Nature exhibits a new appearance when we leave Carolina, and descend into the plain of Andalusia: the olive grounds are no longer groves, but forests; the ilex does not dot, but clothes the sides of the mountains; innumerable new shrubs, and varieties of aromatic plants, unseen before, cover every spot of waste land; and the hedges by the way-side, are composed of gigantic aloes. All the way from La Carolina to Baylen, I passed through a country rich in corn and oil;--a wide, undulating plain, bounded on the south by the mountains of Granada; and here and there, upon the southern ridges of the Sierra Morena, which forms the northern boundary of the plain, were seen the ruins of Moorish castles. At nightfall I reached Baylen, celebrated as the field of battle where Castanos gained the decided victory which subsequently led to the evacuation of Madrid. I almost regretted that I had not yielded to the temptation of a good posada at Carolina, as the guide led my mule into the yard of a very wretched posada at Baylen. I found a bed, however, not worse than usual; and for supper, I was forced to be contented with fried eggs, and excellent wine, and a delicious melon. My journey had been long and fatiguing; and defying the mosquitos, by throwing a handkerchief over my face, I slept soundly till morning. It may be charity to the traveller, to mention a contrivance which I afterwards adopted as a defence against the assaults of mosquitos. Mosquito curtains are nowhere to be found in Spain, not even in the very best hotels, and every one is not able to sleep with a handkerchief thrown over the face. I purchased a piece of thin muslin about a yard square, and loaded the sides of it with small leaden weights, the muslin having been previously much starched: this, thrown over the head, leaves ample breathing room; and the weights keeping it down on all sides, it rarely happens that a mosquito gains admittance within. I left Baylen, as usual, about sun rise; and immediately entered a wild, but highly picturesque valley. A turbulent stream, called Rio de las Piedras--“river of stones,” dashed through it,--its banks, wherever the rocks admitted a tuft of green, covered with the bright pink flower of a shrub unknown to me: ilex, here and there diversified by a tall round-headed pine, clustered in the hollows, and strewed the sides of the acclivities; and a party of muleteers, and their mules, resting under the shade of a clump of trees, added greatly to the picturesqueness of the landscape. Several of these figures forcibly reminded me that I was now in the country of Murillo. The short brown hair, the ragged and patched brown coat and trowsers, the bare feet, and the occupation--breaking bread, and eating fruit, all carried me to those admirable portraitures of Spanish life, which have so often and so successfully engaged the pencil of this illustrious master.