his
"Secretaire des Commandemens," nothing seemed wanting to his felicity
but a wife to share his glory; and, accordingly, in the year 1760, he
married. If we believe his own account, he was the happiest of Benedicts
for fourteen years; but all of a sudden, without warning, without
reason, and (though she was a poetess) without even rhyme, his
household gods were broken, and all his happiness engulfed. It was a
second edition of the Lisbon earthquake. The opposite party denied the
fourteen years' felicity, and talked wonderful things about cuffs and
kicks bestowed on the spouse--and maledictions of more force than
elegance; but both sides agree that the matter came to a crisis when a
certain Sieur Grimod--a sort of Cicisbeo--Platonic of course--was
requested to leave the house, and discontinue his visits to Madame
Lebrun. This simple proceeding let loose all the winds of heaven; poor
Lebrun was pounced upon by the whole female sex. Even his old mother
turned against him; even his sister, a sour vestal of thirty-seven,
sided with her injured sister-in-law; and what had the wretched poet to
say for himself? He suspected nothing improper--a good easy man--he
adored his "Fanny"--he wanted her to come back--but that horrid fellow
Grimod!--he would not have Grimod within his door. So Fanny would not go
within it either; and off to the _avocat_ rushed Lebrun, to force her to
come back by legal process; and off went Madame, accompanied of course
by the Sieur Grimod, to _her avocat_, to resist the demand; and then
followed paper upon paper--love, regrets, promisings, courtings, on one
side; hatred, defiance, and foul names, _ad libitum_, on the other. And,
finally, the whole case was put into a _Memoire_, with the help of
Monsieur Hardoin de la Regnerie, _avocat_; and every tea-table--but
there was no tea in those days--every card-table in Paris was as well
able to decide the cause as the Parliament itself.

The _Memoire_ commences with some general reflections on the advantages
possessed by a pretty woman, in all cases of a quarrel with a man. And
when, in addition to her prettiness, she has the art to appear ill-used,
there is no resisting her attacks. A halo of sympathy gathers round her,
while a cloud envelopes the unfortunate antagonist; and people at last
think that they are performing an act of pure and disinterested justice,
when they kick him into the Seine. Impressed with this disagreeable
conviction, (from which we ga