7 August: Boreham on August

Welcome to August
There are those who regard August as the most attractive month of the year. August lies between the seasons. It may contain the sharpest bite of Winter, but, on the other hand, it is sure to bring us the first soft breath of Spring. August is a crepuscular month; a month whose skies are lit by the twilight of a Summer that is dawning; a month of vague hints, secret premonitions, shadowy promises and whispered suggestions. In August the year is at the chrysalis stage; it is neither caterpillar nor butterfly, but something of both. In a striking dissertation on the strange happiness of life, Joseph Brierley accords a very high place to the joys of this particular season. "This is the month", he says, "of unlimited hope—hope with so little to show for it. Therein lies its charm. The flowers are not there, nor the sunshine, nor the waving harvests. But they are all in prospect. We are moving towards them. The worst is behind. Every day is longer than the last. Before us all the Spring, all the Summer, all the fullness of Autumn. In this month there are no disappointments. They may come later. The Spring may be retarded; the Summer may be wet; the harvest may turn out a failure. But there is nothing of that yet. No cloud dims the radiancy of the prospect. Everything at present is within us; and it is all good." In Mr. Brierley's essay, this is simply a passing reference, a casual illustration of life's side-tracks of felicity; but the theme is worthy of more ample treatment. Like Mohammed's coffin, suspended uncertainly betwixt earth and heaven, August hovers between the disappearing shades of Winter and the first joyous burst of Spring; and, on this account, it makes to most of our minds an appeal that is distinctively its own.

A Half-Way House
August is essentially a period of transition, and, as a general rule, periods of transition are periods of disturbance and dislocation. They are unsatisfying and unpleasant. The old order has not altogether passed away, and the new order has not yet established itself. As, when the sun is setting, the longest shadows are the last to go, so the most lamentable features of a vanishing regime often linger longest on the stage, and as, when the sun is rising, the longest shadows are the first to come, so the least engaging qualities of the new rule are frequently the first to assert themselves. But the month of August reminds us that, to this general rule, there are notable exceptions. There are periods of transition that are in themselves, more delightful than either the day that is departing or the day that is dawning. Thus, for example, convalescence is more enjoyable than health. In our robust days we take our health for granted; we never give it a thought. But after a long and dangerous sickness, the delicious consciousness of having turned the corner, and of being on the high road to recovery, is one of the most intoxicating experiences that ever come to us. Health is commonplace; who appreciates it? But convalescence is positively sensational, a continuous series of thrills. The languishing days of fever and pain are past; the issue no longer hangs in the balance; the patient can return to ordinary diet. Lounging on lawn or verandah, he can once more inhale the bright, fresh, tonic air, sweetened by the fragrance of grasses and roses. Once more he can indulge in conversation and laughter with his friends. Each day he can do things that the day before would have been impossible to him; and he exults in the luxurious wealth of his recuperated energies, and returning powers. To be sure, he is not yet strong; a child could overthrow him. But, on the other hand, he is no longer ill. His Summer of pulsing life and bounding vigour has yet to come; but the bleak and protracted Winter of his suffering is behind him; and every hour brings him nearer to the good time that he knows to be in store. It is for this reason that convalescence has made so poignant an appeal to the fancy of eminent painters. In the Art Gallery at Geelong there is a picture entitled "The Convalescent" by Louis Pomey; in the Melbourne Gallery there is a canvas with the same title by Francis Tattegrain; in the Royal Academy not long ago Sir John Lavery, A.R.A., exhibited a fine study bearing the self-same title; and it would be easy to cite many others. The patients portrayed in these handsome and striking pictures were discovering that there are periods of transition that are immensely more delectable than either the phase that they were leaving or the phase towards which they are advancing.

Yesterday, Today, and-
The problems as to whether we derive most pleasure from the realistic or from the anticipation of things is a very old one; but, however the one species of gratification may compare with the other, no one is likely to deny that from the expectation of our delights we draw a very considerable proportion of our satisfaction. And the bliss of forward-looking thoughts is the unique prerogative of August. One of our poets sings that:

. ......there is a day
When under all the earth the secret germs
Begin to
glow and stir before they bud.
The wealth and festal pomps of
mid-Summer
Lie in the heart of that inglorious day
Which no man names with
blessing,
though its worth,
Is best of all the world.

The pleasures that visit us among the contemplative reveries of August are typical of all the pleasures that we enjoy by mortgaging our future and drawing beforehand on our prospective supplies. People who prepare presentations for their children or their friends regard absolute secrecy as part of the etiquette of the occasion; yet, all the while, half the rapture of the recipient consists in conjuring up the possibilities of the coming celebration. George Elliot was among those who thought the European February—the counterpart of our Australian August—the most delightful time of all the year. And, when she came to analyse the emotion that led her to so singular a conclusion, she was compelled to recognise that the pleasure that she experienced was not inherent, but anticipatory. "These days", she says, "have a stronger charm of hope around them than any other days in the year. One likes to pause in the mild rays of the sun, to look over the gates at the patient plough-horses turning at the end of the furrows, and to think that the beautiful year is all before one. The birds seem to feel just the same; their notes are as clear as the clear air. There are no leaves on the trees and hedgerows, but how green all the grassy fields are. And the dark purplish brown of the ploughed earth and of the bare branches is beautiful too. What a glad world this looks like, as one drives or rides along the valleys and over the hills!" It does indeed; and yet it is rather the promise of a gladness that is coming than the vision of a gladness that is already here.

A Diet of Day-Dreams
August is the time of planning and scheming; and from planning and scheming we derive no small proportion of the pleasures of life. In August the farmer lays out his lands and apportions his crops; in August the gardener arranges his beds, and, in his mind's eye, sees them as they will be in the glory of high-Summertime. And, in August, all whose main business concerns itself with the pastimes and pursuits of the long, luxurious days ahead, begin to think out their projects and programmes for the coming season. The best-laid schemes of mice and men, as Robert Burns has warned us, gang aft agley; but, giving all due weight to such sombre reminders, there remains a vast amount of satisfaction in building castles in the air. Henry Kendall describes an Australian August as a time when:

Across the range, by every scarred black fell,
Strong Winter blows his horn
of wild farewell,
And in the glens, where yet there moves no wing,
A
slow, sweet voice is singing of the Spring.

It is the beauty of August that with no wing moving, we nevertheless hear distinctly the choir invisible. The beasts of the field and the birds of the air live in Today. Man always projects his fancy into a shining Tomorrow. The "slow, sweet voice" that is "singing of the Spring" will be in all our ears in August; and we can only hope that the most radiant visions that it suggests will crystalise into realities in the months that lie immediately beyond.

F W Boreham

Image: An August scene in Western Australia