Had the superb quality of Ernest Jones's life been equalled by a comparable longevity he would have been with us today, entering on his one hundred and first year. We should certainly have been celebrating the occasion, though in a different way. No doubt, as now, we should be trying to express our appreciation of a long, immensely active and creative life; but whoever had the honour of speaking here in his praise would have had one inestimable advantage, for Jones might well have completed the autobiography which, alas, was left at his death in a fragmentary form. It is fascinating so far as it goes, but all the more frustrating by reason of its