That well-fed royalist, with silver shoe and knee buckles, and the red cockade in his hat, is doubtless the Alcalde of Campillo. He is declaiming upon the {541} late successes of the insurgent royalists in Portugal; and of those two who listen to him, and seem to catch the words that fall from his lips, the one is our own innkeeper paying his court to the powers that be, and the other, with the thin legs and long nose, who is followed by a half-starved dog, equally miserable with his master, is certainly the village doctor, the Sangrado of Campillo. He is evidently looked on contemptuously by the rest of the assembly, who are aware of his ignorance, and know that he owes his situation, and the right to kill or cure the good people of Campillo, rather to two ounces of gold opportunely bestowed on the Alcalde, than to any acquaintance with the healing art. The thick-set man in the oil-cloth cocked hat, with scowling look and bushy whiskers, who is fingering the hilt of his sabre, is the commandant of the royalist volunteers. He has become terrible to the “negros,” who will tell you that he is no better than he should be, that he began the world after the manner of Robin Hood, and passed in due season to the command of a royalist guerrilla. But who is that tall sharp featured individual, walking across the Plaza, with the village curate on one side and a capuchin on the other? That is doubtless the intendant of police, who has just received intelligence of some pretended revolutionary plot, and who will soon go with a force in search of persons and papers. THE PINE WOOD. A SONG—WRITTEN IN GEORGIA. BY DR. ROBERT M. BIRD. 'Tis brave and good through the broad pine-wood, As through a sea, to steer, Cheering the heart and warming the blood, In chase of the gallant deer; Up o'er the hill, and down the hollow, Still through a wood to go, With some antique pine in the distance ever Echoing your loud hillo. Hillo! hillo! In opening May, what a grand array Of flowers is spread around! Solemn, aloft, are the tree-tops gray, But a garden on the ground; With the pleasant wild-pink, goatsbeard, and brier, And the wild-rose here and there, Smelling so sweet in the desert woods, And making them so fair. Hillo! hillo! Your dogs they rest on the ridgy crest, When evening darkens o'er, The trumpeter[1] creeps to her high perched nest, The hawk he screams no more. Down with a pine—how the light-wood catches! And soon 'tis in a glow: A merry fine time in the pines one passes, When we camp—Now, my dogs, hillo! Hillo! Hillo!