The town of Quincy at the time of which I speak was one of many small places that had sprung up on the banks of the Mississippi about the time of the Black Hawk war. Most of these exist to-day as attractive cities, but others not so wisely located have long since been abandoned, many of them being lost even to memory. New and unkempt, the houses of the little city were scattered here and there, as if placed by blind men or spilled off a tray in some unaccountable way. Such, however, is the beginning of all cities, their dignity coming later, with pride and prosperity, as in the case of men. Most of the stores and warehouses of the town, and there were not many, were grouped about the public square near the center of the village, and in front of one of these, built of rough boards and roofed with like material, our little party presently came to a halt. Above the door of this structure there was a flaring sign recounting the goods sold within and the great bargains that awaited the fortunate buyer. Below this, one more modest told that it was also the office of the justice of the peace, and this not strangely, for it was common then, as it is now in the country, thus to merge the duties of tradesman and magistrate. When we entered, the justice was busy tying up a package, as were all his clerks, and this as if that were the chief end and aim of trade in Quincy, as it was in fact, and properly enough. Observing us, he motioned for the officer to go on to the office in the rear, where he occupied himself at intervals of the day hearing such cases as were brought before him.