These mills are worked all night, and the poor negroes, wishing to follow an example which massa sets on a grand scale, save that they have an excuse in the fatigue of labor, will delegate some shrewd one of their number to proceed to a Dutch “corner-shop” in the suburbs, run the gauntlet of the police, and get a bottle of whiskey, When interrogated, they are always “going for a bottle of molasses.”  They keep a keen watch for the police, and their cunning modes of eluding their vigilance forms many amusing anecdotes.  They are bound to have a pass from master, or some white man; but if they can reach the shop in safety, the Dutchman will always furnish them with one to return.  It not unfrequently happens that the guard-men are much more ignorant than the slaves.  The latter knowing this, will endeavor to find their station and approach by it, taking with them either an old pass or a forged one, which the guard-man makes a wonderful piece of importance about examining and countersigning, though he can neither read nor write.  Thus Sambo passes on to get his molasses, laughing in his sleeve to think how he “fool ignorant buckra.”  A change of guard often forms a trap for Sambo, when he is lugged to the guard-house, kept all night, his master informed in the morning, and requested to step up and pay a fine, or Sambo’s back catches thirty-nine, thus noting a depression of value upon the property.  Sometimes his master pays the municipal fine, and administers a domestic castigation less lacerating. bound into the city on the usual errand of procuring a little of molasses.  When he first discovered Tommy, he started back a few paces, as if in fear; but on being told by Tommy that he was lost, and wanted to find his way to the wharves, he approached and recovering, confidence readily, volunteered to see him to the corner of Broad street.  So, taking him by the hand, they proceeded together until they reached the termination of the Causeway, and were about to enter Tradd street, when suddenly a guard-man sprang from behind an old shed.  The negro, recognising his white belt and tap-stick, made the best of his time, and set off at full speed down a narrow lane.  The watchman proceeded close at his heels, springing his rattle at every step, and pouring out a volley of vile imprecations.  Tommy stood for a few moments, but soon the cries of the negro and the beating of clubs broke upon his ear; he became terrified, and ran at the top of his speed in an opposite direction.  Again he had lost his way, and seemed in a worse dilemma than before; he was weary and frightened, and hearing so many stories among the sailors about selling white children for slaves, and knowing the imprisonment of Manuel, which he did not comprehend, his feelings were excited to the highest degree.  After running for a few minutes, he stopped to see if he could recognize his position.  The first thing that caught his eye was the old jail, looming its sombre walls in the gloomy contrast of