Hunting the Lions

Hunting the Lions, by R.M.
Ballantyne

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Title: Hunting the Lions
Author: R.M. Ballantyne
Release Date: June 7, 2007 [EBook #21739]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUNTING
THE LIONS ***

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

HUNTING THE LIONS, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.
CHAPTER ONE.
BEGINS TO UNFOLD THE TALE OF THE LIONS BY

DESCRIBING THE LION OF THE TALE.
We trust, good reader, that it will not cause you a feeling of
disappointment to be told that the name of our hero is Brown--Tom
Brown. It is important at the beginning of any matter that those
concerned should clearly understand their position, therefore we have
thought fit, even at the risk of throwing a wet blanket over you, to
commence this tale on one of the most romantic of subjects by
stating--and now repeating that our hero was a member of the large and
(supposed to be) unromantic family of "the Browns."
A word in passing about the romance of the family. Just because the
Brown family is large, it has some to be deemed unromantic. Every one
knows that two of the six green-grocers in the next street are Browns.
The fat sedate butcher round the corner is David Brown, and the
milkman is James Brown. The latter is a square-faced practical man,
who is looked up to as a species of oracle by all his friends. Half a
dozen drapers within a mile of you are named Brown, and all of them
are shrewd men of business, who have feathered their nests well, and
stick to business like burrs. You will certainly find that several of the
hardest-working clergymen, and one or more of the city missionaries,
are named Brown; and as to Doctor Browns, there is no end of them!
But why go further? The fact is patent to every unprejudiced person.
Now, instead of admitting that the commonness of the name of Brown
proves its owners to be unromantic, we hold that this is a distinct
evidence of the deep-seated romance of the family. In the first place, it
is probable that their multitudinosity is the result of romance, which, as
every one knows, has a tendency to cause men and women to fall in
love, and marry early in life. Brown is almost always a good husband
and a kind father. Indeed he is a good, steady-going man in all the
relations of life, and his name, in our mind at least, is generally
associated with troops of happy children who call him "daddy," and
regard him in the light of an elephantine playmate. And they do so with
good reason, for Brown is manly and thorough-going in whatever he
undertakes, whether it be the transaction of business or romping with
his children.

But, besides this, the multitudinosity of the Browns cuts in two
directions. If there are so many of them green-grocers, butchers, and
milkmen--who without sufficient reason are thought to be
unromantic--it will be found that they are equally numerous in other
walks of life; and wherever they walk they do so coolly, deliberately,
good-humouredly, and very practically. Look at the learned professions,
for instance. What a host of Browns are there. The engineers and
contractors too, how they swarm in their lists. If you want to erect a
suspension bridge over the British Channel, the only man who is likely
to undertake the job for you is Adam Brown, C.E., and Abel Brown
will gladly provide the materials. As to the army, here their name is
legion; they compose an army of themselves; and they are all
enthusiasts--but quiet, steady-going, not noisy or boastful enthusiasts.
In fact, the romance of Brown consists very much in his willingness to
fling himself, heart and soul, into whatever his hand finds to do. The
man who led the storming party, and achieved immortal glory by
getting himself riddled to death with bullets, was Lieutenant
Brown--better known as Ned Brown by his brother officers, who could
not mention his name without choking for weeks after his sad but
so-called "glorious" fall. The other man who accomplished the darling
wish of his heart--to win the Victoria Cross--by attaching a bag of
gunpowder to the gate of the fortress and blowing it and himself to
atoms to small that no shred of him big enough to hang the Victoria
Cross upon was ever found, was Corporal Brown, and there was
scarcely a dry eye