LIVERPOOL.
May 24th.--Day before yesterday I had a call at the Consulate from one of
the Potentates of the Earth,--a woolly-haired negro, rather thin and
spare, between forty and fifty years of age, plainly dressed; at the
first glimpse of whom, I could readily have mistaken him for some ship's
steward, seeking to enter a complaint of his captain. However, this was
President Roberts, of Liberia, introduced by a note from Mrs. O'Sullivan,
whom he has recently met in Madeira. I was rather favorably impressed
with him; for his deportment was very simple, and without any of the
flourish and embroidery which a negro might be likely to assume on
finding himself elevated from slavery to power. He is rather shy,
reserved, at least, and undemonstrative, yet not harshly so,--in fine,
with manners that offer no prominent points for notice or criticism;
although I felt, or thought I felt, that his color was continually before
his mind, and that he walks cautiously among men, as conscious that every
new introduction is a new experiment. He is not in the slightest degree
an interesting man (so far as I discovered in a very brief interview),
apart from his position and history; his face is not striking, nor so
agreeable as if it were jet black; but there may be miles and miles of
depth in him which I know nothing of.
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