SABBATH NIGHT, DEC. 19, 1915.
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.