--is this thy desire?' But instead it seems
so entirely natural and simple!"

"Ah," he said, "that is how we bewilder ourselves on earth. Why, it is
hard to say! But all the real things remain. It is all just as
surprising and interesting and amusing and curious as it ever was: the
only things that are gone--for a time, that is--are the things that are
ugly and sad. But they are useful too in their way, though you have no
need to think of them now. Those are just the discipline, the training."

"But," I said, "what makes people so different from each other down
there--so many people who are sordid, grubby, quarrelsome, cruel,
selfish, spiteful? Only a few who are bold and kind--like you, for
instance?"

"No," he said, answering the thought that rose in my mind, "of course I
don't mind--I like compliments as well as ever, if they come naturally!
But don't you see that all the little poky, sensual, mean, disgusting
lives are simply those of spirits struggling to be free; we begin by
being enchained by matter at first, and then the stream runs clearer.
The divine things are imagination and sympathy. That is the secret."

IV

Once I said:

"Which kind of people do you find it hardest to help along?"

"The young people," said Amroth, with a smile.

"Youth!" I said. "Why, down below, we think of youth as being so
generous and ardent and imitative! We speak of youth as the time to
learn, and form fine habits; if a man is wilful and selfish in
after-life, we say that it was because he was too much indulged in
childhood--and we attach great importance to the impressions of youth."

"That is quite right," said Amroth, "because the impressions of youth
are swift and keen; but of course, here, age is not a question of years
or failing powers. The old, here, are the wise and gracious and patient
and gentle; the youth of the spirit is stupidity and unimaginativeness.
On the one hand are the stolid and placid, and on the other are the
brutal and cruel and selfish and unrestrained."

"You confuse me greatly," I said; "surely you do not mean that spiritual
life and progress are a matter of intellectual energy?"

"No, not at all," said he; "the so-called intellectual people are often
the most stupid and youngest of all. The intellect counts for nothing:
that is only a kind of dexterity, a pretty game. The imagination is what
matters."

"Worse and worse!" I said. "Does salvation belong to poets and
novelists?"

"N