“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?”

“No, no,” said Amroth, “that is a game too!  The imagination I speak of is the power of entering into other people’s minds and hearts, of putting yourself in their place—­of loving them, in fact.  The more you know of people, the better chance there is of loving them; and you can only find your way into their minds by imaginative sympathy.  I will tell you a story which will show you what I mean.  There was once a famous writer on earth, of whose wisdom people spoke with bated breath.  Men went to see him with fear and reverence, and came away, saying, ’How wonderful!’ And this man, in his age, was waited upon by a little maid, an ugly, tired, tiny creature.  People used to say that they wondered he had not a better servant.  But she knew all that he liked and wanted, where his books and papers were, what was good for him to do.  She did not understand a word of what he said, but