--And in the _Resurrectio_ Pilate rewards the gaoler for his trustiness with the Cornish manors of 'Fekenal, Carvenow and Merthyn,' and promises the soldiers by the Sepulchre 'the plain of Dansotha and Barrow Heath.' A simplicity scarcely less refreshing is exhibited in _The Life of St. Meriasec_ (a play recently recovered) by a scholar whom a pompous pedagogue is showing off. He says:-- "God help A, B, and C! The end of the song is D: No more is known to me," But promises to learn more after dinner. Enthusiasts beg us to make the experiment of 'reviving' these old plays in their old surroundings. But here I pause, while admitting the temptation. One would like to give life again, if only for a day, to the picture which Mr. Norris conjures up:-- "The bare granite plain of St. Just, in view of Cape Cornwall and of the transparent sea which beats against that magnificent headland. . . . The mighty gathering of people from many miles around hardly showing like a crowd in that extended region, where nothing ever grows to limit the view on any side, with their booths and tents, absolutely necessary where so many people had to remain three days on the spot, would give a character to the assembly probably more like what we hear of the so-called religious revivals in America than of anything witnessed in more sober Europe." But alas! I foresee the terrible unreality which would infect the whole business. Very pretty, no doubt, and suggestive would be the picture of the audience arrayed around the turf benches-- "In gradibus sedit populus de cespite factis--" But one does not want an audience to be acting; and this audience would be making-believe even more heroically than the actors--that is, if it took the trouble to be in earnest at all. For the success of the experiment would depend on our reconstructing the whole scene--the ring of entranced spectators as well as the primitive show; and the country-people would probably, and not entirely without reason, regard the business as 'a stupid old May game.' The only spectators properly impressed would be a handful of visitors and solemn antiquarians. I can see those visitors. If it has ever been your lot to witness the performance of a 'literary' play in London and cast an eye over the audience it attracts, you too will know them and their stigmata--their ineffable attire, their strange hirsuteness, their air of combining instruction with amusement, their soft felt hats indented along the crown. No! We may, perhaps, produce new religious dramas in these ancient Rounds: decidedly we cannot revive the old ones.