Rubble and Roseleaves, and Things of That Kind

In this volume, Boreham characterizes each chapter as neither sermons nor essays, but simply, as he calls them, "outbursts" or "wayward notions," and he presents them to us as if we were all gathered around a comfortable fire together.

By : Frank W. Boreham (1871 - 1959)

Frank Boreham was a well known preacher who served in England, Australia, and New Zealand. He published dozens of books and thousands of editorials during his lifetime, with no sign of slowing down, even up until his death at age 88. He wrote with a distinctive style, seeming to be able to draw a spiritual lesson out of any conceivable topic.

01 - By Way of Introduction



02 - Pt 1 Ch 1: Old Envelopes



03 - Pt 1 Ch 2: 'Whistling Jigs to Milestones'



04 - Pt 1 Ch 3: The Front-Door Bell



05 - Pt 1 Ch 4: The Green Chair



06 - Pt 1 Ch 5: Living Dogs and Dead Lions



07 - Pt 1 Ch 6: New Brooms



08 - Pt 1 Ch 7: A Good Wife and a Gallant Ship



09 - Pt 2 Ch 1: Odd Volumes



10 - Pt 2 Ch 2: O'er Crag and Torrent



11 - Pt 2 Ch 3: The Pretender



12 - Pt 2 Ch 4: Achmed's Investment



13 - Pt 2 Ch 5: Saturday



14 - Pt 2 Ch 6: The Chimes



15 - Pt 2 Ch 7: 'Be Shod with Sandals'



16 - Pt 3 Ch 1: We are Seven



17 - Pt 3 Ch 2: The Fish-Pens



18 - Pt 3 Ch 3: Edged Tools



19 - Pt 3 Ch 4: Old Photographs



20 - Pt 3 Ch 5: A Box of Blocks



21 - Pt 3 Ch 6: Piecrust



22 - Pt 3 Ch 7: All's Well That Ends Well


Every man has a genius for something or other. I have a genius for a comfortable armchair and a blazing fire. Add to these two ingredients what Bob Cratchit would call a circle of congenial companions (meaning, as his considerate creator points out, a semi-circle) and I am as destitute of envy as the Miller of the Dee. I stipulate, however, that my companions shall be so very much to my taste that, when in the mood, I can talk to my heart's content without seeming garrulous, and, when in the mood, can remain as silent as the Sphinx without appearing sullen.

This outrageous spasm of autobiography is necessitated as an explanation of Rubble and Roseleaves. The contents are neither essays nor sermons nor anything of the kind. The inexhaustible patience of my readers has lured me into the habit of talking on any mortal—or immortal—subject that takes my fancy. I have merely set down here a few wayward notions that have, in the course of my wanderings, occurred to me. But, in self-defense, let me add that these outbursts have been punctuated by whole infinitudes of silence. The silences are eloquently represented by the gaps between the chapters.

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