place, and provide it with all that we need, where we may have
our seasons of rest and refreshment. It must not be idle and selfish
joyance that we take there; it must be the interlude to toil and fight
and painful deeds, and we must be ready to sally out in a moment when
it is demanded of us. Now, if the winning of such a fortress of
thought is hard, it is also dangerous when won, because it tempts us
to immure ourselves in peace, and only observe from afar the plain of
life, which lies all about the Castle, gazing down through the high
windows; to shut out the wind and the rain, as well as the cries and
prayers of those who have been hurt and dismayed by wrongful usage. If
we do that, the day will come when we shall be besieged in our Castle,
and ride away vanquished and disgraced, to do what we have neglected
and forgotten.

But it is not only right, it is natural and wise, that we should have
a stronghold in our minds, where we should frequent courteous and
gentle and knightly company--the company of all who have loved beauty
wisely and purely, such as poets and artists. Because we make a very
great mistake if we allow the common course and use of the world to
engulph us wholly. We must not be too dainty for the work of the
world, but we may thankfully believe that it is only a mortal
discipline, and that our true life is elsewhere, hid with God. If we
grow to believe that life and its cares and business are all, we lose
the freshness of life, just as we lose the strength of life if we
reject its toil. But if we go at times to our _Joyous Gard_, we can
bring back into common life something of the grace and seemliness and
courtesy of the place. For the end of life is that we should do humble
and common things in a fine and courteous manner, and mix with simple
affairs, not condescendingly or disdainfully, but with all the
eagerness and modesty of the true knight.

This little book then is an account, as far as I can give it, of what
we may do to help ourselves in the matter, by feeding and nurturing
the finer and sweeter thought, which, like all delicate things, often
perishes from indifference and inattention. Those of us who are
sensitive and imaginative and faint-hearted often miss our chance of
better things by not forming plans and designs for our peace. We
lament that we are hurried and pressed and occupied, and we cry,

_"Yet, oh, the place could I but find!"_

But that is because we expect to be cond