PERHAPS the most celebrated of sup­pressed book il­lus­tra­tions is the wood-engraved por­trait of the “Marquis of Steyne,” drawn by Thackeray as an illus­tra­tion to Vanity Fair, for which, if we are to believe the state­ment of a well-known book­seller’s cat­a­logue, “libel­lous pro­ceed­ings (sic) were threatened on account of its strik­ing like­ness to a mem­ber of the aris­to­cracy.” With the accuracy of this state­ment I shall deal in due course.

Before, however, proceeding to the con­sid­er­ation of the suppressed illus­tra­tion itself, it will be as well to pause for a moment to consider what antecedent probability there was that Thackeray would pillory a well-known rouÉ of the period in terms that would make the likeness undoubted and undeniable. And in pointing out what the great {8} novelist’s practice was in this respect I would guard myself against the charge of presuming to censure one who is not here to answer for himself, and whose nobility of character was sufficient guarantee of good faith and honourable intention. Let it always be remembered that, if Thackeray flagellated others, he never hesitated to taste the quality of his own whip first. Even in his book illus­tra­tions, as I have pointed out elsewhere, he was as unsparing of his own feelings as he was in his writings. And, in using himself as a whipping-boy for our sins, he probably believed that he was making himself as despicable as a Rousseau. Hence he came to the like treatment of other real personages not with unclean hands.

Some of us may have seen, though very few of us can possess, a very rare pamphlet, which was sold for as much as £39 on one of its infrequent appearances in the auction-rooms, entitled Mr. Thackeray, Mr. Yates, and the Garrick Club. In it was published a never-sent reply to a letter written by Thackeray remonstrating with Yates on the contents of a “pen-and-ink” sketch published by the latter in No. 6 of a periodical called Town {9} Talk, which resulted in Yates’s expulsion from the Garrick Club.

In this unsent letter he charged Thackeray with having unjustifiably introduced portraits both in his letterpress and illus­tra­tions. Mr. Stephen Price appeared as Captain Shindy in the Book of Snobs. In the same book Thackeray drew on a wood block what was practically a portrait of Wyndham Smith, a fellow-clubman. This appeared amongst “Sporting Snobs,” Mr. Smith being a well-known sporting man. In Pendennis he made a sketch of a former member of the Garrick Club, Captain Granby Calcraft, under the name of Captain Granby Tiptoff. In the same book, under the transparent guise of the unforgettable Foker, he reproduced every characteristic, both in language, manner, and gesture, of Mr. Andrew Arcedeckne, and even went so far as to give an unmistakable portrait of him, to that gentleman’s great annoyance.

Besides the examples given by Yates, who was himself recognisable as George Garbage in The Virginians, we know, too, that in the same novel Theodore Hook appeared as Wagg, just as he did {10} as Stanislaus Hoax in Disraeli’s Vivian Grey, and that Alfred Bunn was the prototype of Mr. Dolphin. Archdeacon Allen was the original of Dobbin, Lady Langford of Lady Kew; and last, but not least, we have lately learned from Mrs. Ritchie that the inimitable Becky had undoubtedly her incarnation.

So we see that the antecedent improbability is as the snakes in Iceland; for the above examples, which no doubt could be largely added to, prove that Thackeray did not hesitate to draw direct from the model when it suited his purpose.

So far so good. Let us now proceed to inquire into the identity of the “Marquis of Steyne.”

That his prototype was a Marquis of Hertford is axiomatic with all those who have ever taken any interest in the subject; but when we come to inquire which marquis we find that opinions are astonishingly at variance. It would seem almost as though any Marquis of Hertford would serve, whereas in point of fact the portrait would be the grossest libel upon each of that noble line save one; and so incidentally we shall, by making the matter clear, rescue from calumny an honourable {11} race, which has hitherto through heedlessness been tarred with the same brush as its least honourable rep­re­sen­ta­tive.

To show that this is not a reckless charge of inaccuracy, I quote from four letters in my possession written by four persons most likely to have special knowledge upon the subject.

The first, which is from a well-known printseller, informs me “that the Marquis of Steyne in Vanity Fair was Francis, second Marquis of Hertford, who died in 1822.”

The second, which is from one more intimately acquainted with the family than any other living person, says, “Unquestionably Francis, third Marquis of Hertford, the intimate friend of George IV., was the prototype of the Marquis of Steyne in Thackeray’s Vanity Fair.”

The third letter, which is from a well-known London editor, in general the best-informed man I have ever met, says, “It was the fourth Lord, who died in 1870.”

The last of the four letters supports this view and says: “It was the fourth, not the third, Marquis of Hertford who was supposed to be the prototype {12} of Thackeray’s Marquis of Steyne. ... He was Richard Seymour Conway, who was born in 1800 and died in 1870.”3

Now, considering that these are the only opinions for which I have asked, and that they are so curiously divergent, it will, I think, be clear that it is time an authoritative declaration were forthcoming, based upon independent inquiries.

It may as well, then, be stated once for all that no one who has taken the trouble to investigate the lives of the three marquises above mentioned can hesitate for a moment in identifying the “Marquis of Steyne” with the third Marquis of Hertford. To those who are curious to know very full particulars about these noblemen I would recommend the perusal of an interesting article entitled “Two Marquises” in Lippincott’s Magazine for February 1874. Nor should they fail to read Disraeli’s Coningsby, and compare “Lord Monmouth” and his creature “Rigby,” whose prototypes were the same Marquis of Hertford and his creature Croker, with the {13} “Marquis of Steyne” and his managing man “Wenham.”

And, whilst we are identifying the third Marquis in Coningsby and Vanity Fair, reference may be made to another most unflattering portrait of that notorious nobleman in a book published anonymously in 1844, which was immediately suppressed, but is now not infrequently to be found in second-hand book catalogues. The book was (I believe) written by John Mills, and had ten clever etched plates by George Standfast (probably a nom de plume). Copies in the parts as published are excessively rare. The title of the book is D’Horsay; or the Follies of the Day, by a Man of Fashion.4 It dealt with the escapades, vices, and adventures of well-known men of the day under the following transparent pseudonyms: Count d’Horsay, the Marquis of Hereford, the Earl of Chesterlane, Mr. Pelham, General Reel, Lord George Bentick, Mr. George Robbins, auctioneer, the Earl of Raspberry Hill, Benjamin D——i, Lord Hunting-Castle, and others. The {14} account of the “closing scene in the life of the greatest debauchee the world has ever seen, the Marquis of Hereford,” is too horrible to repeat.

So much for the identity of the “Marquis of Steyne” as described in Thackeray’s letterpress, which need not be dwelt upon here at greater length, seeing that the immediate object of this chapter is to deal with the accompanying engraving and its history. And in proceeding to this examination it should not be forgotten, in fairness to the novelist, that Thackeray has explained that his characters were made up of little bits of various persons. This is no doubt true enough. At the same time, we cannot but be aware that, although the details may have been gathered, the outline has been drawn direct from the life.

Vanity Fair was issued originally in monthly parts. Its first title was Vanity Fair: Pen and Pencil Sketches of English Society. Its first number was dated “January 1847,” and had “illus­tra­tions on steel and wood by the Author.” On p. 336 of the earliest issue of this first edition appeared the wood engraving of the Marquis of Steyne, wanting which a first edition is, to the {15} biblio­maniac, Hamlet with Hamlet left out. In the later issues, the engraving (which I here reproduce) was omitted, as also was the “rustic type” in which the title appeared on the first page.5 The publishers were Messrs. Bradbury and Evans, {16} as was natural, Thackeray being at this time on the staff of Punch. In later editions of the novel, published by Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co., the engraving reappears—viz. on p. 22 of vol. ii. in the standard edition, and on p. 158, vol. ii., of the twenty-six-volume edition.6

What was the reason for its sudden removal immediately after pub­li­ca­tion? As I have said above, it is commonly stated to have been in consequence of a threatened action for libel, of course on account of the undoubted likeness of the “Marquis of Steyne” to the third Marquis of Hertford. But how does this tally with facts? Lord Hertford had died in 1842, whilst the first number of Vanity Fair did not appear until 1847. Now every lawyer knows that you cannot libel a dead man. This was made clear some few years ago (I think) in the case of the Duke of Vallombrosa against a well-known English journalist. Therefore it is quite certain that, although legal proceedings might have been threatened, they would certainly have collapsed. {17} Further than that, those who knew the fourth Marquis are aware that he was the last man in the world to embark upon a lawsuit or court publicity in any way. And if any doubt upon the matter should still remain, I am able to state positively that no trace is to be discovered amongst the Hertford family papers of any action threatened or brought against Thackeray on any grounds whatsoever. I think, then, that we may dismiss once for all this aspect of the case.

At the same time it is not impossible that some hint may have reached the novelist’s ears that the illus­tra­tion gave pain to persons then living, and that he promptly had it removed. But against this view there is a very strong presumption. If we turn the leaves of our original issue of Vanity Fair, we shall, on p. 421, find another wood engraving, and opposite p. 458 a full-page steel engraving, “The Triumph of Clytemnestra,” both containing portraits of “The Marquis of Steyne.” Now, considering that that nobleman’s august features are as recognisable in these as in the suppressed engraving, it seems unreasonable to suppose that the one would have been removed {18} without the others, in consequence of family rep­re­sen­ta­tions.

Possibly the real truth of the matter is a very much simpler one. It may have been either that Thackeray was himself disgusted with the brutal frankness of the picture when he saw it printed, and insisted on its removal, or that the block met with some accident. Indeed, I am inclined to think, judging from my memory of the subject, that the idea of an action for libel is one that has only found expression in more modern booksellers’ catalogues. If I am not mistaken, the older booksellers used to speak of the engraving not as “suppressed,” but as “extremely rare,” and that it was supposed to have disappeared from later issues because it was broken before many impressions were taken. Of course, a threatened action for libel, on account of its striking likeness to a member of the aristocracy, added piquancy to the affair, and so redounded to the benefit of the vendor of the earliest issue of a first edition; and the identification of Lord Steyne’s prototype, in the letterpress, gave colour to the idea. Once set going, we may be certain that {19} the legend would not be allowed to lapse for lack of advertisement. To adapt what Dr. Johnson said of the “Countess,” “Sir,” said he to Boswell, “in the case of a (marquis) the imagination is more excited.”

The accompanying portraits of the third and fourth Marquises of Hertford give the reader an opportunity of forming his own opinion in the matter of identity. That of the third Marquis is from the engraving by William Holl of the painting by Sir Thomas Lawrence, and certainly seems to suggest, in the prime of life, the features and expression which Thackeray has portrayed in old age. The bald head, and the arrangement of the whiskers—which are allowed to approach the corners of the mouth—are incontestable points of resemblance; and if the old voluptuary is somewhat more battered than Lawrence’s rather spruce model, we must remember that his portrait was painted by the courtly President of the Royal Academy many years before the period of life at which he is introduced to us by the novelist. Certainly he is not an attractive object; and I was amused to receive a letter from a member of the family to whom I first showed the wood {20} engraving in which these words occur: “I find we have no portrait whatever of the Lord Hertford in question, and am not surprised at it if he at all resembled that of the Marquis in Vanity Fair!”7

As regards the fourth Marquis, it is a curious fact that, not­with­stand­ing his vast wealth, and his tastes as an artist and connoisseur, no painted or engraved portrait of him is known. The photograph here reproduced is the only counterfeit presentment extant, and is enough, if further evidence were needed, to dispose for ever of the idea that he was the prototype of the Marquis of Steyne. It is hardly necessary to remind the reader that it is to him, through Sir Richard and Lady Wallace, that the nation owes a debt of gratitude for the splendid collection now housed in perpetuity in Hertford House.8

It will be noticed that in this photograph Lord Hertford wears his Star of the Order of the Garter, to obtain which he made the “tremendous sacrifice” of which an amusing account is given in the Lippincott article mentioned above. Of him the Speaker wrote at the time of his death:

Living in Paris a quiet and rather solitary life—in habits more a Frenchman than an Englishman; in tastes an artist and a connoisseur; in purse and opportunity unlimited by any niggard need of self-control—the fourth Marquis of Hertford busied himself in gathering together from the treasure-houses of Europe innumerable precious specimens of the painter’s, the goldsmith’s, and the cabinetmaker’s art. Year after year, with tranquil perseverance, he heaped up on every side of him all the beautiful objects on which he could lay hands—pictures, miniatures, furniture, enamels, china and plate, bronzes, and coats of armour—until his storehouses were full to overflowing of treasures which, except for the pleasure of procuring them, he could hardly ever have enjoyed. In this congenial task he was assisted by a young Englishman, the secret of whose connection with the Hertford family, if any such there was, the public has never penetrated yet. To this young Englishman, who was well known and liked in Parisian society in the tawdry splendour of the Second Empire, and whose active generosity {22} won him wide esteem in that desolated capital amid the terrible events of the winter of 1870–71, Lord Hertford bequeathed the wonderful possessions which he had accumulated in a lifetime of discriminating labour. When the Franco-German War and the Commune were over, Richard Wallace brought his spoils safely home, and exhibited them for a time at the Bethnal Green Museum while he built the great galleries to hold them in Manchester Square. But even here they were not destined to bring much happiness to their possessor. After a short time Sir Richard Wallace was left heirless—like Lord Hertford—by a cruel stroke of fate; and now, by his widow’s gift, the splendid inheritance, which has passed so quickly from the keeping of the hands that laid it up, goes to enrich a public which will not be ungrateful for the donor’s rare munificence, or unmindful of the sad and curious story it recalls.9

To return again to the suppressed wood engraving itself, it is curious to notice that old “Lady Kew” of The Newcomes was sister to Lord Steyne. Now the name “Kew” at once suggests {23} to those conversant with the early doings of the century the nickname of the notorious Duke of Queensberry, known to all and sundry as “Old Q,” and sets us considering why the name should suggest itself to Thackeray in connection with Lord Hertford. And what do we find?

When the third Marquis was but twenty-one, he married a young lady named Marie Fagniani. She was believed to be the daughter of the Duke of Queensberry and an opera dancer of that name. Nothing would be more natural, therefore, than that Thackeray, having saturated himself with the surroundings of the prototypes of his characters, should, probably half unconsciously, have seized upon a capital name suggested to him in the course of preparing for his novel, and so adapted it to his requirements. This suggestion I only make for what it is worth. It may, of course, merely be that a search through the suburban directory suggested the name, as was no doubt the case in apportioning to her ladyship’s husband his second title of Lord Walham. At any rate, the coincidence seems worth recording.

In conclusion, there can be no possible doubt {24} that so far as Thackeray’s letterpress is concerned, the prototype of the Marquis of Steyne (Lord of the Powder Closet, etc. etc.) was Francis Charles Seymour Conway (third Marquis of Hertford) of his branch; Earl of Hertford and Yarmouth, Viscount Beauchamp, Baron Conway, and Baron of Ragley in England; and Baron Conway and Kilultagh in the peerage of Ireland; and as regards the suppressed wood engraving, there will, I think, be little question that Thackeray the artist dotted his i’s by an intentional rep­re­sen­ta­tion of the noble lord’s not altogether attractive features.

It is, however, only fair to state that Lord Hertford was probably by no means the unmitigated scoundrel that those familiar with the “Marquis of Steyne” might be led to suppose. That he participated in all the amusements and most of the follies of a notorious society there can be little doubt. At the same time, we have it on record (in the somewhat pompous diction of the period) that he was extensively read in ancient and modern literature, that his judgment was remarkable for its solidity and sagacity, and that his {25} conversation was enlivened by much of that refined and quaint pleasantry which dis­tin­guished his near relative, Horace Walpole. He was a dis­tin­guished patron of all the arts; and those who were more intimately acquainted with his private life gave him the still higher praise of being a warm, generous, and unalterable friend. “It is but justice to add,” to quote the final words of the notice referred to, “that the writer has accidentally become acquainted with instances of his Lordship’s benevolence, the liberality of which was equalled only by the delicacy with which it was conferred, and the scrupulous care with which he endeavoured to conceal it.”

The caricature portrait of the third Marquis here reproduced was etched, as will be seen, by Richard Dighton in 1818, when this Marquis’s father was alive, and he was only the Earl of Yarmouth. The watermark on the paper is 1826, which explains the inscription “Marquis of Hertford,” evidently a later addition—an ex post facto puzzle which proved insoluble until it occurred to me to hold the portrait up to the light.