In “Famous Stories of Sam P. Jones,” appears the following:
Start an engine from New York to San Francisco, and there is attached to its side a little piece of mechanism which indicates the number of miles it has traveled, the stoppages it has made, and how long it stopt at each station; and if you want to know the record of the journey you need not ask the engineer a word. The little piece of mechanism on the side of the engine tells you its record.
In the same way the thoughts, deeds, and progress of a soul are self-registering. (Text.)
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RECORD, LIVING
The tympanum of the ear will vibrate no longer when the music or the clamor that arrested and aroused it has subsided into silence. But that invisible yet living spirit, which watches through the eye, and harkens through the ear, and which takes instant note of whatever surrounds it, has caught the sight and the sound now vanished, and it will keep them forever. It writes its records, not as the Roman laws were written, first on wood, then on brass, and afterward on ivory; but at once on a tablet more impressible than wood, more vivid than brass, more precious than ivory, and more imperishable than either.—Richard S. Storrs.
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We are all writing our lives’ histories here, as if with one of these “manifold writers,” a black blank page beneath the flimsy sheet on which we write; but presently the black page will be taken away, and the writing will stand out plain on the page behind that we did not see. Life is the filmy unsubstantial page on which our pen rests; the black page is death; and the page beneath is that indelible transcript of our earthly actions, which we shall find waiting for us to read, with shame and confusion of face, or with humble joy, in another world—Alexander McLaren.
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