The signet of its all-enslaving power
Upon a shining ore, and called it gold:
Before whose image bow the vulgar great,
The vainly rich, the miserable proud,
The mob of peasants, nobles, priests, and kings,
And with blind feelings reverence the power
That grinds them to the dust of misery.
But in the temple of their hireling hearts
Gold is a living god, and rules in scorn
All earthly things but virtue."

The saloons fifty years ago were the centres of attraction for the
over-wrought miner, the aimless wanderer, the creature of impulse,
the child of passion. They were decorated with an eye to brilliant
colours, to gorgeous effect, to all that appeals to the sensuous
element in our nature. They were the best built and most richly
furnished houses in the San Francisco of that period. The walls were
adorned with costly paintings, and the furniture was in keeping with
this lavish outlay. In each gambling house was a band of music, and a
skillful player received some $30 per night for his services. Painted
women were the presiding geniuses at the wheels of fortune and these
modern Circes or Sirens played the piano and the harp with all the
passion of their art to drown men's cares and make them forget duty
and principle and honour. The tables of the players of the games were
piled high with yellow gold to serve as a tempting bait. The games
were chiefly what are called in the nomenclature of the gambling
fraternity. Rouge-et-noir, Monté-faro, and Roulette. The men who lost,
whatever their feelings might be, and they were often bitter, as a
rule disguised their sore disappointment. They would try their luck
again, but this only led them deeper in the mire. Many an one lost a