Every All Souls' Night, says a story at least
as old as the sixth century, the souls of the dead gather on the cliffs
of Brittany, above that bay which is still called the "Bai des
Trepasses," waiting for their departure across the ocean to a far region
of the west, where the gods sit for judgment, and the good find peace.
On that night, the fishermen hear at midnight mysterious knockings at
their doors. They go down to the water's edge, and behold, there are
boats unknown to them, with no visible passengers. But the fishermen
take the oars, and though they see nothing, they feel the presence of
the souls crowding into the boats, and they row, on and on, into the
west, past the farthest point of any land they know. Suddenly, they feel
the boats lightened of all that weight of spirits, and the souls are
gone--streaming out with solemn cries and longing into the wide
illimitable ocean of the west, in search of some invisible shore.
So now the call of those hundreds of thousands who have given their
young lives--so beloved, so rich in promise!--for their country and the
freedom of men, is in your ears and ours.
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