Charles Philip Yorke, Fourth Earl of Hardwicke, Vice-Admiral R.N. Part 22

The marriage took place in Wimpole Church in February 1873.

It was about June in the same year that my father left Wimpole for the last time in an invalid carriage. The fatigue of the journey brought on a severe attack of heart failure, and as he reached his house in Portman Square, we feared it was his last. But not so. A few weeks later he reached his beloved Sydney Lodge, where his room was arranged on the ground floor and a young doctor always in attendance. His patience and fort.i.tude were heroic. Unable to lie down, he sat for weeks in an armchair, supported at night by his two attendants. Nothing could be more sad than to witness his lingering end. Sometimes he rallied sufficiently to be wheeled into the drawing-room and be refreshed by our singing hymns to him in parts. He was a firm believer in Christ, and constantly asked for St. Paul's Epistles to be read to him: 'Read me my St. Paul,' he would say. The conclusions of the great Apostle to the Gentiles as to the divinity of Christ supported him through all his troubles.

His last letter, dated September 7, 1873, was written to his friend Tom c.o.c.ks.

'I send my Banker's Book and beg you will return it made up with a balance. I am a dying man, and shall be glad when it pleases G.o.d to call me home.

'Yours truly, my dear c.o.c.ks,

'HARDWICKE.'

On September 17 he expired at Sydney Lodge, Hamble, conscious to the last, and was laid to rest in the family vault at Wimpole. These lines, 'to his beloved memory,' were written by his widow and engraved on a stone cross erected in the grounds of Sydney Lodge overlooking the Southampton Water:

'To thee, the fondly loved one I deplore, I dedicate this spot for evermore.

Here, 'neath the shade of spreading beech, we sought Some brief distraction to overburdened thought, Some balm for pain, immunity from care, To lift thy soul and for its flight prepare.

Here forest glade and wat'ry flood combine, To stamp on nature the impress divine; The sluggish murmur of retiring tide Whispers "Much longer thou can'st not abide"; The trembling light of sun's retreating ray Suggests th' effulgence of more perfect day, And soothing warblers of the feathered tribe Hymning their orisons at eventide, Point to the "Sun of righteousness which springs,"

Saviour of souls, "with healing in its wings."

Hallowed by sacred musings be this ground Where last we sat, and consolation found.

Brief be the s.p.a.ce which binds me here below, Thy spirit fled, all life has lost its glow.'