MR. RUSKIN ON THE DUTIES OF WOMEN.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume 16, Issue 855, 31 October 1870, Page 3

MR. RUSKIN ON THE DUTIES OF WOMEN.

Mr. Buskin, at the end of a recent lecture on war, addressed to the Royal Military College, Woolwieh, made the following remarks to the ladies present: —"You may wonder, perhaps, that I have spoken this night in praise of war. Yet, truly it might be, I for one would fain join the cadence of hammer strokes that should beat swords into ploughshares, and that this cannot be is not the fault of us men. It is your fault. Wholly yours. Only by your command, or by your permission, can any contest take place amongst us. And the real final reason for all the poverty, misery, and rage of battle throughout Europe, is simply you women, however good and religious, however self-sacrificing for those whom you love, are too selfish and thoughtless to take pains for any creature -out of your immediate circle. You fancy you are sorry for the pain of others. Now, I tell you this, that if the usual course of war, instead of unroofing peasants' houses and ravaging peasants' fields, merely broke china upon your own drawing-room tables, no war in a civilised country would last a week. I tell you more, that, at whatever moment you choose to put a period to war, you could do it with less trouble than you take any day to go out to dinner. You know, or at least you might know if you would think, that every battle you hear of has made many orphans and widows. We bave none of us heart enough truly to mourn with those; but at least we may put on the outer symbols of mourning with them. Let but every Christian lady who has conscience towards God vow that she will mourn, at least inwardly, for His killed creatures, Your prayer is useless, and your church going mere mockery of God., if you have not plain obedience in you to your conscience. Let evsry lady in the happy classes of civilised Europe, simply vow, while any cruel war proceeds, she will wear black mute's black—with no jewel, no ornament, no excuse for an invasion into pettiness; I tell you again, no war would teat a week.