COLONY OF DOGTOWN. 249 
or hunt. Their arms are bows and arrows; their 
clothing, both male and female, simply a bit of 
skin worn like an apron; they are small in 
stature; thin, squalid, dirty, and degraded in 
appearance. In their habits little better than 
an ourang-outang, they are certainly the lowest 
type of savage I have ever seen. 
We camped in the evening on a large plain 
called Big Flat. 
May 10th.—It was bitterly cold all night, and 
froze sharply. We got off soon after sun-up, 
and literally crept along the side of a high range 
of mountains, densely wooded, and forming one 
side of the valley of the Sacramento, which has 
dwindled down into a mere mountain-burn. 
Here I came suddenly on a little colony of 
miners, engaged in gold-washing. I discovered 
the place was named Dogtown—the entire town 
consisting of a store, a grogshop, and a smithy. 
I paid twenty-five cents (a shilling) for a mere 
sip of the vilest poison I ever tasted, libel- 
lously called ‘Fine Old Monongahela Whisky.’ 
About six miles farther, still on the same trail, I 
came to another gold-claim, where there were no 
houses at all, called Portuguese Flat. Passed 
through some thin timber ; camped on a lovely 
mountain-stream. 
