MONDAY, SEPT. 21. A Californian mother came to me to-day to plead her son out of prison. He had driven off a herd of cattle which had another owner, and sold them, and I had sentenced him to the public works for a year. She felt as a good mother must feel for her son, and plead for his liberation with a pathos that half shook my resolution. Nothing but an iron sense of duty kept me firm. There is something in a mother’s tears which is almost irresistible; she wept and trembled, and would have kneeled, but I would not let her. I lifted her to her feet, and told her I once had a mother, and knew what her sorrows were. I told her I would liberate her son if I could, but it was impossible; law and justice were against it. But if he behaved well, I would take off a few months from the close of the year; and in the mean time she might see him as often as she desired. She thanked me, lingered as if she would plead again, and departed. What depths there are in a mother’s soul! TUESDAY, SEPT. 22. The frigate Savannah sailed this morning for San Francisco. She left her berth, where she has lain since our flag was raised here, and with her royals set, glided gracefully out of the bay. The Congress gave her three cheers as she passed,—still she goes with a heavy heart. The time of her crew is out; they are almost half the circuit of the globe from their home, and have now, seemingly, as little prospect of reaching it as they had a year since. Com. Stockton went on board a few days since and addressed them, but even with his happy tact in inspiring enthusiasm, it was difficult to arouse their despondency, and make them cheerful in a resignation to their lot. The war being against a power unarmed at sea, is with them a mere bubble. To chase or capture a privateer is a game not worth the candle. Were an English or French squadron in this ocean, in declared hostility, they would not murmur while a tattered sail could be set, or a shot be found in the locker. WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 23. I was waked this morning by sounds of merriment in the street. Day had only begun to glimmer, and its beam was contending with the glare of rockets, flashing over the lingering shadows of night. The child which I had visited a few evenings since had died, and this was its attendant ceremony to the grave. It had become, in the apprehension of those who formed the procession, a little angel—and they were expressing their joy over the transformation. The disruption of ties which bound it here—its untimely blight—and the darkness of the grave—were all forgotten. Its little coffin was draped in white, and garlanded with flowers; and voices of gladness, ringing out from childhood and youth, heralded its flight to a better world.