The pen of the devout historian approaches warily and with awe the momentous task of delineating the outline of the Queen’s favourite novelist. He was in his mature, full-blooded, middle period; the period of his most flamboyant successes; the period of the most memorable and appealing portraits. As they or their replicas adorn the walls of every self-respecting gallery in the United Kingdom, modelled upon Millais in his second manner, the faithful are with confidence thereto referred. It is only necessary to say for the purposes of this biography that Sir Topman Murtle, K.C.B., was a small, stout, middle-aged gentleman of a consummate English type--the type that is found in England, and nowhere else. In point of attire he was no less prosperous than Mr. Octavius Crumpett himself. His manner was cordial yet consonant with true dignity; his fine bearing and white gaiters were pregnant of unmistakable distinction. When these august personages had greeted one another with a cordial frankness that was very pleasant to witness, said Sir Topman Murtle, in a smooth, high-pitched voice, “Before we approach the subject of _The Angel’s Bride_, I should value your advice, my dear Crumpett, upon a subject which is giving me, at the present moment, some little concern. I feel myself to be on the horns of a dilemma.” The word “dilemma” touched a responsive chord in the bosom of Mr. Octavius Crumpett, M.A., D.C.L. (Oxon.). “My dilemma is this, Crumpett,” said his distinguished visitor. “It has recently been suggested to me by my friend, the Prime Minister, that I should allow myself to be nominated to the Privy Council.” “I congratulate you unreservedly, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, M.A., D.C.L. (Oxon.), with unfeigned emotion. “But, Crumpett, the problem shapes itself in my mind,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “will the acceptance of that which one is bound to consider as an undoubted honour, be wholly consistent with that reverence for the dignity of letters which I hope I don’t exaggerate?” “I am sure, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a conviction of singular depth, “one feels that whatever you did it would be impossible for you to degrade the position in the world of letters to which your talents have called you.” “I have a profound faith in your judgment, Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “I am always stimulated by your clearness of thought and your depth of conviction. But, in a manner of speaking, would it not be possible to betray the higher tenets of one’s calling by giving one’s assent to official recognition, however honourable and however greatly to be cherished by a private individual? You will remember that Carlyle refused a baronetcy?”