But, in truth, the whole mining system in California is one great
gambling or, better perhaps, lottery transaction. It is impossible to
tell whether a claim will prove valuable or not. F. has invariably sunk
money in every one that he has bought. Of course a man who works a
claim himself is more likely, even should it turn out poor, to get his
money back, as they say, than one who, like F., hires it done.

A few weeks since, F. paid a thousand dollars for a claim which has
proved utterly worthless. He might better have thrown his money into
the river than to have bought it, and yet some of the most experienced
miners on the Bar thought that it would pay.

But I began to tell you about the different noises which disturb my
peace of mind by day and my repose of body by night, and have gone,
instead, into a financial disquisition upon mining prospects. Pray
forgive me, even though I confess that I intend, some day, when I feel
statistically inclined, to bore you with some profound remarks upon the
claiming, drifting, sluicing, ditching, fluming, and coyoting politics
of the "diggins."

But to return to my sleep-murderers. The rolling on the bowling-alley
never leaves off for ten consecutive minutes at any time during the
entire twenty-four hours. It is a favorite amusement at the mines, and
the only difference that Sunday makes is, that then it never leaves off
for _one_ minute.

Besides the flume and the bowling-alley, there is an inconsiderate dog
which _will_ bark from starry eve till dewy morn. I fancy that he has a
wager on the subject, as all the other _puppies_ seem bitten by the
betting mania.

Apropos of dogs, I found dear old Dake, the noble Newfoundland which H.
gave us, look as intensely black and as grandly aristocratical as ever.
He is the only high-bred dog on the river. There is another animal, by
the plebeian name of John (what a name for a _dog!_), really a handsome
creature, which looks as if he might have a faint sprinkling of good
blood in his veins. Indeed, I have thought it possible that his
great-grandfather was a bulldog. But he always barks at _me_, which I
consider as proof positive that he is nothing but a low-born mongrel.
To be sure, his master says, to excuse him, that he never saw a woman
before; but a dog of any chivalry would have recognized the gentler
sex, even if it _was_ the first time that he had been blessed with the
sight.

In the first part of my letter I alluded to the swe