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276 "doing" or "seeing life" in San Francisco. The Barbary Coast is now alive with "jay-hawkers," "short-card sharps," "rounders," pickpockets, prostitutes and their assistants and victims; we cannot find a better night on which to pay a visit to the locality. Half a dozen of us, more or less, make up the party, and we start out. The evening is pleasant, and Montgomery and Kearny streets are filled with the beauty, fashion, and wealth of San Francisco. A military company, in brilliant uniform, with a full and very superior band, returning from a target excursion, pass up the street, attracting the attention of the throng for a moment; and then come, in turn, a party of horsemen and horsewomen, gaily mounted, coming in from the Cliff House at Point Lobos, or just starting out for a night-ride, who dash down the street at a gallop, are glanced at, criticised, and forgotten. The drift of the crowd is toward the various places of amusement, and we go on with the tide. Turning up Washington street, we stop in front of what was, a few years since, the principal theatre, and looking into a saloon adjoining the main entrance, a scene which we witnessed there, less than three years ago, is recalled vividly to our recollection. There is a snug little saloon, and everything is as neat and orderly and business-like in appearance as possible. At the rear of the room is a green door, on which hangs a card inscribed in large letters, "Club Room—Now Open." Near the door sits a well dressed, gentlemanly man, who scrutinizes the face of each man as he passes through the saloon, and