which his voice was destined to
control. At the first election of Aix, rejected with contempt by the
_noblesse_, he cast himself into the arms of the people, certain of
making the balance incline to the side on which he should cast the
weight of his daring and his genius. Marseilles contended with Aix for
the great plebeian; his two elections, the discourses he then delivered,
the addresses he drew up, the energy he employed, commanded the
attention of all France. His sonorous phrases became the proverbs of the
Revolution; comparing himself, in his lofty language, to the men of
antiquity, he placed himself already in the public estimation in the
elevated position he aspired to reach. Men became accustomed to identify
him with the names he cited; he made a loud noise in order to prepare
minds for great commotions; he announced himself proudly to the nation
in that sublime apostrophe in his address to the Marseillais: "When the
last of the Gracchi expired, he flung dust towards heaven, and from this
dust sprung Marius! Marius, less great for having exterminated the
Cimbri than for having prostrated in Rome the aristocracy of the
nobility."

From the moment of his entry into the National Assembly he filled it: he
was the whole people. His gestures were commands; his movements _coups
d'etat_. He placed himself on a level with the throne, and the nobility
felt itself subdued by a power emanating from its own body. The clergy,
which is the people, and desires to reconcile the democracy with the
church, lends him its influence, in order to destroy the double
aristocracy of the nobility and bishops.

All that had been built by antiquity and cemented by ages fell in a few
months. Mirabeau alone preserved his presence of mind in the midst of
this ruin. His character of tribune ceases, that of the statesman
begins, and in this he is even greater than in the other. There, when
all else creep and crawl, he acts with firmness, advancing boldly. The
Revolution in his brain is no longer a momentary idea--it is a settled
plan. The philosophy of the eighteenth century, moderated by the
prudence of policy, flows easily, and modelled from his lips. His
eloquence, imperative as the law, is now the talent of giving force to
reason. His language lights and inspires every thing; and though almost
alone at this moment, he has the courage to remain alone. He braves
envy, hatred, murmurs, supported by the strong feeling of his
superiority. He d