BLANCHARD, JOHN.

A GLANCE at the worn features and bent form of this gentleman, as they presented themselves to the eye during the first session of the twenty-ninth Congress, would have convinced an ordinary observer that he would soon be beyond the reach of any living biography which we could write. With the members of that Congress, King Death had made notably merry. A thorough-bred leveler, he had paid his respects to them “without distinction of party," scattering, as stubble before the wind, the deep-laid schemes of the politicians, and leaving the “unfinished business," of which the rules are so tender, to take care of itself. An uninvited, yea, and an unwelcome guest, he had intruded even into chambers "where statesmen play their high chess game, whereof the pawns are men." Something more than his wonted annual sacrifices the grim old autocrat had exacted. Perhaps-God knows-to show us how easy was the access to his terrible kingdom, without a preparatory sail up the Columbia River, or even a march "to the Halls of the Montezumas!" How many more victims the despot might have claimed if the law had not prescribed a definite period to the deliberations of the two bodies, it lies not within our limited vision to foresee; but high on the list of those whose presence was demanded in his imperial court, "pricked to die," like certain Romans "in the black sentence and proscription" of Mark Antony, seemed the name of John Blanchard, of Pennsylvania. He looked as "if any man might have bought the fee-simple of his life for an hour and a quarter." Yet, late one night, he took the floor, feeble as he was, and forthwith threw the House into such a roar of laughter at the jokes he rolled out in quick succession, as almost to leave the impression that there must have been something like a feint in those infirm limbs and that tottering gait which so hardly seemed to support him. From that moment we classed him among the living.

BLANCHARD, JOHN.

A GLANCE at the worn features and bent form of this gentleman, as they presented themselves to the eye during the first session of the twenty-ninth Congress, would have convinced an ordinary observer that he would soon be beyond the reach of any living biography which we could write. With the members of that Congress, King Death had made notably merry. A thorough-bred leveler, he had paid his respects to them "without distinction of party," scattering, as stubble before the wind, the deep-laid schemes of the politicians, and leaving the "unfinished business," of which the rules are so tender, to take care of itself. An uninvited, yea, and an unwelcome guest, he had intruded even into chambers "where statesmen play their high chess game, whereof the pawns are men." Something more than his wonted annual sacrifices the grim old autocrat had exacted. Perhaps-God knows-to show us how easy was the access to his terrible kingdom, without a preparatory sail up the Columbia River, or even a march "to the Halls of the Montezumas!" How many more victims the despot might have claimed if the law had not prescribed a definite period to the deliberations of the two bodies, it lies not within our limited vision to foresee; but high on the list of those whose presence was demanded in his imperial court, "pricked to die," like certain Romans "in the black sentence and proscription" of Mark Antony, seemed the name of John Blanchard, of Pennsylvania. He looked as "if any man might have bought the fee-simple of his life for an hour and a quarter." Yet, late one night, he took the floor, feeble as he was, and forthwith threw the House into such a roar of laughter at the jokes he rolled out in quick succession, as almost to leave the impression that there must have been something like a feint in those infirm limbs and that tottering gait which so hardly seemed to support him. From that moment we classed him among the living.