As we walked through the Garden City we were joined by several Mormon notables, amongst others by a well-known Danite, or Destroying Angel, who very appropriately volunteered to show us over the cemetery. It was impossible among the graves not to notice the frequency of the inscription, “Found dead in Jordan.” I asked the Angel how it was that so many men had fallen into the river in a community of Rechabites where soberness was the strict rule. He grinned a significant and ghastly grin. “I guess they died in their boots.” Everybody who ever was in the West in the days described by Bret Harte knows the meaning of that euphemism. How many booted men he personally had accounted for, if any, our Danite friend did not say. But the words of the Prophet were law and must be obeyed; persons inconvenient to himself or to the Church and its apostles and elders, for whatever reason, political or domestic, must not block the way; so they “died in their boots.” The cemetery in Zion furnished something to think about. We were hospitably invited into a bar-room kept by a gentile, where a United States judge asked us to “paint”—an expression derived from the tendency of whisky to promote high colour in the face and nose. After one cocktail another gentleman came in and said to me: “Pleased to know you, sir—will you paint?” I excused myself on the ground that I had just gone through the ceremony with the Judge. “What! not just a leetle sketch?” said my new friend, with his head persuasively on one side. Forbes and I were very anxious to go up the Cottonwood Canyon and have a look at the Emma and Flagstaff Silver mines, which had not long before been thrown on the London Market, highly over-capitalized. The Emma mine had been brought out under the ægis of General Schenk, the United States Minister at the Court of St. James’s, the hero who also introduced poker into London Society. The Stock Exchange was quite taken in. It was impossible that so high a personage as the diplomatic representative of a great Power should give his name as director to a wildcat venture. The shares were greedily bought, inflated to 50 per cent. premium or more, and then collapsed. The Flagstaff was fathered by one Williams, a very plausible benefactor of mankind, who, as was afterwards found out, had been a waiter at an hotel in San Francisco. It was a magnificent concern—paid 30 per cent. dividends on such shares as were first bought, and when all were sold it was discovered that the dividend on the earlier shares had been paid out of the money subscribed, and the shares were not worth a lock of good Mr. Williams’ hair. He, honest man, decamped with his spoils and was no more heard of. His gains must have been considerable, for he had also launched another mine, with equal success to himself, equal disaster to the shareholders.