The New Hampshire Gazette And Historical Chronicle

Allow me, Mr. Printer, to indulge the dictates of my heart in one apostrophe to infatuated England, will you never renounce your folly, credulity, and error, until the web of your destruction is completed! The national business, shall it be again sacrificed to unmeaning pique, and unprofitable disputation; shall the Season, for important considerations, and important resolutions, again pass away unimproved, the misery of your condition unmitigated? shall your provincial Children continue Aliens to the bosom of maternity, and from a neglected of their dutiful remonstrances, and a disregard of their grievances be provoked to forego the filial tie, of which they have evidenced themselves so abundantly tender? Shall their loyalty be extinguished, their hopes disappointed, their fears augmented, and their independance strengthened? shall your commerce be suffered to languish or expire? but all Apostrophes are vain; for, Mr. Printer, what is America, in comparison of the Borough of B--d--what the Spirit; the Faith; the proposals of its Inhabitants, to the bustle of a little Corporation --and what the preservation of our commerce, to another attack upon the big House, in Bloomsbury Square; or the eclat of pelting its Master? And yet we are all Patriots, bleeding for our Country and unpeakably tenacious of her Rights, her Liberty; her Constitutional Advantages--It is pity, however, that instead of our fine feelings. we were blest with a little Common Sense; that instead of our prejudices, we would consult our true interest; instead of contributing to aid the work of our ruin, we would nobly unite, to avert it from our Heads.

I shudder, Mr. Printer: and at the present, tremble for the future absurdities. the future dangers of the land I love -Here the olive was wont to flourish--Britain was the soil it more peculiarly delighted in; but her Sons madly defeat the benignity of Heaven;, and from forced cultivation, reap thorns and wretchedness. Is there no warning voice to strike timely on their Ear; still is there no warning voice that can penetrate their Hearts? Your little ones implore your protection, shall your little ones implore in vain? Will it relieve their shoulder from its weight, or their Souls from anguish, to be told of your conviction when too late; that meteors and sounds betrayed your unguarded feet, that your senses were abused, your zeal misplace? Now, and now only is the time for you to retrieve the error of your ways. and snatch both them and yourselves from the yawning gulph.

Your humble Servant,
ALCIPPUS.