"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.
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