a monopoly of literary ability, and that such of the Kyōtō aristocrats as might have disputed that title were not less profoundly imbued with Buddhist doctrine than the friars themselves. Thus the task of compiling new odes or recitative for dances devolved of necessity on the priests, who, to use the words of an eminent Japanese author, "saw in the blossoms of summer and the red leaves of autumn only types of heaven's beauties; heard in the sigh of the wind and the plash of the water only echoes of Shaka's voice; recognised in a mother's love for her child only a reflection of Kwannon's infinite mercy, and regarded the death of a warrior on the battlefield as only a link in the great chain of destiny." The inevitable tendency of such authors was strengthened by the circumstances amid which they lived, the endless fightings, bloodshed, and commotions. They thought that a grave and softening tone should be imparted even to the frivolities of life, and they did thoroughly for the Saru-gaku what they had already done tentatively for the Den-gaku,—transformed it into a religious performance, inculcating the instability of life and the vanity of all things human. The change in each case was radical,—from the spectacular acrobatics of the original Den-gaku to the religious recitative of the later Kamakura performance; and from the broad jests and suggestive antics of the "monkey mime" to the stately measure, solemn
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