In his later days Jem shifted his domicile to the “Rising Sun,” in Air Street, Piccadilly (previously kept by Johnny Broome), where many a night burly Jem was to be found, enjoying his pipe and glass, surrounded by the few surviving members of the old school, and visited during the season by many youthful saplings of the Corinthian tree, to whom Jem would mirthfully and cheerily impart the adventures and sporting experiences of his earlier days.
“A merrier man,
Within the limit of becoming mirth,
I never spent an hour’s talk withal.
His eye begat occasion for his wit,
For every object that the one did catch
The other turned to a mirth-moving jest.”
For several years, as Jem grew in years and in portliness, and, though not a hard drinker, fully enjoyed the good things of this life, he was subject to intermittent attacks of gout, which, towards 1862, assailed him with increasing frequency, yet failing, when they gave him even a short truce, to subdue his natural fun and frolic. It was during one of unusual severity that we looked in to inquire after Jem’s health, and his pleasant daughter (Mrs. Doyle) having taken up our name, the bedridden boxer desired us to be “shown up.” We expressed our sympathy, regarding at the same time with some curiosity a contrivance suspended from the curtain-rods of the four-poster in which Jem was recumbent.
“Ha! old fellow,” said the merry Yorkshireman, “you’re wanting to spell out the meaning of that. I’ll tell you, if this blessed crab that’s just now got me in toe don’t give his claw an extra squeeze. If he does, why, I’ll strike, and he shall tow me into port at once.”
“No, Jem, it’s not come to that yet.”