scamp, and so could not go across the ocean to join her husband. H. P. B. walked back to the ticket office, got her first-class ticket changed for steerage tickets for herself and that unfortunate woman and children, and passed the voyage in the steerage part of an Atlantic liner—a very practical proof of the brotherhood which she proclaimed. So that, after all, I am not really going very far apart in taking up this particular subject of human misery and human suffering, showing you, what I dare say you know well enough, some of the cases which should stimulate to action. And if you say to me: It is an old story that you are telling us; then my answer to you will be that until the evils are remedied it is necessary to repeat the story over and over again. Now let us look over this great civilisation, and see what I have called “The Deadlock in Social Conditions.” First let us remember, as a kind of preliminary atmosphere, that the great civilisations of the past have perished from this startling contrast of luxury and misery, and that what has happened over and over again in the past might quite well repeat itself amongst us to-day. For we are no stronger in our civilisation than were the civilisations of Rome, of Assyria, of Egypt; and we find in the Egyptian civilisation just the same sort of questions arising then as arise now, as though the world really had not progressed in this respect. In some of the unburied tablets and sculptures we find an edict about the wages of the workpeople, and how they were to be told not to be discontented, and not to refuse to work because they were dissatisfied with the amount of wage that they obtained; and in another case we find directions being sent in order to meet the difficulties that had been caused by what we in our own time should call a strike of working people. The difficulties are very old, and the world has not yet solved them. It is in the hope that the coming civilisation will solve them that I am drawing your attention again to them to-night. Now even here we have what we call our submerged classes, and those form one-tenth part of the population—a terrible proportion if you come to think of it. Sometimes, when there has been a mutiny in an army, a regiment is drawn up rank after rank, and every tenth man is marked out to be shot while the others go free. That is the condition of our civilisation now—every tenth person is marked out to misery. In India the proportion is even larger. The submerged classes there amount to one-sixth of the population, but, on the other hand, they are not nearly as miserable as are the corresponding classes here: they are more despised, but they are far happier, partly because the belief in which they have grown up, under the thousands of years that lie behind them in that civilisation, has ever been that a man’s condition in the present is due to causes that he himself has set going in the past. So that those people, instead of