When I congratulated myself in a letter to my brother, upon finding in Wales a Gentleman of the name of Cooke, whose company, conversation, and acquaintance, were so perfectly pleasing to me; my brother observed, however, that my Welch friend was not a Welchman, for, said he, “there are no COOKS in Wales;”—but this observation may be with more justice applied to Spain; for I think there are no COOKS in Spain; but there are, what is better, a great number of honest, virtuous men: I look upon the true, genuine Spaniards to be as respectable men as any in Europe; and that, among the lower order of them there is more honour and honesty than is to be found among more polished nations; and, I dare say, there were an hundred Spaniards at Barcelona, had they been as well informed about my identity as Messrs. Curtoys and Wombwell, that would have changed my notes, or lent me money without.
P.S. The tour through Spain and Portugal by UDAL ap RHYS, grandfather to the now Mr. Price of Foxley in Herefordshire, abounds with more falshoods than truths; indeed I have been told it was written, as many modern travels are, over a pipe in a chimney corner: and I hope Mr. Udal never was in Spain, as “one fib is more excusable than a thousand.”
Monsr Anglois having sent me back my passa-porte, signed by Don Philipe Cabine, the Captain-General of Barcelona, accompanied by a very kind and friendly letter, I determined to quit the only place in Spain which had afforded me pleasure, amusement, and delight. We accordingly sat off the next day for Martorel, and went to the Three Kings, where our Italian host, whose extortions I had complained of before, received us with a face of the utmost disdain;