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Dreadful Riot on Negro Hill! O Read wid detention de Melancholly Tale and he send you yelling to your bed! Copy of an intercepted letter from PHILLIS, to her Sister in the country, describing the Riot on Negro Hill. Dear SISSER, BOSSON, Ulie 47th, 180027. I hab sad tiding to enform you, O a few night since I taught my lass day surely come, a great number de white Truckerman got angry wid count I spose so many bad girl who lib here and treten to molish all de brack peeples housen! I don't know dat I can gib you more sblime decription of de dredful such of work, den in de langrage of Massa Pope and Milton. 'TWAS ten o'clock or dareabout When Pomp and I got snug in bed, And just I blow de candle out, A noise uncommon struck my head. My husband say, “O dont be fright, 'Tis noting but some roguish boys, Who come pon Neger Hill to fight And sturbe de peeples wid dare noise. Well den I try to resse me, But minuit fore I close my eye, O such a creech!—Gau blesse me, Some scream for help, some murder cry. Ah quickly den I quit my bed, Wid flint and brimtone strike a light, And through de clapboard poke my head, And saw, O Chlo!—terrific sight! It pere dare was a tousand men, Look like so many goose in flock; Each wid a cudgel in he hand, And dressen most in whiten frock, O Pomp, said I what shall we do, Spose deff dis night should be our flate, Spose day should kill both I and you. Ah what become of little Kate! Or only tink dear Pomp said I, If day shood kill you wid a stone, Mow den your Phillesee wood cry To see you kick and hear you groan. Dreadful riot on Negro Hill! O read wid detention de melancholly tale and he send you yelling to your bed. Pomp den get up and seize he gun. And say “tis brack folk voice I hear, He charge be piece and bout to run, I beg him not to interfere. Juss as I spoke a shower of stone, Come rattle bang again our door, One truck poor Pomp upon de shin And bring him senseless to de floor! Anoder truck poor Katy head, Which was he not fleec'd well wid wool, Wood kill'd de little angel dead, Or made de child a natral FOOL! O! Murder! Fire! help—help—I cry, For dead I taught dat Hell broke loose, De mob I try to pacify, But all I say it prove no use. I tell 'um Pomp he poor old man, Not by keep girl he gain he food, For while I wash, do all I can, Pomp earn'd a trifle sawing wood. “Hold your brack jaw! one said to me, “Or soon I break your Callabash!” Anoder said ah soon you see, Wid club you Cocanut we smash! Wang bang again de tone day flew, Crack went de crockry on de shef, Great Goff said I what shall we do; While Pomp cry—Phillis save yoursef I then seize Kate up garret fly, And into smoke house softly creep, And still as Musquash dare we lie, Till darkness fled and day-light peep. 'Twas den I venture juss come down, See what become of Pompey dear, For all de night he dying groan, Did rend my heart and pierce my ear, Pomp! Pomp! cry I, pray how are you, “O Phillis!—juss alive, dat all Stone come so thick, so swiftly flew, I was oblige up chimbly crawl. Poor creature, he come creep to me, Hobbling pon he wounded foot; I neber such an image see, Cover'd from head to feet wid soot. O such a condition my house in, I cood set down whole day and cry, And Pomp too wid his broken shin, Prehaps poor creature yet may die. De damage done no tongue can tell, But I will try to let you know, Long on de subject I cant dwell, It make me feel all over so! Dreadful riot on Negro Hill! O read wid detention de melancholly tale and he send you yelling to your bed.

My parlour fill'd wid dirt and stone, My Bureau smash Table split, My Bedstead broke, de Curtain torn, And quite destroy my Dining Set, My Carpet rip from end to end, And crack my clock and split de case, My Silver Spoon all bruize and bend, My Sopha Cushee much deface. My hogany Desk wid polish shine, My Toilet, Screen and Battledore, My Coffee Urn and pipe of Wine, Lie heap of rubbish on de floor. My husband's spensive Library, Perspective Glass and Map of State, PORTRAIT. (much like him e're you see) Share pretty much wid de same fate. O for a tousen tongues to tell, And hearts to bear de woeful sight, And eyes to weep for dose who fell Wid kick and blow dat awful night, Some broken shin some bleeding head, Some sprained arm some bruizen thigh, And brack man lying almost dead, Most ebery where wood meet your eye, But yeserday poor Pompey he Could say One Hundred Pound my lot, But Sisser if you will blieve me, One broken shin now all he got. Here from de country late we move. Juss wid more ease ourself maintain, But chance we get for cash or love, Pomp swear he move right back again, Dear Sisser, I am yours fectionately, PHILLIS. N. B. By de great detruction of my Furniture you will perceive my house was pretty genteel furnish— common Furniture will do in de country, but in Bosson or Providence if a bot'y wish to be rekon any thing day muss conform to de fashon ob de place. BOSTCRIPT. MAIL wait for me to let you know, Pomp get no better wid he shin; De Doctors now advise him go. Wid much delay to Balltown Spring, Doubtless day tink dat so much pain Proceed from fracture of de brain. POMPEY'S ADVERTISEMENT. One Hundred Dollar Reward. Dreadful riot on Negro Hill! O read wid detention de melancholly tale and he send you yelling to your bed.

YES—Know ye—all person—Where as on or about de 33d inst of Uly lass, juss as my family retire to bed, and lull by pleasant dream One Hundred or Ninety nine evil minded or chevious person e? ail my Dwelling House, wid stone, club, brick and clamshell, shatter de clapboard, stave in de door, smash my window, tsrnish, my furniture, upset de wash tub and lie pot into de bread troug, frighten Phillis my wife in bad circumstance, krak little Kate my daughter head, fracture de skul bone of my shin, and otherwise berry much injure my reputation as Hog Ringer in General—Herefore I offer a ward of 100 dollar draft on Gloucezoc bank for noder such tack from dem whiten frock fellow. POMPEY SMALLHEAD. N. B. I. and Phillisee board for de presen long wid Mr. Scip, Window Washer in General, opposit dance Hall No. 9 Rabble Street, where we may be spoke wid from I'm de morning till 21 in de evening P. S. My daughter Katy Emma Maria Chlo-Phillese Smallhead, board wid us for da pressen.