MANY kinds of foreigner tread the streets of Liverpool, and thus, when Uncle Kola and his tribe appeared on the banks of the Mersey from nowhere in particular the little boys put him down as a new species of “Dago,” and did not embarrass him with unwelcome attention. Yet Kola is an extraordinary man, and even his costume is conspicuous. His trousers, superfluously baggy and decorated with wide stripes of bright green and red, are thrust into great top-boots elaborately stitched. The complicated braiding of his dark blue coat and waistcoat would be remarkable were it not eclipsed by the glory of his enormous buttons, splendid examples of the silversmith’s craft. Kola is tall and powerfully built, and he wears his finery with effect, supporting himself by a five-foot staff almost covered with silver, on which shine countless little images of Buddha. His keen eye, aquiline nose, strong mouth, and venerable beard tinged with grey make derision impossible; and he walked our thoroughfares with dignity, slowly, gravely scrutinizing the town as if it owed him money. And Kola intended that it should—before he left it. That was why he had come. He was already rich; his pockets contained bank-notes which he could have exchanged anywhere for several hundred golden sovereigns, and his relations believe that he is worth £30,000. On great occasions he can decorate his table, which stands only fourteen inches high, with lordly plate; a silver samovar weighing twenty-three pounds is matched by a huge salver and an immense bucket of the same precious metal decorated in high relief. The weight of solid gold which his wife carries in her hair, on her blouse, and round her neck and wrists is nothing less than royal. Kola is, in fact, a ruler; and, if the citizens of Liverpool took but little interest in him and his subjects, he reciprocated their contempt, regarding them simply as so many more or less stupid persons who were destined to provide for him and his tribe what they were then seeking—copper pots to mend.