"The guary miracle, in English a miracle play, is a kind of Interlude compiled in Cornish out of some scripture history with that grossness which accompanied the Romans' _vetus comedia_. For representing it they raise an earthen amphitheatre in some open field, having the diameter of this inclosed plain some forty or fifty foot. The country people flock from all sides, many miles off, to hear and see it; for they have therein devils and devices to delight as well the eye as the ear; the players con not their parts without book, but are prompted by one called the Ordinary, who followeth at their back with the book in his hand and telleth them softly what they must pronounce aloud." Our Round, you observe, greatly exceeds the dimensions given by Carew. But there were several in the west: one for instance, traceable fifty years ago, at the northern end of the town of Redruth, which still keeps the name of Planguary; and another magnificent one, of stone, near the church-town of St. Just by the Land's End. Carew may have seen only the smaller specimens. As for the plays--well, they are by no means masterpieces of literature, yet they reveal here and there perceptions of beauty such as go with sincerity even though it be artless. Beautiful for instance is the idea, if primitive the writing, of a scene in one, _Origo Mundi_, where Adam, bowed with years, sends his son Seth to the gate of Paradise to beg his release from the weariness of living (I quote from Norris's translation):-- "O dear God, I am weary, Gladly would I see once The time to depart. Strong are the roots of the briars, That my arms are broken Tearing up many of them. "Seth my son I will send To the gate of Paradise forthwith, To the Cherub, the guardian. Ask him if there will be for me Oil of mercy at the last From the Father, the God of Grace." Seth answers that he does not know the road to Paradise. "Follow," says Adam-- "Follow the prints of my feet, burnt; No grass or flower in the world grows In that same road where I went-- I and thy Mother surely also-- Thou wilt see the tokens." Fine too is the story, in the _Passio Domini Nostri_, of the blind soldier Longius, who is led forward and given a lance, to pierce Christ's body on the Cross. He thrusts and the holy blood heals him of his blindness. Local colour is sparingly imported. One of the executioners, as he bores the Cross, says boastfully:-- "I will bore a hole for the one hand, There is not a fellow west of Hayle Who can bore better."