Wilford is a delightfully picturesque and secluded village on the banks of the river Trent, about a mile from the town of Nottingham; and though so short a distance from a populous manufacturing district, it yet retains all those rural characteristics which poets, and topographers delighted to describe centuries ago. Sir Juckes Clifton, Baronet, of Clifton Hall, is the lord of the manor; his ancestors have been seated at Clifton, two miles’ distant from Wilford, ever since the reign of Henry the Third; but they held lands in this district long before that period. Sir Gervase Clifton was created a baronet in the ninth year of James the First. Wilford was anciently a Roman station, and some years since many Roman coins were discovered there, most of which were of the latter emperors. It was an eminent manor in the time of Edward the Confessor; and “did belong,” says Thoreton, “to the famous Godes the Countess” When the great survey under William the Conqueror was made, his natural son, William Peveril, governor of Nottingham Castle, had possessions there; and the village in those days had a “priest and a church.” The population is now about 600. The present rector (the Rev. Thomas Thorp) was instituted in 1819 ; and the annual value of the living, according to the report of the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, is £574. The church, which is dedicated to St. Wilfrid, presents, to the north-east, an interesting and handsome appearance; but the southern side is disfigured by an unsightly porch, and several pieces of patchwork, which the hand of “modern improvement” has introduced. It has a low tower and clerestory, a rather spacious nave and aisle, and a good chancel, which, as the village chronicle says, was “beautified by the Rev. Mr. Carter, rector of this parish who also founded and endowed a charity school, and upon a flat stone in the north aisle, no further record on it being discernible. The churchyard is sheltered by a range of noble elm trees; and the silvery Trent flows close past this hallowed enclosure with a rushing stream.
When we visited this sequestered and sacred retreat, there was a pensive softness in the hour favourable to meditation. It was a fine autumnal evening, and no sound broke the solemn stillness of this sanctuary of the dead, save the gurgling of the waters as they rushed over their pebbly bed, and the cawing of the rooks from the “tall ancestral trees” which shadow the rectory adjoining the churchyard. Many a memorial of the frailty of life and the vanity of human expectations does this rustic cemetery afford. Here are headstones and sepulchres which tell
Of beauty wither’d in her fairest bloom,
The lovely in their loveliness—the proud
In grandeur’s pomp—the strong man in his strength.
Here “the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep” by the sides of men who, having borne “the battle and the breeze” in their country’s cause, have repaired hither to close their earthly pilgrimage in peace. Here, also, is a most touching record of domestic sorrow, in a sepulchral inscription to the memory of two brothers of the name of Gill, sons of a former rector of Wilford; one of whom was killed at the assault of Gohud, in the East Indies, on February 21st, 1806, at the age of 21 years; and the other, aged 34, died on his passage home from the same clime in October of the same year. While the various gravestones exhibit many a “holy text,” not only to “teach the rustic moralist to die,” but also to live, as becomes a Christian, who looks for a better and an abiding country. If, as poets say, at such a place, and such an hour,
The dead, the distant, then are nearest,
And joy is soft, and sorrow sweet;”
if, as our immortal Milton sings,
Millions of spiritual creatnres walk the earth,
Both when we wake, and when we sleep, unseen;
No wonder that our thoughts should revert to one, who has long since exchanged the minstrelsy of this world for the seraphic harmonies of heaven; but the memory of whose genius is as much associated with this his favourite retreat, as the legend of the fair maid of Clifton with that lovely grove which forms the south-western boundary of the landscape as seen from Wilford church-yard. For here it was that the gifted Kirk White delighted to hold converse with his God; and here, when just recovered from a debilitating sickness—a warning prelude to his early death—he poured forth the following apostrophe:—
Here could I wish to sleep. This is the spot
Which I have long mark’d out to lay my bones in:
Tired out and wearied with the riotous world,
Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred.
It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,
From his meridian height, endeavours vainly
Comes wafting gently o’er the rippling Trent,
And plays about my wan cheek.
Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray
Frequent, as with a vagrant muse be wantoud.
Come, I will sit me down and meditate..Grant, heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close!
Yet, if this be denied, where’er my bones
May lie yet still
(For why should sober reason cast away
A thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spirit
Shall wing its way to these my native regions,
And hover o’er this spot.
As we were ruminating over the possibility that the spirit of the departed White might then be “hovering” over the solemn haunt, we were roused from our reflections by the appearance of a lady, who had some flowers in her band, and who looked (or we fancied so) as if she thought our presence an intrusion; we, therefore, retired to a remote corner of the churchyard, when she knelt beside one of the graves, and having remained there for a short time, walked pensively away. On resuming our ramble among the tombs, we observed that she had adorned with pale roses a neat grassy mound, beneath which, as the headstone informed us, sleeps all that is mortal of an infant cherub, whose spirit now rejoices in the “climes of bliss.” The incident was romantic and touching; and, though some may scoff and some may sneer at such tributes to the memory of the departed, we could not do otherwise than respect the feeling which dictated such remembrances. There was an allegory in the transaction of nature’s teaching, for, as “the leaves around us falling” seemed to speak of earthly sorrow and decay, the roses on the grave told of a glorious immortality; and we retired from the house of prayer, and the resting-place of the dead, again to take our share in the busy avocations of life, muttering to ourselves the beautiful lines of Mrs. Hemans:—
Bring towers, pale lowers, o er the bier to shed
A crown for the brow or the early dead:
For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nurst:
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love’s last gift-bring flowers, pale flowers.”Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are Nature’s offering-their place is there;
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice or promise they come and part:
They sleep in dust through the wintery hours:
They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers.”
The Illustrated London News, London, England, Week Ending October 29, 1842
