TUESDAY, FEB. 9. The U. S. ship Cyane, S. F. Dupont commander, is just in from San Diego. She was dispatched to bring up General Kearny and suit, and our consul, T. O. Larkin, Esq. The arrival of the Independence was not known at San Diego when the Cyane sailed. The return of Mr. Larkin was warmly greeted by our citizens. Even the old Californians left their corridors to welcome him back. He was captured by those engaged in the outbreak some three months since, and has been closely guarded as a prisoner of war. Still, in the irregularities of the campaign, and the easy fidelity of those who kept watch, he has had many opportunities of effecting his escape, but declined them all. He was on the eve, at one time, of being taken to Mexico, and got ready for the long and wearisome journey; but some of his captors relented, and he was allowed to remain at the town of the Angels, when the success of the American arms relieved him. He experienced during his captivity many acts of kindness. Even the ladies, who in California are always on the side of those who suffer, sent him many gifts, which contributed essentially to his comfort. But he is once more with his family, and long may it be before he takes another such trip as his last. WEDNESDAY, FEB. 10. My tall partner in the Californian is back at last from his three months’ trip to San Francisco. I excused his long absence, and cheerfully endured all the toil of getting out the paper, with only the assistance of a type-setting sailor, under the vague impression that he was hunting up a wife. But he has come back as single as he came into the world. Whether his solitude is a thing of choice or necessity I have not inquired. A man’s celibacy is a misfortune, with which it seems wicked to trifle. It is too selfish for pity and too serious for mirth. But let my partner go; he will get a wife in due time; indeed he has had one already; and that is about the number which nature provides. Some, it is true, take a second, and a few totter on to a third, seemingly that they may have company when they totter into the grave. Go down to your narrow house alone in the majesty of an unshaken faith, and trust to meet the partner of your youth in heaven. She waits there to beckon you to the hills of light. Meet her not with a harem of spirits at your side, but singly, as on earth, When first beneath the hawthorn’s shade, The love she long had veiled from view, Her soft, uplifted eyes betrayed, As fell their broad, bright glance on you.