a mistake in applauding this gentleman who seemed to make such an unpromising beginning.  But the speaker soon began to get warm on the subject, and even at times appeared as if he had spoken before.  In a very short time, with the exception of his own voice, the stillness of death prevailed throughout the building.  The speaker, in the delivery of one of the most logical speeches made in the Congress, and despite of his thin, sallow look, interested me much more than any whom I had before heard.  Towards the close of his remarks, he was several times interrupted by manifestations of approbation; and finally concluded amid great cheering.  I inquired the gentleman’s name, and was informed that it was Edward Miall, editor of the Nonconformist.

After speeches from several others, the great Peace Congress of 1849, which had brought men together from nearly all the governments of Europe, and many from America, was brought to a final close by a speech from the President, returning thanks for the honour that had been conferred upon him.  He said, “My address shall be short, and yet I have to bid you adieu!  How resolve to do so?  Here, during three days, have questions of the deepest import been discussed, examined, probed to the bottom; and during these discussions, counsels have been given to governments which they will do well to profit by.  If these days’ sittings are attended with no other result, they will be the means of sowing in the minds of those present, gems of cordiality which must ripen into good fruit.  England, France, Belgium, Europe, and America, would all be drawn closer by these sittings.  Yet the moment to part has arrived, but I can feel that we are strongly united in heart.  But before parting I may congratulate you and myself on the result of our proceedings.  We have been all joined together without distinction of country; we have all been united in one common feeling during our three days’ communion.  The good work cannot go back, it must advance, it must be accomplished.  The course of the future may be judged of by the sound of the footsteps of the past.  In the course of that day’s discussion, a reminiscence had been handed up to one of the speakers, that this was the anniversary of the dreadful massacre of St. Bartholomew:  the rev. gentleman who was speaking turned away from the thought of that sanguinary scene with pious horror, natural to his sacred calling.  But I, who may boast of firmer nerve, I take up the remembrance.  Yes, it was on this day, two hundred and seventy-seven years ago, that Paris was roused from slumber by the sound of that bell which bore the name of cloche d’argent.  Massacre was on foot, seeking with keen eye for its victim—­man was busy in slaying man.  That slaughter was called forth by mingled passions of the worst description.  Hatred of all kinds was there urging on the slayer—­hatred of a religious, a political, a personal character.  And yet on the anniversary of that same day of horror,