whatever form it take, family, village or town. Their only dogma is the
unity and immeasurable sanctity of life. In practice they are Christian,
yet wholly free from the asceticism of modern Christianity. Their
attitude in art is as remote as possible from, it is indeed the very
antithesis to, the aesthetic exclusiveness of the close of last century.
Like St. Peter, the Unanimists have seen a sheet let down and heard a
voice from heaven saying: "Call thou nothing common nor unclean."

Above all, the Unanimist remembers and realizes afresh the old truth
that "no man liveth unto himself." According to the Expressionist's
creed, as we have seen, the end of art is to utter and communicate
emotion. The fullest and finest emotions are those one human being feels
towards another. Every sympathy is an enrichment of life, every
antipathy a negation. It follows then, that, for the Unanimist, Love is
the fulfilling of his Law.

It is a beautiful and life-giving faith, felt and with a perfect
sincerity expressed towards all nature by the Indian poet Tagore, and
towards humanity especially by M. Vildrac in his _Book of Love_ ("Livre
d'Amour"). He tells us in his "Commentary" how to-day the poet, sitting
at home with pen and paper before him, feels that he is pent in, stifled
by himself. He had been about to re-tell the old, old story of himself,
to set himself once more on the stage of his poem--the same old dusty
self tricked out, costumed anew. Suddenly he knows the figure to be
tawdry and shameful. He is hot all over when he looks at it; he must out
into the air, into the street, out of the stuffy museum where so long
he has stirred the dead egotist ashes, out into the bigger life, the
life of his fellows; he must live, with them, by them, in them.

"I am weary of deeds done inside myself,
I am weary of voyages inside myself,
And of heroism wrought by strokes of the pen,
And of a beauty made up of formulae.

"I am ashamed of lying to my work,
Of my work lying to my life,
And of being able to content myself,
By burning sweet spices,
With the mouldering smell that is master here."

Again, in "The Conquerors," the poet dreams of the Victorious One who
has no army, the Knight who rides afoot, the Crusader without breviary
or scrip, the Pilgrim of Love who, by the shining in his eyes, draws all
men to him, and they in turn draw other men until, at last:

"The time came in the land,