This is a narrative of the years snatched from a man\u27s life, a young man, a writer. Ramon Larue was his name

Shellhouse, Barbara

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Price Of CourageBARBARA SHELLHOUSEThis is a narrative of the yearssnatched from a man's life, a young man, awriter. Ramon Larue was his name.It was the dismal period preceding theFrench Revolution. To you, to whom Iwrite, the name Ramon Larue means noth-ing; but to those of whom I write, it meanta handsome young man of twenty-five anda broken old man of thirty-five. A manwhose name was never spoken, for to thoseknown to have connections with him camemysterious death, or disappearance.Ramon was a brilliant young writer.His works were meeting with enthusiasmand success the wide world over. He wasan important figure in that chronicle ofFrance, and his rising career was beingwatched carefully by literary men of alllands.However, Ramon had one' weakness,one' fault. He admired the republicanform of government. He had the mistakenidea that the common people should havesome voice in the way they were governed,m the taxes they were assessed, in thewars they fought, in the legislation thatwas passed, and in the punishment givenfor breaking this legislation; that theplebeian should have a taste of wine andwhite cakes, fine carriages and palaces, andthe nobleman of black moldy bread andtainted water. That the nobleman shouldknow the feeling of blistering cobblestoneson bare feet, and the stench of rat-holedwellings. Moreover, in his writings helauded the efforts and the victory of thetiny colonies in the New World againstGreat Britain, and he urged the French-men to take up arms and to fight for theirrights.For this it was decided that he was tobe done away with. He was struck down,late one night, while returning from asecret meeting of the patriots; and his nextten years were spent entombed in thedreaded Bastille. A tiny cell, cold andslimy and dark, was his home. And spine-less, creeping, crawling creatures were hisbed-mates.The Bastille was a huge forbiddingvault of gray stones, connected by under-ground passages to the Royal Palace of theFrench kings. There were towers andunderground dungeons where the prisonerswere kept. Here were hundreds of life-less bodies, men without souls. Throughthe dozens of winding corridors, each linedwith forgotten men, echoed the cries ofanguish, and screamed the torturedthoughts of human beings both living anddead.Here Ramon existed through the years.Though not subjected to actual physicaltorture himself, his cell was directly acrossfrom the torture chamber, and he wasobliged to see and hear such sights as: thegallows where men were dropped throughtrap-doors so shallow that their necksweren't broken and they just dangledthere, strangling slowly; or the pulley bywhich men were lifted from the groundby their ankles and dropped down insharp jerks for hours; or when a bodywas branded with hot irons, he saw themheat the irons in a little stove within a fewfeet of where the victim lay strapped ona table; or where naked victims werehoisted by the heels to the ceiling thendropped two feet at a time. This lastedtwo or three hours, up and down, untiltheir heads swelled like balloons and bloodran out of the ears, mouths and noses.30-Ramon was a man of delicate and sensitivenature, and for this reason it did not takelong to subdue any sense of resistance hemight have had left.Eventually, the Bastille doors openedfor Ramon, a broken, tired old man at theage of thirty-five. He told his story inthe hope that som~one would record it anduse It to arouse France to rid herself ofthese injustices. Someone did publish thestory, causing the explosion that set offthe French Revolution. Ramon Larue,however, died before the people of Francesucceeded in destroying this stronghold oftyranny.Profile Of A NationDONALD H. EMRICKBehind every face lies a story. Behindthe profile of Abraham Lincoln dwelled thesoulstirring drama of a fledging nation-itstribulations, its triumphs. Every strokeof the artist in painting the Presidentdepicted character, hope, life.Surrounded by intrigue, plot, andbloodshed, a simple intrepid nation waspersonified in the high stalwart foreheadof the Emancipator. Sterling character inbold relief engendered in the heartwarm-ing phrase, "Honest Abe." A heavy browcarried the hopes, the sorrows, shared thegains and the losses of an ill people, andfostered the cherished principle of freedomfor all.The Almighty Sculptor in his owngood way had chanced to bestow a nose ofgenerous proportions upon the lanky cir-suit rider - a nose hinting of homey back-ground, envisioning the crude midwesterncourtroom, the mellow atmosphere of corn-cob pipe philosophy. It even suggestedhumility and simplicity evident in thecrude candle-lit cabin of younger days.Hard lean years had tempered, under-standing had mellowed a mouth of fulldimensions, overly large yet sensitive inform. Pain ... Pain of a nation locked inmortal combat, shaded the smile. Justiceand truth spoke forth boldly in every lineof the generous lips: "With malice towardnone, with charity for all ... "Weary yet alert, a living prophecy ofa government "of the people, by the peopleand for the people," Lincoln's profile wasa profile of the rising Nation, that "shallnot perish from this earth."t-31-

Price Of Courage

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Price Of Courage

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