The author's name has been lost
The parish of St Hilary, which up until 1892 included Marazion in West Cornwall, is dedicated to St Hilary, a Saint of Poitiers in France; standing 190 feet above sea level between two seas, its lovely spire had been easily distinguishable over a wide expanse of country and from the sea, for ships in St Ives and Mount's Bays. It was among the oldest possessions of the Priory of St. Michael's Mount, for in the 1205 the Bishop of Exeter confirmed the church to the Abbey of the Mount, it has been saaid that its tower and spire were designed by a Frenchman, commissioned by the monks of the Mount.
Though we were Marazionites, from Marazion, brought up to be staunch Methodists, in fact our father had been a Local Preacher, Class Leader, Evangelist, and goodness knows what else, some of my sisters and I began to go to St Hilary Church about two miles away. It is now over forty years ago that we became "Disciples of the Reverend Bernard Walke,' "Father Walke" to his faithful little flock, and the Vicar of St Hilary. Oh dear, were we in trouble. Our father was so angry; it was bad enough that, owning some land, he was obliged to pay tithes on it to the vicar, who, much to his disgust, leaned somewhat towards Catholicism, which certainly did not please everybody. Father raged and stormed, saying he did not want his children bowing and scraping to wooden images, crossing themselves, falling flat on their faces and drowning, thenselves in holy water. In the end we were allowed to go, but with a bad grace. "What will the Methodists say?" poor father moaned.
So one summer evening we walked through the fields to St Hilary Church. We filed in, and after Evensong we stayed to the little service of Benediction; this was the beginning of our very happy associations with Father Walke, that were to last for many years. During that autumn just the three of us had confirmation classes in the vicarage study. A delightful cosy room with polished floor-boards, an open hearth on which burned enormous logs of ash, the room had that pleasing wood-smoke smell about it; stretched out luxuriously before it was Ignatius, a much petted cat, so-called after St Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the order of the Jesuits.
What a lovely autumn we had; once every week we walked along the main road leading to St Hilary along the avenue of trees, planted by a former vicar more than a hundred years before, to the vicarage. How little did we think then, that the smell of damp earth, trodden leaves, and the perpetual smell of wood-smoke, that seemed to pervade our avenue, especially at night in winter, in later years would speak so lovingly and revive such fragrant memories of St Hilary, which was to become famous and known by thousands of people through the medium of Broadcasting.
At the midnight-mass that Christmas we had our first Communion, dressed in our confirmation gowns. We left home at about 10-30 pm, to walk there and to arrive early. Everyone loved the midnight service, many walked some miles to attend. What uncommon and artistic decorations met our eyes as we entered the dimly-lit church, that first Christmas Eve, the air was redolent with the sweet breath of incense. Truly, the church was transformed; Father Walke had made avenues of bare branches of trees, which had been planted in tubs to keep them steady and secure. They were sparkling brilliantly, with a transient light, from gold and silver fir-cones, and incandescent with the light of many candles. Around the thatched crib in the Lady Chapel, made by Tom, a villager, had been put a mass of fir-trees, beautifully decorated, climbing high above its roof, inside of which sheltered the Holy Family. Some of the bare branches of ash about the church reached nearly to the roof; these, with gold and silver balls, and lighted candles, threw out into the dimly-lit recesses of the church a brilliance reflected niany times. At about 11 pm the bells began to ring. What harmony and melody. Their glorious sound penetrating across the fields and meadows calling the people to worship. When the church was full and the bells had ceased, accompanied by a retired Canon, the servers, acolytes, and thurifer, Father Walke proceeded up the aisle to to celebrate the Mass. Towards, the end of the service the bell-ringers made their way to the belfry to be ready by their bells. When they heard Father Walke at the altar say the words "Gloria in excelsis Deo", each man in turn rang his bell; then all together, quickly, more quickly, faster, faster, gathering speed, rising to a crescendo. Oh, how magnificent and impressive they sounded, rising above the organ, the congregation, and at times the howling of the wind. Then abruptly they ceased, complete silence. Father Walke, turning from the altar, says, "Dominus Vobiscum". The congregation began to file out of their pews, then with all kneeling around the crib sang a favourite carol, thus bringing the service to a close. Reluctantly we leave the church to walk the two miles to our home.
Coming soon after Christmas was the Patronal Festival in January. After "feastentide" jollities came Lent. I shall always remember our Palm Sunday procession. The entire choir and congregation would form up two by two and walk around the inside of the church, out through the south door, singing "All Glory, Laud, and Honour" etc. Somehow we managed to get out of tune, if the weather was gusty, the words floated up into the ionosphere; while those stragglers at the rear would still be singing the first verse, those at the head would be singing the second. We continued around the outside of the church, re-entering to finish the service. On Holy Saturday the Paschal candle was blessed, and the church beautifully decorated with baskets of spring flowers, and branches of delicate young green leaves. It looked very lovely with the daffodils, narcissi, and primroses, with the branches spreading over the shrines like canopies.
After Easter, there was the Feast of Pentecost, when our church would be decked with magnificent red rhododendrons, interspersed with garlands of gleaming, golden laburnum. The Feast of Corpus Christi was also a very happy occasion too at St Hilary.
Before we knew where we were autumn was approaching. On the first Sunday in October we always had our Harvest Festival. To quote Cornish idiom, everybody belonged to go to that, even if they could not understand all that was going on at the altar. There would be a shuffling of feet as they waited for Father Walke and the servers to go to the altar. One would catch loud whispers "Whatever games es that pausan and that bit of a boy up to now, Caan't make nothing out 't'll, an' cus't 'a hear that ole bell ringing!" The church would be full to overflowing; the people could not understand it all, when they saw this tall, aesthetic looking man in vestments standing at the altar, and one of the villagers swinging the incense. But word had gone around, "You must go up-long to St Hilary, my deere, you never saw such games and carryings on. The antics he belong to get up to; they do pass aal understanding, you go and taake a look, it be so good as a circus, but they do say that 'ees some hansome praicher, for aal he wears a hat like a tea cosy."
There was one old lady, who having come to Evensong, always walked out before the service of Benediction. We knew what to expect. As soon as Evensong was finished, there was a rustling of silk; Father Walke waited for a few moments while this lady rising from her knees removed her ponderous form from the pew, she then walked sedately out, as though to imply that she was not going to take part in any Popish activities. On one occasion she spoke to Father Walke saying; "I wish you would'nt use that old incense." Gtreat, was his sense of humour. Replying, he said "I'm sorry, but it is the best I could get, I paid 6/- a pound for it." Eventually, whatever they thought about the goings-on, they even got used to them, coming to love him. So that in the end, for at least twenty years, many who came to scoff, remained to pray.
After this and throughout Advent in the early 1920's for the first time, Father Walke began rehearsals for his later very well-known nativity play "Bethlehem". For a few years it was purely a village affair, then in 1927 it was broadcast by the BBC. What an anxious time it was for all concerned in its production and transmission, for one of the important lines, a wireless-link set up between the church and a local farm was hung precariously on trees and along the hedges, which at any moment could have come into collision with one of the farm animals. There was a terrific gale blowing that first night, and how strange the church looked to rustic eyes; wires stretched from end to end of it from which microphones were suspended at strategical points, and standing around a switchboard table, several men, line engineers and others from Savoy Hill. At last an engineer announced "Stand by, everyone, look out for the red light. They are going to make the announcement from London". Then a voice from the Chapel of the Sacred Heart said, "St Hilary calling". In the belfry there were six coatless, perspiring ringers, their bells all set for ringing. Then, the treble bell, followed by the other bells pealed out their jubilant message of the nativity. People of all sorts and from every walk of life came long distances to see our play, which over the years became part of the St Hilary tradition, being presented on the Feast of St Stephen in the presence of Lord Bishop of Truro, then on the reast of the Circumcision, and again on the Feast of the Epiphany. Father Walke impressed upon us that the play was an act of worship and not a performance. It was a case of whether you be chapel, church, or quaker, you must go up-long to see the play at St Hilary. I think Father Walke must have had the old miracle plays in mind when he wrote it, using the whole church for its stage. Each presentation was preceded by the service of Benediction. Members of the Cast taking the exultant parts were farmers' boys, postman, grave-digger, housewives and village children. So in the fading light of a winter's day, beginning in the Chapel of the Sacred Heart, the old, old story of the Holy Family was enacted. There was a charm in its simplicity which appealed and a tenderness which touched the heart of the listener.
And so our Christmas came to an end. Here in our church was a peace that passeth all understanding. A home for the Blessed Sacrament, which had been consecrated there so many centuries before. Over countless years, how many tears had been shed in its sanctuary, how many sighs and prayers had gone up from within those old and mellow walls. In such days so long ago we were happy in our little world; we did not a ask much of life, and did not expect it, it was the simple things that gave us most pleasure.
I heard a delightful story of a soldier who, with his chaplain in World War II entered our church; after quietly wandering around, turning to the chaplain, the soldier in a voice of infinite tenderness said "Padre, this church has been prayed in".
It was the broadcasting of the Nativity Play that attracted the unwelcome attention of the Kensitites and subsequent desecration of the church. Can any one lend us an account of the Kensitite troubles at St Hilary? Please contact JDH at hummerstone@bigfoot.com
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