On the wretched failure of the Assembly of the Notables, the prime minister, Necker, advised the King to assemble the States-General,—­the three orders of the State:  the nobles, the clergy, and a representation of the people.  It seemed to the Government impossible to proceed longer, amid universal distress and hopeless financial embarrassment, without the aid and advice of this body, which had not been summoned for one hundred and fifty years.

It became, of course, an object of ambition to Count Mirabeau to have a seat in this illustrious assembly.  To secure this, he renounced his rank, became a plebeian, solicited the votes of the people, and was elected a deputy both from Marseilles and Aix.  He chose Aix, and his great career began with the meeting of the States-General at Versailles, the 5th of May, 1789.  It was composed of three hundred nobles, three hundred priests, and six hundred deputies of the third estate,—­twelve hundred in all.  It is generally conceded that these representatives of the three orders were on the whole a very respectable body of men, patriotic and incorruptible, but utterly deficient in political experience and in powers of debate.  The deputies were largely composed of country lawyers, honest, but as conceited as they were inexperienced.  The vanity of Frenchmen is so inordinate that nearly every man in the assembly felt quite competent to govern the nation or frame a constitution.  Enthusiasm and hope animated the whole assembly, and everybody saw in this States-General the inauguration of a glorious future.

One of the most brilliant and impressive chapters in Carlyle’s “French Revolution”—­that great prose poem—­is devoted to the procession of the three orders from the church of St. Louis to the church of Notre Dame, to celebrate the Mass, parts of which I quote.

“Shouts rend the air; one shout, at which Grecian birds might drop dead.  It is indeed a stately, solemn sight.  The Elected of France and then the Court of France; they are marshalled, and march there, all in prescribed place and costume.  Our Commons in plain black mantle and white cravat; Noblesse in gold-worked, bright-dyed cloaks of velvet, resplendent, rustling with laces, waving with plumes; the Clergy in rochet, alb, and other clerical insignia; lastly the King himself and household, in their brightest blaze of pomp,—­their brightest and final one.  Which of the six hundred individuals in plain white cravats that have come up to regenerate France might one guess would become their king?  For a king or a leader they, as all bodies of men, must have.  He with the thick locks, will it be?  Through whose shaggy beetle-brows, and rough-hewn, seamed, carbuncled face, there look natural ugliness, small-pox, incontinence, bankruptcy,—­and burning fire of genius?  It is Gabriel Honore Riquetti de Mirabeau; man-ruling deputy of Aix!  Yes, that is the Type-Frenchman of this epoch; as Voltaire was of the last.  He is French in his aspirations, acquisitions, in his virtues and vices.  Mark him well.  The National Assembly were all different without that one; nay, he might say with old Despot,—­The National Assembly?  I am that.