In George Macdonald's Phantastes: a Faery Romance for Men and Women it is told how a man found himself in the midst of a great circular hall built entirely of black marble. On every side and at regular intervals there were archways, all heavily curtained. Hearing a faint sound of music proceeding from one of these hidden doorways he went towards it and, drawing aside the hangings, found a large room crowded with statuary, but no sign of an living creature. Yet he was certain the music had proceeded from that particular archway. Greatly puzzled, he let the curtain fall and stepped back a few paces. At once the music continued. Stepping stealthily and quickly to the curtain, he again lifted it, and received a vivid impression of a crowd of dancing forms suddenly arrested: something told him beyond dispute that at the moment he had drawn the hangings aside what were now lovely but motionless statues had sprung each to its pedestal out of the mazes of an intricate dance. Sound and movement had been frozen, in a flash of time, into a crowd of beautiful forms—in stone. No statue but seemed to tremble into immobility as the intruder's gaze turned this way and that no marble face but seemed to be aglow with the music that had died with his entry; no white limb but seemed to be tremulous with the rhythm of the dance that had ceased so suddenly.

If the subtlety and imaginative truth of this story should lead you to read the whole book, I shall have had the privilege of introducing you to what is surely one of the finest and most delicately wrought fantasies in the English language, a fantasy so permeated with beauty and truth that you will neither wish nor need to look for the “moral”.

But whether you read Phantastes or not, I may be allowed to suggest that the incident I have attempted to describe conveys one of the secrets of healthy living.

It is a trite saying, that health is harmony. But I plead for a much wider and fuller interpretation of harmony than is customary. Mens sana in corpore sano—a sane mind in a healthy body—does not fill all the requirements of a healthy life. It is but an excellent theme, wanting orchestration.

It is good to aim at a harmonious working of one's internal arrangements if one has had the misfortune or the folly to break that harmony. The physical basis of life must be attended to if we would be well. Only, you cannot stop there without imperilling the whole scheme.

Again, it is good to train the body by means of exercise, play, singing and handicraft; all these things react both upwards and downwards, outwards and inwards. For example, one of the special virtues of tennis, if it be played at all keenly, is the necessity for making one's feet (those neglected members!) quick and responsive to the messages of eye and brain. In an increasingly sedentary age the rapidly growing popularity of tennis is, for this one reason alone, a good omen. But if you play tennis, or any other healthy outdoor sport, or learn how to sing, or how to breathe, or if you do MÜller's exercises daily, for the sole purpose of benefiting your liver or developing your muscles, or of “keeping fit,” you will miss the real prize.

It is good, also, to train the mind to be logical, critical and balanced: it is good to cultivate a retentive memory and to store up useful facts. But if while you are aiming at intellectual fitness and alertness you allow these good things to obscure other and better things, if, in short, you let means become ends, you will never be healthy, because you will miss half the joys of living.

There are many very skilful performers on musical instruments. They have set themselves, or their parents have set them, to gain certain prizes, distinctions or qualifications. No music is now too difficult for them to execute. But that is exactly what they do—they execute it: destroy its head and heart by sheer mechanical perfection. They have mastered the piano, or the organ, or the violin, or their own voice; but music eludes them.

You see why I began with that tale of the curtained doors, the mysterious music, and the quivering statuary. There is an elusive, haunting quality about life and all living things which, if we look for it and listen to it, imparts a glamour, a rhythm, a beauty to everything that is worth doing. The great danger is that in the pressure of work, the hurry of play, the pursuit of health, or the training of the mind we miss the very thing which can give meaning and value to all these things. The severely matter-of-fact people don't go near the curtained doors, and if they did, would discover only a lot of cold, lifeless statues. Whoever heard of statues dancing? Whoever heard of music without instruments? And yet this very sense of a lyrical movement imperfectly seen, and of a temporarily frozen music, is not only the very secret of all art: it is a slender guiding clue to the centre of everything....

And in the house of every man, and of every woman, are the curtained doorways.

Edgar J. Saxon.