Among the Celts of ancient Brittany there was a belief which still survives in the traditions of the Breton peasants and in the name of part of the Breton coast.  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.  The dead are witnesses of the compact between you and us.  For that cause to which they brought their ungrudged sacrifice has now laid its resistless claim on you.  Together, the free peoples of Europe and America have now to carry it to victory —­victory, just, necessary, and final.

MARY A. WARD.