Chapter VII. of this volume.

On the 13th of November in the same year (1827) Jem a second time met Ned Neale, but after a hard battle of forty-three rounds, occupying forty-six minutes, had again to succumb to the conquering arm of the Streatham Youth. (See Life of NEALE, _ante_, Chapter V., p. 310.)

This was Jem’s last appearance as a principal within the ropes of the P. R. As a second, a backer, and a demonstrator of the art, the Press and the sporting public never lost sight of him. His house, the “Queen’s Head,” Windmill Street, Haymarket, which he kept for some years, was the resort of all lovers of jolly companionship, and those who wished to keep themselves _au courant_ to all sports of the ring.

Jem’s Master of the Ceremonies at his sparring _soirées_ was for some time the accomplished light weight Owen Swift; and many an M.P. slipped away from St. Stephen’s, and many a smart guardsman from a Belgravian dinner-party, to give a look in at Jolly Jem’s snuggery; an inner sanctum, communicating with the sparring-room, and set apart for “those _I_ call gentlemen,” as Jem emphatically phrased it. The inscription over the mantelpiece of this room, from the pen of “Chief Baron Nicholson,” was appropriate:—

“Scorning all treacherous feud and deadly strife, The dark stiletto and the murderous knife, We boast a science sprung from manly pride, Linked with true courage and to health allied— A noble pastime, void of vain pretence— The fine old English art of self-defence.”

In vain did mere playmen, or “calico swells,” attempt to gain a footing in Jem’s “private room.” Jem instinctively detected the pretender. “There’s just as much difference in the breed of men as there is in the breed of horses,” he would say. “I read that fellow in a minute; the club-room’s his place.”

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.”

“But it very soon must, if it don’t stalk. See here,” said he, pointing to a strong cord stretched from the top rail across the bed, from which another cord was suspended midway, and made fast to the handle of an old-fashioned corkscrew. “If it warn’t for this tackle I’d get no sleep night nor day. Inside the bedclothes I’ve got a bung—good idea for a licensed victualler—into that I screws the corkscrew through the bedclothes, which I then raise tent-fashion by this hal’yard, and that I make fast down here to the bedpost. There’s a wrinkle for you, Miles’s Boy; but I hope you’ll never want it for yourself.” Poor Jem we never saw again. His arch-enemy ascended to his portly stomach, and on the morning of the 29th of May Jem slept with his forefathers.

“——Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither, Ripeness is all.”