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in every limb and could hardly utter a reply.
1 Sus-
piciousness marked his character, as well as that of the government of
Spain, which, for its remote dominions, was ever haunted by the spectres of contraband trade and of territorial encroachments.
He was appalled at the example of the
Americans as insurgents, at their ambition as republicans, and at the colossal greatness which their independence foretold; he abhorred any connection with them as equals, and would tolerate at most an alliance of protection and superintendence.
With these apprehensions he combined a subtle jealousy of the good faith of the
French, who, as a colonial power, were reduced to the lowest rank among the nations of
western Europe, and who could recover their share in the commerce of the world only through the ruin of colonial monopoly.
When, therefore, in April, the
French ambassador
pressed
Florida Blanca to declare at what epoch
Spain would take part in the war, the minister, beside himself with passion, exclaimed: ‘I will take the opinion of the king.
Since April of last year,
France has gone counter to our advice.
The king of
Spain seems to be looked upon as a viceroy or provincial governor, to whom you put questions as if for his opinion, and to whom you then send orders.
The American deputies are treated like the
Roman consuls, to whom the kings of the
East came to beg support.
The declaration of your treaty with them is worthy of
Don Quixote.’
2 He persisted in the reproach, that
France had engaged in a war which