he 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.

Courts abound in impertinent people, in idlers, in rich loungers
hungering for gossip, in those who seek for needles in trusses of hay,
in triflers, in banterers bantered, in witty ninnies, who cannot do
without converse with an envious man.

What a refreshing thing is the evil spoken to you of others.

Envy is good stuff to make a spy. There is