Meanwhile in Paris he met a young Irish lady with whom he fell in love, and being offered the post of Paris correspondent on another paper, he married.  But very soon after he married the paper failed and Thackeray and his young wife returned to London, very poor indeed, and there he remained, as Carlyle said, “writing for his life.”

It was a struggle, doubtless, but not a bitter one, and Thackeray was happy in his home with his wife and two little daughters.  Long afterwards one of these daughters wrote, “Almost the first time I can remember my parents was at home in Great Coram Street on one occasion, when my mother took me upon her back, as she had a way of doing, and after hesitating for a moment at the door, carried me into a little ground floor room where some one sat bending over a desk.  This some one lifted up his head and looked round at the people leaning over his chair.  He seemed pleased, smiled at us, but remonstrated.  Nowadays I know by experience that authors don’t get on best, as a rule, when they are interrupted in their work—­not even by their own particular families—­but at that time it was all wondering, as I looked over my mother’s shoulder.”

But these happy days did not last long.  The young mother became ill; gradually she became worse, until at last the light of reason died out of her brain, and although she lived on for many years, it was a living death, for she knew no one and took no notice of anything that went on around her.

The happy home was broken up.  The children went to live with their great-grandmother, who found them “inconveniently young,” while Thackeray remained alone in London.  But though he was heart-broken and lonely, he kept a loving memory of the happy days gone by.  Long after he wrote to a friend who was going to be married, “Although my own marriage was a wreck, as you know, I would do it over again, for behold, Love is the crown and completion of all earthly good.  The man who is afraid of his future never deserved one.”

Thackeray was already making a way with his pen, and now he found a new opening.  Most of you know Punch.  He and his dog Toby are old friends.  And Mr. Punch with his humped back and big nose “comes out” every week to make us laugh.  He makes us laugh, too, with kindly laughter, for, as Thackeray himself said, “there never were before published in this world so many volumes that contained so much cause for laughing, so little for blushing.  It is easy to be witty and wicked, so hard to be witty and wise!” But once upon a time there was no Punch, strange though it may seem.  It was just at this time, indeed, that Punch was published and Thackeray became one of the earliest contributors, and continued for ten years both to draw pictures and write papers for it.  It was in Punch that his famous “Snob Papers” appeared.  What is a Snob?  Thackeray says, “He who meanly admires mean things.”