s 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