Thank you very much for your letter to-day telling me of this
magnificent Illuminated Address that has come to you from the Works.
It is just exceedingly kind of them, and is a great deal more than I
deserve. You have described it most fully even to the measurements
of the frame both inside and outside, as well as all that is
inscribed upon it. It is a great work of art, and I think I can
guess the name of the man who did the drawing part of it. He is on
the Staff of the Drawing Office and draws very well indeed, and so
when I write to the Works about it I must write a special note to
him. It is just exceedingly kind of everyone there to think of the
idea, and I do greatly appreciate their kindness. It shows a great
feeling of friendliness that I am very proud of. The signatures will
be most interesting. I wonder whose idea it was to do it? ...
Christmas will soon be here. We go into trenches again on Tuesday,
so shall likely be there on that day.
We had Service to-day. Our own Chaplain is on leave, and the Service
was taken for us by a Church of England Chaplain, who took our Form
of Service very well indeed. It was good of him to do it. We sang
'Lord, bless and pity us,' and 'I'm not ashamed,' and 'Fight the good
Fight.'
There is not a little pathos about the letters of the last days of
all:--
(_To the Rev. James MacGibbon, C.F._)
I fear your thoughts of me must be hard ones, and there is ample
reason. I have been waiting, and still waiting, for a quiet hour in
which to answer your letter to me. It has not been by any means a
question of forgetting--for I could not forget that--but merely a
question of putting off the time of writing, till I could find a time
of comparative quiet to answer you as your letter demands to be
answered.
I thank you for it very warmly indeed--more warmly than I can say on
paper....
The Honour that has come to me was wholly unexpected, and I take it
as being meant for the Battalion, more than for me personally. The
mere accident of seniority among those who were left at the end of
the fight, does not in itself carry any claim to notice. My poor
part in that night's happenings was a very small one. I have not
made the great sacrifice, nor have I even suffered wounds in this
great cause. To those who have given all there was to give--even
life itself--belongs that Honour. Theirs is the Honour that no man
can give. It is alone in its greatness, and of man's approval it
needs no mark or sign. God marks their resting place, for He alone
can.
Our thoughts go out towards those at home whose patience and
self-sacrifice is past telling in its greatness. They have given of
their dearest and their best, and to that Legion of those whom we
Honour do they most assuredly belong.
God knows how little I deserve of this.
I have a book wrapped in my haversack that I never tire of reading,
though I have but seldom opened it here--to my loss. It is F. W. H.
Myers' _St. Paul_. No doubt you know it. It has given strength many
a time.
'Nay but Thou knowest us, Lord Christ, Thou knowest,
Well Thou rememberest our feeble frame,
Thou canst conceive our highest and our lowest,
Pulses of nobleness and aches of shame.
'Therefore have pity!--not that we accuse Thee,
Curse Thee and die, and charge Thee with our woe:
Not through Thy fault, O Holy One, we lose Thee,
Nay, but our own,--yet hast Thou made us so!
'Then, though our foul and limitless transgression
Grows with our growing, with our breath began,
Raise Thou the arms of endless intercession,
Jesus, divinest when Thou most art man!'
... I have always looked forward to the days when you would be able
to take our services for us, and missed them when they were
impossible. The passion of self-sacrifice, the passion of St. Paul
as of his Christ, makes strong appeal, and I always found that note
in your words to us, and I loved it. It has no limits; it counts no
cost.