Court appointments are the drop of oil in the widow’s cruse, they ever increase.  Thus it is that the porter has become chancellor, and the groom, constable.  The special officer charged with the appointment desired and obtained by Barkilphedro was invariably a confidential man.  Elizabeth had wished that it should be so.  At court, to speak of confidence is to speak of intrigue, and to speak of intrigue is to speak of advancement.  This functionary had come to be a personage of some consideration.  He was a clerk, and ranked directly after the two grooms of the almonry.  He had the right of entrance into the palace, but we must add, what was called the humble entrance—­humilis introitus—­and even into the bed-chamber.  For it was the custom that he should inform the monarch, on occasions of sufficient importance, of the objects found, which were often very curious:  the wills of men in despair, farewells cast to fatherland, revelations of falsified logs, bills of lading, and crimes committed at sea, legacies to the crown, etc., that he should maintain his records in communication with the court, and should account, from time to time, to the king or queen, concerning the opening of these ill-omened bottles.  It was the black cabinet of the ocean.

Elizabeth, who was always glad of an opportunity of speaking Latin, used to ask Tonfield, of Coley in Berkshire, jetsam officer of her day, when he brought her one of these papers cast up by the sea, “Quid mihi scribit Neptunus?” (What does Neptune write me?)

The way had been eaten, the insect had succeeded.  Barkilphedro approached the queen.

This was all he wanted.

To make his fortune?

No.

To unmake that of others?

A greater happiness.

To hurt is to enjoy.

To have within one the desire of injuring, vague but implacable, and never to lose sight of it, is not given to all.

Barkilphedro possessed that fixity of intention.

As the bulldog holds on with his jaws, so did his thought.

To feel himself inexorable gave him a depth of gloomy satisfaction.  As long as he had a prey under his teeth, or in his soul, a certainty of evil-doing, he wanted nothing.

He was happy, shivering in the cold which his neighbour was suffering.  To be malignant is an opulence.  Such a man is believed to be poor, and, in truth, is so; but he has all his riches in malice, and prefers having them so.  Everything is in what contents one.  To do a bad turn, which is the same as a good turn, is better than money.  Bad for him who endures, good for him who does it.  Catesby, the colleague of Guy Fawkes, in the Popish powder plot, said:  “To see Parliament blown upside down, I wouldn’t miss it for a million sterling.”

What was Barkilphedro?  That meanest and most terrible of things—­an envious man.

Envy is a thing ever easily placed at court.