A few minutes after, and we were gliding down the San Joaquin--_en route_ for the Golden City. The San Joaquin is emphatically a crooked river. It appeared to me that in going down it, we passed Mount Diablo at least seven times. Vessels, that we had already met, could be soon after seen directly ahead of us, while those appearing astern would in a few minutes after, encounter us in the channel of the stream! A "Down-easter," who chanced to be aboard, made the characteristic observation:--that "the river was so crooked, a bird could not fly across it: as it would be certain to alight on the side from which it had started!" Crooked as was the San Joaquin it conducted us to the capital of California--which we reached at a late hour of the night. So impatient was I to obtain the information, which had brought me to San Francisco, that on the instant of my arrival I went in search of the tavern, kept by Mr Wilson. I succeeded in finding it, though not without some difficulty. It was a dirty house in a dirty street--the resort of all the worthless characters that could have been collected from the low neighbourhood around it, chiefly runaway convicts, and gay women, from Sydney. It was just such a hostelrie, as I might have expected to be managed by a quondam companion of Mr Leary. Mr Wilson was at "home," I was at once ushered into his presence; and, after a very informal introduction, I commenced making him acquainted with my business. I asked him, if, while at Sydney, he had the pleasure of being acquainted with a man named Mathews. "Mathews! Let me see!" said he, scratching his head, and pretending to be buried in a profound reflection; "I've certainly heard that name, somewhere," he continued, "and, perhaps, if you were to tell me what you want, I might be able to remember all about it." I could perceive that my only chance of learning anything from Mr Wilson was to accede to his proposal, which I did. I told him, that a man named Mathews had been hung a few weeks before on the Stanislaus, that it was for the murder of a young girl, with whom he had eloped from Australia; and that I had reason to believe, that the man had left a wife behind him in Sydney. I had heard that he, Mr Wilson, had known Mathews; and could perhaps tell me, if such had been the case. "If it was the Mathews I once knew something about," said the tavern-keeper, after listening to my explanation, "he could not have left any money, or property, behind him: he hadn't a red cent to leave." "I didn't say that he had," I answered. "It is not for that I make the inquiry." "No!" said the tavern-keeper, feigning surprise. "Then what can be your object, in wanting to know whether he left a wife in Sydney?" "Because that wife, if there be one, is my mother." This answer was satisfactory; and Mr Wilson, after healing it, became communicative.