MONDAY, SEPT. 25. San José is sixty-five miles from Monterey, and stands in the centre of a spacious valley which opens on the great bay of San Francisco. It is cultivated only in spots, but the immense yield in these is sufficient evidence of what the valley is capable. A plough and harrow, at which a New England crow would laugh, are followed by fields of waving grain. Within this valley lie the rich lands of Com. Stockton, and they will yet feel the force of his vivifying enterprise. The mission buildings of Santa Clara lift their huge proportions on the eye. The bells that swing in their towers are silent, but they will yet find a tongue and fill the cliffs with their glad echoes. The Anglo-Saxon blood will yet roll here as if in its first leap. Such are the representations of the roads between this and the mines, that we have concluded to part with our wagon and pack our mules. Mr. Botts, one of our companions, has received intelligence which requires his return to Monterey. We must proceed without his agreeable society. Wm. Stewart, Esq., secretary of Com. Jones, and Lieut. Simmons, of the Ohio, have just arrived, on their way to the mines. Two of our mules were now packed, the third mounted by our wagoner, and the fourth driven, to guard against contingencies. Thus equipped, we started again for the mines; but we had hardly cleared the town when one of our mules took fright, plunged over the plain, burst his girth, and scattered on the winds the contents of his pack. Capt. Marcy and Mr. Wilkinson, with the mules and their driver, returned into town to repack, and I proceeded on in the company of Mr. Stewart and Lieut. Simmons.