he, the boy out of the gutter, should entertain at his own house, in London, a Chinese Emperor and English and German Royalty,—­and that he should do so almost with a rope round his neck.  Even if this were to be the end of it all, men would at any rate remember him.  The grand dinner which he had given before he was put into prison would live in history.  And it would be remembered, too, that he had been the Conservative candidate for the great borough of Westminster,—­perhaps, even, the elected member.  He, too, in his manner, assured himself that a great part of him would escape Oblivion.  ’Non omnis moriar,’ in some language of his own, was chanted by him within his own breast, as he sat there looking out on his own...