Genealogy and recollections . I recall without pleasure that on stated missionarySundays in that church, while the spicy breezes blewsoft oer Ceylons Isle, I was reluctantly parted froma dime or two for the heathen. I knew then the Bible truth that the heathen whoknew not and had no chance to know of the redemp-tion were not judged by the law, and that damnationwas likely for some of those heathen who, throughmy financing, had received the law, but died unre-pentant. I judged that many in that plight would beentirely ruined. I knew too, that five thousand ofthose supposedly converted heathen l
Genealogy and recollections . I recall without pleasure that on stated missionarySundays in that church, while the spicy breezes blewsoft oer Ceylons Isle, I was reluctantly parted froma dime or two for the heathen. I knew then the Bible truth that the heathen whoknew not and had no chance to know of the redemp-tion were not judged by the law, and that damnationwas likely for some of those heathen who, throughmy financing, had received the law, but died unre-pentant. I judged that many in that plight would beentirely ruined. I knew too, that five thousand ofthose supposedly converted heathen lay buried at myold Mission San Jose—I passed their weed-growngraves daily—killed by changed conditions and dis-ease brought by the soldiers who captured and heldthem for conversion, and that the shouts of religiousfervor of those Indians had mingled with their deathsongs. At one time when the neophytes in our old Mis-sion died too rapidly to be shriven. Father Duran, incharge, sorrowfully set down in Church record, [ii8]. 1. The Spring at Bellefontaine, as it looks now. 2. Mrs. Stanley Moore, with her three children—Mary Belle, Eliza-beth, and my second Moore grandson, Stanley Williams Moore. 3. My daughter, Jacqueline, and her son, Stanley. 4. Some of the grandchildren in the garden, and the dog Prince. RECOLLECTIONS These Indians are fragile as glass. I considered Iowed the heathen nothing, anyway, save good will,and sorrowed that bringing them the law had ex-terminated the unhappy tribesmen. The old sycamore which stands at the turn of Mis-sion Creek stood there then, looking as old as it doesnow. Once Eckert, myself and a hired man visitingus from the home place, climbed that tree and cutour names in the bark. The hired man was a queersailorman, named Benjamin Thompson Hurd. Wehad another, a Yankee sailor, who used to visit usthere, named Harry Hodges. I remember himchiefly by reason that he always came (about sevenmiles) afoot, which in those days when saddle horsesw
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