TUESDAY, DEC. 21. The old church bell has been ringing out all the morning in honor of Guadalupe, the patron saint of California. Her festivities commenced last evening in illuminated windows, bonfires, the flight of rockets, and the loud mirth of children. I wonder if Guadalupe knows or cares much about these exhibitions of devotional glee. Can the shout of boyhood around the crackling bonfire reach to her celestial pavillion? can the flambeau throw its tremulous ray so far? will she bend her ear from the golden lyres of heaven to catch the sound of a torpedo vibrating up over the cloud-cataracts which thunder between? If Guadalupe be in heaven, where I hope she is, she has done with the crackers and bonfires of earth, and heeds them as little as the glow-worm that glimmers on her grave. But let the old bell peal on; it matters but little whether it be for this saint or that; it is only a metallic hosanna to either. There is more true homage in one silent prayer, breathed from the depths of a meek confiding heart, than in all the peals ever rung from cathedral towers. The only worship which approaches that of a resigned heart is the hymn of the forest, as its leaves in the fading twilight softly tremble to rest. He who can listen unmoved to these vesper melodies, can have no sensibility in his soul, and no God in his creed. When this fevered being shall sink to rest, let me be laid beneath some green tree, whose vernal leaves shall whisper their music over my sleep. And yet it would be lonely were there none beloved in life to linger there in death. When the bright sun upon that spot is shining With purest ray, And the small shrubs their buds and blossoms twining, Burst through that clay, Will there be one still on that spot refining Lost hopes away?