I never remember the time when Algy West was not
getting old and did not say he wanted to die; but, although he is
ninety, he is still young, good-looking and--what is even more
remarkable--a strong Liberal. He was never one of the Souls, but
he was a faithful and loving early friend of ours.
Mr. Godfrey Webb was the doyen of the Souls. He was as intimate
with my brothers and parents as he was with my sisters and self.
Godfrey--or Webber as some called him--was not only a man of
parts, but had a peculiar flavour of his own: he had the sense of
humour and observation of a memoirist and his wit healed more than
it cut. For hours together he would poke about the country with a
dog, a gun and a cigar, perfectly independent and self-sufficing,
whether engaged in sport, repartee, or literature. He wrote and
published for private circulation a small book of poems and made
the Souls famous by his proficiency at all our pencil-games. It
would be unwise to quote verses or epigrams that depend so much
upon the occasion and the environment. Only a George Meredith can
sustain a preface boasting of his heroine's wit throughout the
book, but I will risk one example of Godfrey Webb's quickness. He
took up a newspaper one morning in the dining-room at Glen and,
reading that a Mr. Pickering Phipps had broken his leg on rising
from his knees at prayer, he immediately wrote this couplet:
On bended knees, with fervent lips, Wrestled with Satan Pickering
Phipps, But when for aid he ceased to beg, The wily devil broke
his leg!
He spent every holiday with us and I do not think he ever missed
being with us on the anniversary of Laura's death, whether I was
at home or abroad.
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