Pompey was of low stature, round face, and, like most of his race, had a set of teeth, which, for whiteness and beauty, could not be surpassed; his eyes were large, lips thick, and hair short and woolly. Pomp had been with Walker so long, and seen so much of buying and selling of his fellow-creatures, that he appeared perfectly indifferent to the heart-rending scenes which daily occurred in his presence. Such is the force of habit:—
“Vice is a monster of such frightful mien,
That to be hated, needs but to be seen;
But seen too oft, familiar with its face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.”
Before reaching the place of destination, Pompey would pick out the older portion and say, “I is de chap dat is to get you ready for de Orleans market, so dat you will bring marser a good price. How old is you?” addressing himself to a man that showed some age.
“Ef I live to see next corn-plantin’ time, I’ll be forty.”
“Dat may be,” replied Pompey, “but now you is only thirty years old; dat’s what marser says you is to be.”
“I know I is mo’ dan dat,” responded the man.
“I can’t help nuffin’ ’bout dat,” returned Pompey; “but when you get in de market, an’ any one ax you how old you is, an’ you tell um you is forty, massa will tie you up, an’ when he is done whippin’ you, you’ll be glad to say you’s only thirty.”
“Well den, I reckon I is only thirty,” said the slave.
“What is your name?” asked Pompey of another man in the group.
“Jeems,” was the response.