"You looked so much like home-folks that I felt like speaking to you.
Where are you from?"
"From Virginny, sah!" (pulling himself up to his full height as he spoke). "Where's you from, Massa?"
"I was brought up partly in Virginia too?"
"Wbar'bouts, in Virginny?"
"Mostly in Lynchburg."
"Lynchburg! dat's whar I was fotched up. I belonged to de Widder Tate, dat lived on de New London Road. Gib me yer han', Massa!"
He rushed up to the buggy, and taking my extended hand in his huge fist he shook it heartily, grinning with delight.
This was Uncle Joe, a perfect specimen of the old Virginia "Uncle," who had found his way to California in the early days. Yes, he was a perfect specimen—black as night, his lower limbs crooked, arms long, hands and feet very large. His mouth was his most striking feature. It was the orator's mouth in size, being larger than that of Henry Clay—in fact, it ran almost literally from ear to ear. When he opened it fully, it was like lifting the lid of a box.
Uncle Joe and I became good friends at once. He honored my ministry with his presence on Sundays. There was a touch of dandyism in him that then and there came out. Clad in a blue broadcloth dress-coat of the olden cut, vest to match, tight-fitting pantaloons, stove-pipe hat, and yellow kid gloves, he was a gorgeous object to behold. He knew it, and there was a pleasant self-consciousness in the way he bore himself in the sanctuary.
Uncle Joe was the heartiest laugher I ever knew. He was always as full of happy life as a frisky colt or a plump pig. When he entered a knot of idlers on the streets, it was the signal or a humorous uproar. His quaint sayings, witty repartee, and contagious laughter, never failed. He was as agile as a monkey, and his dancing was a marvel. For a dime he would "cut the pigeon wing," or give a "double-shuffle" or "breakdown" in a way that made the beholder dizzy.