Rubble and Roseleaves, and Things of That Kind

by Frank Boreham

BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION

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.

Frank W. Boreham.

Armadale, Melbourne, Australia.

Easter, 1923.

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PART I

I—OLD ENVELOPES

Three envelopes, cruelly torn and sadly crumpled, look reproachfully up at me from the yawning abyss of my waste-paper basket. There is a heavy, pompous envelope, of foolscap size, who evidently feels that I have affronted his dignity by casting him to the void in this unceremonious way. There is a thin, blue envelope who seems to be barking out something about an account that ought to be paid. And there is a dainty little square envelope, delicately perfumed, and addressed in a lady's flowing hand. This pretty piece of stationery keeps asking, in a plaintive voice, if the age of chivalry is dead.