The President then arose, and delivered one of the most impressive and eloquent appeals in favour of peace that could possibly be imagined.  The effect produced upon the minds of all present was such as to make the author of “Notre Dame de Paris” a great favourite with the Congress.  An English gentleman near me said to his friend, “I can’t understand a word of what he says, but is it not good?” Victor Hugo concluded his speech amid the greatest enthusiasm on the part of the French, which was followed by hurrahs in the old English style.  The Convention was successively addressed by the President of the Brussels Peace Society; President Mahan of the Oberlin (Ohio) Institute, U.S.; Henry Vincent; and Richard Cobden.  The latter was not only the lion of the English delegation, but the great man of the Convention.  When Mr. Cobden speaks, there is no want of hearers.  The great power of this gentleman lies in his facts and his earnestness, for he cannot be called an eloquent speaker.  Mr. Cobden addressed the Congress first in French, then in English; and, with the single exception of Mr. Ewart, M.P., was the only one of the English delegation that could speak to the French in their own language.

The Congress was brought to a close at five o’clock, when the numerous audience dispersed—­the citizens to their homes, and the delegates to see the sights.

I was not a little amused at an incident that occurred at the close of the first session.  On the passage from America, there were in the same steamer with me, several Americans, and among these, three or four appeared to be much annoyed at the fact that I was a passenger, and enjoying the company of white persons; and although I was not openly insulted, I very often heard the remark, that “That nigger had better be on his master’s farm,” and “What could the American Peace Society be thinking about to send a black man as a delegate to Paris.”  Well, at the close of the first sitting of the Convention, and just as I was leaving Victor Hugo, to whom I had been introduced by an M.P., I observed near me a gentleman with his hat in hand, whom I recognized as one of the passengers who had crossed the Atlantic with me in the Canada, and who appeared to be the most horrified at having a negro for a fellow passenger.  This gentleman, as I left M. Hugo, stepped up to me and said, “How do you do, Mr. Brown?” “You have the advantage of me,” said I.  “Oh, don’t you know me; I was a fellow passenger with you from America; I wish you would give me an introduction to Victor Hugo and Mr. Cobden.”  I need not inform you that I declined introducing this pro-slavery American to these distinguished men.  I only allude to this, to show what a change comes over the dreams of my white American brother, by crossing the ocean.  The man who would not have been seen walking with me in the streets of New York, and who would not have shaken hands with me with a pair of tongs while on the passage from the United States,