A slave is but a slave—­an article subject to all the fluctuations of trade—­a mere item in the scale of traffic, and reduced to serving the ends of avarice or licentiousness.  This is a consequence inseparable from his sale.  It matters not whether the blood of the noblest patriot course in his veins, his hair be of flaxen brightness, his eyes of azure blue, his skin of Norman whiteness, and his features classic,—­he can be no more than a slave, and as such must yield to the debasing influences of an institution that crushes and curses wherever it exists.  In proof of this, we find the bright eyes of our little Annette, glowing with kindliest love, failing to thaw the frozen souls of man-dealers.  Nay, bright eyes only lend their aid to the law that debases her life.  She has become valuable only as a finely and delicately developed woman, whose appearance in the market will produce sharp bidding, and a deal of dollars and cents.  Graspum never lost an opportunity of trimming up these nice pieces of female property, making the money invested in them turn the largest premium, and satisfying his customers that, so far as dealing in the brightest kind of fancy stock was concerned, he is not a jot behind the most careful selecter in the Charleston market.  Major John Bowling—­who is very distinguished, having descended from the very ancient family of that name, and is highly thought of by the aristocracy—­has made the selection of such merchandise his particular branch of study for more than fourteen years.  In consequence of the major’s supposed taste, his pen was hitherto most frequented by gentlemen and connoisseur; but now Graspum assures all respectable people, gentlemen of acknowledged taste, and young men who are cultivating their way up in the world, that his selections are second to none; of this he will produce sufficient proof, provided customers will make him a call and look into the area of his fold.  The fold itself is most uninviting (it is, he assures us, owing to his determination to carry out the faith of his plain democracy); nevertheless, it contains the white, beautiful, and voluptuous,—­all for sale.  In fact—­the truth must be told—­Mr. Graspum assures the world that he firmly believes there is a sort of human nature extant—­he is troubled sometimes to know just where the line breaks off—­which never by any possibility could have been intended for any thing but the other to traffic in-to turn into the most dollars and cents.  In proof of this principle he kept Annette until she had well nigh merged into womanhood, or until such time as she became a choice marketable article, with eyes worth so much; nose, mouth, so much; pretty auburn hair, worth so much; and fine rounded figure—­with all its fascinating appurtenances—­worth so much;—­the whole amounting to so much; to be sold for so much, the nice little profit being chalked down on the credit side of his formidable ledger, in which stands recorded against his little soul (he knows will get to heaven) the sale of ten thousand black souls, which will shine in brightness when his is refused admittance to the portal above.