joints with cannibal ferocity, and computed how many pounds of
steaks might be cut from his well fattened carcass. Nay, the rage of
his enemies was such that, in language seldom heard in England, they
proclaimed their wish that he might go to the place of wailing and
gnashing of teeth, to the worm that never dies, to the fire that is
never quenched. They exhorted him to hang himself in his garters, and
to cut his throat with his razor. They put up horrible prayers that he
might not be able to repent, that he might die the same hardhearted,
wicked Jeffreys that he had lived, [411] His spirit, as mean in
adversity as insolent and inhuman in prosperity, sank down under the
load of public abhorrence. His constitution, originally bad, and much
impaired by intemperance, was completely broken by distress and anxiety.
He was tormented by a cruel internal disease, which the most skilful
surgeons of that age were seldom able to relieve. One solace was left to
him, brandy. Even when he had causes to try and councils to attend, he
had seldom gone to bed sober. Now, when he had nothing to occupy his
mind save terrible recollections and terrible forebodings, he abandoned
himself without reserve to his favourite vice. Many believed him to be
bent on shortening his life by excess. He thought it better, they said,
to go off in a drunken fit than to be hacked by Ketch, or torn limb from
limb by the populace.

Once he was roused from a state of abject despondency by an agreeable
sensation, speedily followed by a mortifying disappointment. A parcel
had been left for him at the Tower. It appeared to be a barrel of
Colchester oysters, his favourite dainties. He was greatly moved: for
there are moments when those who least deserve affection are pleased
to think that they inspire it. "Thank God," he exclaimed, "I have still
some friends left." He opened the barrel; and from among a heap of
shells out tumbled a stout halter, [412]

It does not appear that one of the flatterers or buffoons whom he had
enriched out of the plunder of his victims came to comfort him in the
day of trouble. But he was not left in utter solitude. John Tutchin,
whom he had sentenced to be flogged every fortnight for seven years,
made his way into the Tower, and presented himself before the fallen
oppressor. Poor Jeffreys, humbled to the dust, behaved with abject
civility, and called for wine. "I am glad, sir," he said, "to see you."
"And I am glad," answered the rese