Had Lisbon been the capital, the Spanish colonial realm would have developed into something organic and solid with a robust life.

But what could you expect of a nation which had stuck its head into a pillow of yellow interior steppes, the furthest possible from the world's highways, showing only its feet to the waves!...
The Catalan would always end by speaking sadly of the decadence of the Mediterranean marine.

Everything that was pleasing to his tastes made him hark back to the good old time of the domination of the Mediterranean by the Catalan marine.

One day he offered Ulysses a sweet and perfumed wine.
"It is Malvasian, the first stock the Almogavars brought here from Greece." Then he said in order to flatter the boy: "It was a citizen of Valencia, Ramon Muntaner, who wrote of the expeditions of the Catalans and Aragonese against Constantinople." The mere recollection of this novel-like adventure, the most unheard-of in history, used to fill him with enthusiasm, and, in passing, he paid highest tribute to the Almogavar chronicler, a rude Homer in song, Ulysses and Nestor in council, and Achilles in hard action.
Dona Cristina's impatience to rejoin her husband and to return to the comforts of her well-regulated household finally carried Ulysses away from this life by the coast.
For many years thereafter he saw no other sea than the Gulf of Valencia.

The notary, under various pretexts, contrived to prevent the doctor's again carrying off his nephew; and the _Triton_ made his trips to Valencia less frequently, rebelling against all the inconveniences and dangers of these terrestrial adventures.
And Labarta, when occupied with the future of Ulysses, used to take on a certain air of a good-natured regent charged with the guardianship of a little prince.