We had been presented at court, and favourably received; asked to call again; admitted to State secrets of the presidency. From this moment our position in the city was secured. Mormon seats in the theatre were placed at our disposal; the director of immigration, the presiding, bishop, Colonel Hunter—a grim, weather-beaten Indian fighter—and his coadjutors carried us off to see the reception of the bull-train at the Elephant Corral; we were offered a team to take us to the Lake, which we refused only because we had already accepted the loan of one from a Gentile merchant; presents of peaches and invitations to lunch, dinner, and supper, came pouring in upon us from all sides. In a single morning we were visited by four of the Apostles and nine other leading members of the Church. Ecclesiastical dignitaries sat upon our single chair and wash-handstand; and one bed groaned under the weight of George A. Smith, “Church historian,” while the other bore Æsop's load—the peaches he had brought. These growers of fruit from standard trees think but small things of our English wall-fruit, “baked on one side, and frozen on the other,’ as they say. There is a mellowness about the Mormon peaches that would drive our gardeners to despair.