“People who dream often of swimming, of cleaving the waves with great enjoyment, have usually been persons who wetted their beds, and they now repeat in the dream a _pleasure_ which they have long since learned to forego.” This also seems superfluous. He accuses people who form collections of neckties of using this bit of haberdashery as a sex-symbol. Nothing in Freud is harmless, though he professes that his constant digging for muck sometimes wearies him. Thus one day after a lecture upon the usual subject he felt a longing to get away “from rummaging in human filth,” and was reassured only when a student followed him to a café and told him that he was a great man. Filth and greatness are again associated in his dream of being Gulliver and cleansing a foul closet by the means used by that famous traveler in putting out a never-to-be-forgotten fire in the queen’s palace at Lilliput. In the same dream he became Hercules cleansing the Augean stables. Naturally he reads Rabelais; but he has also read C. F. Meyer’s “_Die Leiden eines Knaben_.” And when Louise N., a visitor to his home, asked for a book, he recommended Rider Haggard’s “She,” “which deals with the eternal feminine,” and the Haggard-Lang romance, “The Heart of the World,” which he attributes to Haggard alone. This may indeed be the eternal feminine, but it has at least undergone a charming sea-change--“she-change,” Freud undoubtedly would say. Strain a desert and the lions remain. Strain Freud, and if sex does not remain nothing does--except his wit. After all he is no _Deutzenmensch_, not of the sort who come in dozens, and is always rich enough, at least in humor, to be able to ask the price of Graz.[55] He adores the tale of the husband who said to the wife, “If one of us dies I shall move to Paris.” And the story of the dreamer, who, when asked “Are you asleep?” answered “No”; but at the words “Then lend me ten florins,” promptly responded, “Yes, I am asleep.” But some sexual implication of a sort lower than animal is liable to germinate, whatever the occasion, and rise, as he would say, “like a toadstool from its mycelium” to poison the air. In Vienna they employ an art called Gsnas, which consists in making “something valuable out of trifles.” Nothing valuable comes from the Freudian Gsnas, unless you count a bad conscience which uses vestigial inhibitions merely to heighten tumescence.