be, nor yet in
unity, for that is impossible, but as tenants in common who rarely fought for full
possession. Then, you were a puny thing, but you became selfish and exacting until I
could no longer abide with you, therefore I stepped out. There is a plus-entity and
minus-entity in every human body that is born into the world. Whichever one of these is
favored by the flesh becomes dominant; then is the other inclined to abandon its
habitation, temporarily or for all time. I am the plus-entity of yourself; you are the minus-
entity. I own all things; you possess naught. That body which we both inhabited is mine,
but it is unclean, and I will not dwell within it. Cleanse it, and I will take possession."

"Why do you pursue me?" I next asked of the Presence.

"You have pursued me, not I you. You can exist without me for a time, but your path
leads downward, and the end is death. Now that you approach the end, you debate if it
be not politic that you should cleanse your house and invite me to enter. Step aside,
from the brain and the will; cleanse them of your presence; only on that condition will I
ever occupy them again."

"The brain has lost its power," I faltered. "The will is a weak thing, now; can you repair
them?"

"Listen!" said the Presence, and he towered over me while I cowered abjectly at his
feet. "To the plus-entity of a man, all things are possible. The world belongs to him, - is
his estate. He fears naught, dreads naught, stops at naught; he asks no privileges, but
demands them; he dominates, and cannot cringe; his requests are orders; opposition
flees at his approach; he levels mountains, fills in vales, and travels on an even plane
where stumbling is unknown."

Thereafter, I slept again, and, when I awoke, I seemed to be in a different world. The
sun was shining and I was conscious that birds twittered above my head. My body,
yesterday trembling and uncertain, had become vigorous and filled with energy. I gazed
upon the pyramid of casks in amazement that I had so long made use of it for an
abiding place, and I was wonderingly conscious that I had passed my last night beneath
its shelter.

The events of the night recurred to me, and I looked about me for the Presence. It was

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not visible, but anon I discovered, cowering in a far corner of my resting place, a puny
abject shuddering figure, distorted of visage, deformed of shape, disheveled and
unkempt of appearance. It tottered as it walked, for it approached me piteously; but I
laughed aloud, mercilessly. Perchance I knew then that it was the minus-entity, and that
the plus-entity was within me; albeit I did not then realize it. Moreover, I was in haste to
get away; I had no time for philosophy. There was much for me to do, - much; strange it
was that I had not thought of that yesterday. But yesterday was gone, - today was with
me, - it had just begun.

As had once been my daily habit, I turned my steps in the direction of the tavern, where
formerly I had partaken of my meals. I nodded cheerily as I entered, and smiled in
recognition of returned salutations. Men who had ignored me for months bowed
graciously when I passed them on the thoroughfare. I went to the washroom, and from
there to the breakfast table; afterwards, when I passed the taproom, I paused a moment
and said to the landlord:

"I will occupy the same room that I formerly used, if perchance, you have it at disposal.
If not, another will do as well, until I can obtain it."

Then I went out and hurried with all haste to the cooperage. There was a huge wain in
the yard, and men were loading it with casks for shipment. I asked no questions, but,
seizing barrels, began hurling them to the men who worked atop of the load. When this
was finished, I entered the shop. There was a vacant bench; I recognized its disuse by
the litter on its top. It was the same at which I had once worked. Stripping off my coat, I
soon cleared it of impedimenta. In a moment more I was seated, with my foot on the
vice-lever, shaving staves.

It was an hour later when the master workman entered the room, and he paused in
surprise at sight of me; already there was a goodly pile of neatly shaven staves beside
me, for in those days I was an excellent workman; there was none better, but, alas!
Now, age hath deprived me of my skill. I replied to his unasked question with the brief,
but comprehensive sentence: "I have returned to work, sir." He nodded his head and
passed on, viewing the work of other men, albeit anon he glanced askance in my
direction.

Here endeth the sixth and last lesson to be acquired, although there is more to be said,
since from that moment I was a successful man, and ere long possessed another
shipyard, and had acquired a full competence of worldly goods.

I pray you who read, heed well the following admonitions, since upon them depend the
word "success" and all that it implies:

Whatsoever you desire of good is yours. You have but to stretch forth your hand and
take it.

Learn that the consciousness of dominant power within you is the possession of all
things attainable.

Have no fear of any sort or shape, for fear is an adjunct of the minus-entity.

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If you have skill, apply it; the world must profit by it, and therefore, you.

Make a daily and nightly companion of your plus-entity; if you heed its advice, you
cannot go wrong.

Remember, philosophy is an argument; the world, which is your property, is an

Go therefore, and do that which is within you to do; take no heed of gestures which
would beckon you aside; ask of no man permission to perform.

The minus-entity requests favors; the plus-entity grants them. Fortune waits upon every
footstep you take; seize her, bind her, hold her, for she is yours; she belongs to you.

Start out now, with these admonitions in your mind.

Stretch out your hand, and grasp the plus, which, maybe, you have never made use of,
save in great emergencies. Life is an emergency most grave.

Your plus-entity is beside you now; cleanse your brain, and strengthen your will. It will
take possession. It waits upon you.

Start tonight; start now upon this new journey.

Be always on your guard. Whichever entity controls you, the other hovers at your side;
beware lest the evil enter, even for a moment.

My task is done. I have written the recipe for "success." If followed, it cannot fail.
Wherein I may not be entirely comprehended, the plus-entity of whosoever reads will
supply the deficiency; and upon that Better Self of mine, I place the burden of imparting
to generations that are to come, the secret of this all-pervading good, - the secret of
being what you have it within you to be.

-The End-

"The road to riches lies within..."

"Our only limitations are those we set up in our own minds..."

"Live life with a healthy disregard for the impossible..."

Doktor Snake
www.DoktorSnake.com

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 About Frederick Van Rensselaer Dey

Frederick Van Rensselaer Dey was born in Watkins Glen, New York, on February 10,
1861. He was educated at the Havana (NY) Academy, and went on to graduate from
the Law School of Columbia University. He practised law for a time and became a junior
partner of William J. Gaynor (who later became Mayor of New York and is still
remembered for being photographed when he was shot in the head).

Dey took up writing stories for amusement when he was convalescing from a serious
illness, and later made it his life work. His first long story was written for the publishers
Beadle and Adams in 1881. In 1891, Street & Smith engaged him to continue a series
of novelettes, begun by John R. Coryell, concerning the adventures of a detective
named Nick Carter.

It is said that Dey wrote between one thousand and eleven hundred Nick Carter stories.
Besides these he wrote more serious books and serials. Two of his earlier books,
before his dime-novel days, "The Magic Word" and "The Magic Story," written in 1899,
were extremely popular and passed through some twenty editions.

His "Night Wind" stories, written under the pen name Varick Venardy, also sold in large
numbers. Dey used various other pseudonyms, but the only ones under which he wrote
for Beadle were Marmaduke Dey and Frederick M. Dey. For other publishers he used
the names Ross Beckman, Dirck Van Doren, and Frederic Ormund.

Dey was married twice. First to Annie Shepard on June 4, 1885, with whom he had two
children. And second to Mrs. Hattie (Hamblin) Cahoon on April 1, 1898. The second
Mrs. Dey was also an author, writing under the name Haryot Holt Dey.

Two decades later Dey was broke. With no market for his stories after the era of the
dime-novel had ended, Dey could see no way of making a living. So he shot himself in
his room in the Hotel Broztell, New York City, some time during the night of April 25,
1922.

Dey had a very vivid imagination. A writer in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch said:

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 Dey had an incorrigible imagination. It made him famous as a writer, but it also
had its penalties ... He had always indulged a penchant for playing that he was a
millionaire and spent his money accordingly. He would pose as a wealthy
sportsman, a rich California fruit-grower, a millionaire railroad official - any fiction
that seemed to lend glamour to his momentary position was not beyond the
reach of his voracious imagination. As for the expense of his posing, that didn't
matter. It was worth any price to him just to be regarded for a few minutes as the
romantic figure he sought to impersonate.

Dey was always purchasing estates and never completing the transactions. Once he
had $200 in his pocket - all he had in the world. Yet he went over to the Erie Basin
posing as a millionaire and after looking over several yachts, picked out a craft worth
around $100,000, and gave the $200 as evidence of good faith to clinch the deal. The
dreamer paid the last few dollars he had for just a few minutes of being looked upon as
the buyer of a yacht.

Before he killed himself he wrote to a friend telling him of what he intended to do. The
friend got the letter and raced to the little hotel where the "Colonel" was staying. As he
had not registered under his own name, the visitor couldn’t find him and described Dey
to the clerk.

"That description fits a gentleman on the seventh floor," said the clerk, "but surely he
had no thought of suicide. The man is a wealthy fruit grower in California. Why, last
night before he went up to his room, he offered me a position in the fruit business in
California."

"That's the man I am looking for," said his friend.

It was. The hotel clerk was likely the last human being Dey spoke to on earth. Dey had
just posted the letter telling his friend that "everything had gone to smash and he
belonged with it" and that he "couldn't stand the gaff". On his way up to his room - which
he very likely couldn't pay for - Dey stopped to offer the clerk a job on his “fruit ranch” in
California.

Sad though the end of Dey’s life turned out to be he did, at least, have a profound
understanding of the power of the human imagination - as is evidenced by The Magic
Story. In the end, however, it failed him. He couldn’t dream up an answer to his
predicament. Maybe he’d just had enough... But that doesn’t stop all of us taking
inspiration from his work, which was truly great.

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