of horror, and in
that very city whose blood was flowing like water, has God this day
given a rendezvous to men of peace, whose wild tumult is transformed
into order, and animosity into love. The stain of blood is blotted out,
and in its place beams forth a ray of holy light. All distinctions are
removed, and Papist and Huguenot meet together in friendly communion.
(Loud cheers.) Who that thinks of these amazing changes can doubt of the
progress that has been made? But whoever denies the force of progress
must deny God, since progress is the boon of Providence, and emanated
from the great Being above. I feel gratified for the change that has
been effected, and, pointing solemnly to the past, I say let this day be
ever held memorable--let the 24th of August, 1572, be remembered only
for the purpose of being compared with the 24th of August, 1849; and
when we think of the latter, and ponder over the high purpose to which
it has been devoted--the advocacy of the principles of peace--let us not
be so wanting in reliance on Providence as to doubt for one moment of
the eventful success of our holy cause."

The most enthusiastic cheers followed this interesting speech. A vote of
thanks to the government, and three times three cheers, with Mr. Cobden
as "fugleman," ended the great Peace Congress of 1849.

Time for separating had arrived, yet all seemed unwilling to leave the
place, where for three days men of all creeds and of no creed had met
upon one common platform. In one sense the meeting was a glorious
one--in another, it was mere child's play; for the Congress had been
restricted to the discussion of certain topics. They were permitted to
dwell on the blessings of peace, but were not allowed to say anything
about the very subjects above all others that should have been brought
before the Congress. A French army had invaded Rome and put down the
friends of political and religious freedom, yet not a word was said in
reference to it. The fact is, the Committee permitted the Congress to
be _gagged_, before it had met. They put padlocks upon their own mouths,
and handed the keys to the government. And this was sorely felt by many
of the speakers. Richard Cobden, who had thundered his anathemas against
the Corn Laws of his own country, and against wars in every clime, had
to sit quiet in his fetters. Henry Vincent, who can make a louder speech
in favour of peace, than almost any other man, and whose denunciations
of "all war,