What I want to know is this: In the year 5000, when everyone is free from repressions and suppressions, will there be any rebels to spur humanity on? But then if humanity is free from unconscious urges there will be no need for rebels, for there will be no crime or prison or wars or politicians. Every man will be a superman. I firmly believe that Freud's discovery will have a greater influence on the evolution of humanity than any discovery of the last ten centuries. Freud has begun the road that leads to superman, and, although Jung and Adler and others have begun to lead sideroads off the main track, the sideroads are all leading forward. Theirs is a great message of hope. And yet, nineteen hundred years ago Jesus Christ gave the world a New Psychology . . . and none of us have tried to apply it to our souls. VIII. Mac came across a vulgar word in a composition he was correcting to-night, and it seemed to alarm him. He could not understand why I laughed, and I explained to him that I liked vulgarity. I remember when a high-minded mother came into my class-room in Hampstead. The highest class was writing essays. On her asking what the subject was, I replied that each pupil had a different subject. She walked round and looked over their shoulders. I saw the lady's eyebrows go up as she read titles such as these:--"I Grow Forty Feet high in One Night"; "I Edit the Greenland _Morning Frost_" (the news this boy gave was delightful); "I Interview Noah for the _Daily Mail_" (photos on back page). She nodded approvingly when she read the titles of the more serious essays. Then I saw her adjust her spectacles in great haste; she was looking over Muriel's shoulder. "Mr. Neill," she gasped, "do you think this a suitable subject for a girl?" I glanced at the title; it was; "Autobiography of My Nose." "Er--what's wrong with it?" I said falteringly. "It lends itself too readily to vulgarity," she said. I picked up the book, and together we read the opening words. "When first I began to run . . . ." The high-minded lady left the room hurriedly. I loved that class. Often I wish that I had kept their essays. One day we had a five minute essay on the subject: Waiting for My Cue. Lawrence wrote of standing on the steps in a cold sweat of fear. He had only five words to say--"The carriage waits, my lord," but he had never acted before. His cue was: "Ho! Who comes here?" "At last," he wrote, "I heard the fateful words: 'Ho! Who comes here?' I could not move; I stood trembling on the stairs. "'Get on, you idiot!' whispered the stage manager savagely, but still I could not move. "'Ho! Who comes here?' repeated the fool on the stage. Still I could not move a step. "'Ho! Who comes here?' "Suddenly I became aware of a disturbance in the auditorium. The noise increased, and then I heard the agonising words: 'Fire! Fire!' Panic followed, and cries of terror rang out.