Abstract

Dr. Joseph Black had at one time, a house near us to the west. He was a striking and beautiful person; tall, very thin, and cadaverously pale; his hair carefully powdered, though there was little of it except what was collected in a long thin queue; his eyes dark, clear and large, like deep pools of pure water. He wore black speckless clothes, silk stockings, silver buckles, and either a slim green umbrella, or a genteel brown cane. The general frame and air were feeble and slender. The wildest boy respected Black. No lad could be irreverent toward a man so pale, so gentle, so elegant and so illustrious. So he glided, like a spirit, through our rather mischievous sportiveness, unharmed. He died seated, with a bowl of milk upon his knee, of which his ceasing to be did not spill a drop; a departure which it seemed, after the event, might have been foretold of this attenuated philosophical gentleman.

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