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Updated: July 25, 2025
It was a Goodge who preached in the draper's warehouse, and it was the edifying discourse of a Goodge which developed the piety of Miss Rebecca Caulfield, afterwards Mrs. Haygarth. "That Goodge was my great-uncle," said the courteous Jonah, "and there was no one in Ullerton better acquainted with Rebecca Caulfield. I've heard my grandmother talk of her many a time.
"I am employed in the prosecution of a business which has a remote relation to the Haygarth family history," I said; "and if you can afford me any information on that subject I should be extremely obliged." I emphasised the adjective "remote," and felt myself, in my humble way, a Talleyrand. "What kind of information, do you require?" asked Mr. Goodge thoughtfully.
Hastily he ran his eye over the columns, and found at length a short paragraph which stated that the body of a man who had evidently committed suicide by taking poison had been found on Putney Heath; that papers in his pockets identified him as one Harold Biffen, lately resident in Goodge Street, Tottenham Court Road; and that an inquest would be held, &c.
The greater number of the epistles cover three sides of a sheet of letter-paper; and Mrs. Rebecca's caligraphy was small and neat." "Good!" I exclaimed. "I suppose it is no use my asking you to let me see one of these letters before striking a bargain eh, Mr. Goodge?" "Well, I think not," answered the oily old hypocrite. "I have taken counsel, and I will abide by the light that has been shown me.
I take counsel in the silence of the night, and wait the whispers of wisdom in the waking hours of darkness. You must allow me time to ponder this business in my heart and to be still." I told Mr. Goodge that I would willingly await his own time for affording me any information in his power to give.
He took a little oblong memorandum-book from his pocket, and looked at his memoranda of the past week. Among those careless jottings he found one memorandum scrawled in pencil, amongst notes and addresses in ink, "Haygarth intestate. G.S. to see after." "That's it," he exclaimed; "Haygarth intestate; Valentine Hawkehurst not at Dorking, but working for my brother; Goodge letters to be paid for.
The churches and chapels were emptying themselves, but the great mass of the population had been "nowhere." I had dinner with M'Kay, and as the day wore on the fog thickened. London on a dark Sunday afternoon, more especially about Goodge Street, is depressing. The inhabitants drag themselves hither and thither in languor and uncertainty. Small mobs loiter at the doors of the gin palaces.
The subject of this Memoir, and Author of the work which follows it, was born in Goodge Street, Tottenham Court Road, London, on the 5th of February, 1832. He was my elder brother by about eighteen months.
The hotel at which I have taken up my quarters is but a few paces from the commoner establishment where Hawkehurst is stopping. He is to call on Goodge for the letters to-day; so his excursion will be of brief duration. I find that the name of Haygarth is not unknown in this town, as there are a family of Judsons, some of whom call themselves Haygarth Judson.
'If thou be wise, thou shalt be wise for thyself; such are the words of inspiration. No, I think not." "And what do you ask for the forty odd letters?" "Twenty pounds." "A stiff sum, Mr. Goodge, for forty sheets of old letter-paper." "But if they were not likely to be valuable, you would scarcely happen to want them," answered the minister. "I have taken counsel, young man."
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