HIS EXCELLENCY THE PRESIDENT 12!

tinctly Stuart air about the civilisation of the
Liberian Coast.

She was the loveliest thing I saw in Liberia; I
couldn't keep my eyes off her. I wanted to talk to
her, somehow to express the pleasure the sight of
her gave in the empty sun-cracked place. Josephine
Baker's voice couldn't compete with her, whining out
at the end of the record before the soldier could
change it. It was as if suddenly one saw what Africa
might be if she were left'to herself to choose from
Europe only what would beautify her; she promised
more than the frozen rhetoric in the declaration of
independence. I never said a word to her (**Very
hot marching in this weather," the little shining
officer said politely, making small talk), I only saw
her once again from a distance when she stood on
the President's balcony in Monrovia watching the
Krus demonstrate their loyalty below, but she
remains the kind of vivid memory which draws one
back to a place, even after many years.

Then the President came in: a middle-aged man
called Barclay with curly greying hair in a thick dark
suit, a pinned and pinched old school tie and a cheap
striped shirt. Africa, lovely, vivid and composed,
slipped away, and one was left with the West Indies,
an affable manner, and rhetoric, lots of rhetoric. But
there was a lot of energy, too: he was a politician
in the Tammany Hall manner, but I never saw any
reason to change my opinion that he was something
new on the Coast. He might be out to play his own
game, but he was going to play it with unexampled
vigour and the Republic would at least pick up some
chips from his table. I asked him whether his.