The Prime Minister

by William Henry Giles Kingston

The Marquis of Pombal, with that liberal policy which marked many of his actions, finally abolished all such distinctions; but before he had succeeded in doing so, King Joseph took it into his most sagacious head, that, for the benefit of religion, there ought to be some sign placed on all those with Jewish blood in their veins. He consequently ordered a decree to be promulgated that all such should wear white hats.

The Minister remonstrated, but in vain. Finding reason ineffectual, he pretended compliance, and presented himself to the king with the edict, at the same time drawing out from under his cloak two white hats. On the king inquiring the meaning of the joke—“Oh!” replied Pombal, “I come prepared to obey your majesty’s edict, with one hat for you and another for myself,” thus hinting the well-known fact, that the royal family itself was not entirely free from the imaginary stain; the family of the Minister also, it was said, having sprung from the stock of Abraham, as are a vast many others. The king laughed, and gave up the point.

On the death of Joseph, and the banishment of his Minister, when bigotry and priestcraft regained their supremacy, the New Christians were again subject to persecutions, and it is only under the present free constitution that all difference has been finally, and, we trust, for ever, abolished.

But we have wandered from our subject, and have, by nearly a century, forestalled events. Our readers will exclaim, What has this long account of the Jews, and King Joseph and his Minister, with the white hats, got to do with the cobbler and his stall? Spera hum poco—(which is to say, in Portuguese, “Stop a little,” a very favourite expression before all their actions, whereby they often lose the right time)—we shall presently see; for if it has nothing to do with the cobbler, it has with the family under whose walls he plied his trade, for they were New Christians; many indeed affirmed that they still adhered to the faith of their forefathers, and there were various stories current respecting the performance of their ancient rites. It was said, that when strangers were admitted to the house, there was one room, of considerable dimensions, always kept closed, which was supposed to be dedicated to the purposes of a synagogue. The vulgar believed that, at the Feast of the Passover, they immolated a Christian child yet unweaned; the origin of which idea was, of course, the sacrifice of the Paschal lamb; and there were various other stories, equally absurd and revolting, having less foundation in truth. However, Senhor Matteos de Menezes and his family had escaped the power of the Inquisition: it might have been by timely donations of no inconsiderable amount to holy Mother Church, so that even the Grand Inquisitor himself could not doubt the completeness of their conversion, and the purity of their faith.

Having given a full description of the locality of the cobbler’s stall, we may now go on spinning the thread of our history; and if some of our readers complain that we have turned our mystic spindle too slowly, we must beg their pardon, and assure them that we are about to progress at a rapid rate, with scenes of the most thrilling interest, such as will cause their eyes to ache ere they can lay down the book.

The cobbler was one day seated in his stall, hard at work, hammering a new heel on to a shoe, at the same time thinking of the number of fools there were in the world, and yet how few were aware that they belonged to that class of creation; for, as we observed, our cobbler was a philosopher in his way, and had he been born in the higher ranks of society, he would have been a noted wit and satirist, laughing at the follies and scourging the vices of his equals. But he found the follies of the poor too slight, or too sad, to laugh at, and their vices more the fault of institutions than their own, and beyond correction. Next, he thought of the state of the nation. He saw a priesthood wallowing in sloth, corrupted, bigoted, and abandoned to every vice; a nobility haughty, ignorant, vicious, and tyrannical; a king weak, superstitious, and profligate; a people sunk in apathy, and the grossest superstition, without courage or intelligence to assert their rights. And he pitied them; but he knew there was one man in the realm able and willing to overthrow the power of the first, to crush the arrogant pride of the second, to rule the king, to enlighten the people, and to give justice to all; and he had long determined to aid his designs; for the cobbler had more power than the world supposed, and he thanked Heaven he did not belong to any of these classes. These thoughts had just passed through his mind, when he heard a tramping of steeds, and looking up, he beheld a cavalcade approaching, at the head of which rode the Duke of Aveiro, accompanied by his handsome young nephew on one side, while on the other was his equerry, Captain Policarpio, in earnest conversation with him, heedless of the people who thronged the streets, the horses bespattering them with mud and dirt, the attendants, also, taking a pleasure in causing confusion and annoyance to all whom they passed. A youth, with a basket of oranges on his head, was offering them for sale, when one of the domestics adroitly managed to make his horse sidle against him. The vendor of fruit, with a cry of terror, endeavoured to escape, when his foot slipped, and letting go his basket, the contents rolled out on the ground, over which the others trampled, with loud laughter at the disaster, none deigning to make the slightest amends to the youth. Some of the passers by stopped to assist him, for he was sobbing piteously at his loss, but dared not complain.

Our cobbler saw the occurrence. “Take care, my masters,” as he watched the arrogant noble who had just reached his palace gates; “take care, or you will discover, when too late to remedy your faults, that your days of prosperity have passed away.” No sooner did the duke enter the lofty gateway of his palace, than the major-domo rushed down stairs to hold his stirrup while he alighted, his young kinsman throwing himself from his steed, without waiting for assistance, and the attendants bustling about and creating more noise and confusion than was at all necessary.

“Why has the duke so suddenly returned to the city?” thought the Cobbler. “I must watch and learn, for ’tis about no good, I am certain.”

It has just occurred to us, that we have never given our cobbler’s name. By diligent search through the vast pile of manuscripts before us, we have discovered the important piece of information that he was called Antonio, generally with O Memendab, or the Mender, added thereto. No dignified title, certainly! but he was contented with it, and so must we be; for we cannot anywhere discover what was his other name, if he ever had one, which we deem problematical.

Several days passed before Antonio became much wiser as to the cause of the duke’s movements than on the first day of his arrival, though he narrowly watched all his outgoings, and incomings, and also most diligently questioned the servants who stepped across the street to have five minutes’ chat with him. The duke had just driven out, when one of the lackeys, rejoicing in the name of Jozé, was sauntering about the hall, and having nothing to do, bethought him that he would honour the cobbler with his society.