A second article followed, in which Clerambault took a final leave of
the bloody old fetish falsely called Country; or rather in opposition
to the great flesh-eater, the she-wolf of Rome, on whose altar men are
now offered up, he set the august Mother of all living, the universal
Country:
_TO HER WHOM WE HAVE LOVED_
_There can be nothing more bitter than to be parted from her whom one
has loved. I lacerate my own heart when I tear Country from it;--dear,
beautiful, and good, as she seemed! There are some ardent lovers so
blinded that they can forget all the joy and love of former days, and
see only the change in the loved one, and the harm that she has done
them. If it were only possible for me to be like that! But I cannot;
it is impossible for me to forget. I must see thee always as I
loved thee, when I trusted, and saw in thee my guide and my best
friend.--Oh, my Country! why hast thou deserted and betrayed me? If I
were the only one to suffer, I could hide the sad disenchantment under
the memory of my former affection; but I behold thy victims, these
trusting devoted youths.--I see myself in them, as I was.--And how
greatly thou hast deceived us! Thine was as the voice of fraternal
love, thou calledst us, that we might all be united, all brothers,--no
more isolation.
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