skilful Demetrius busily engaged in putting the last polish upon a small
silver statue of a flying Mercury. He looked up as I entered, and saluting
me in Greek, invited me to look at his works. I could not for a long time
take off my eyes from the figure upon which he was working, and expressed
my admiration.

'Ah, it is very well, I think, said he, 'but it is nothing compared with
the work of my brother at Rome. You know him doubtless?'

'Indeed I do not, I am obliged to say.'

'What!--a Roman, as I perceive, and a patrician also, and not know
Demetrius the goldsmith?--he who was the favorite of Valerian, and
Gallienus, and Claudius, and now of Aurelian? There is no hand like that
of Demetrius the elder. These, sir, are mere scratches, to his divine
touch. These are dolls, compared with the living and breathing gold as it
leaves his chisel. Sir, it is saying nothing beyond belief, when I say,
that many a statue like this, of his, is worth more than many a living
form that we see in and out of the shop. Forgive me, but I must say I
would rather possess one of his images of Venus or Apollo, than a live
Roman--though he be a patrician too.'

'You are complimentary,' I said: 'but I can believe you. When I return to
Rome, I shall seek out your brother, and make myself acquainted with his
genius. I have heretofore heard of him chiefly through a travelling Jew,
whom I fell in with on the way hither--Isaac, as he is called.'

'Ah ha!--Isaac of Rome. I know him well,' he replied. 'He is a good
man--that is, he is good for one of that tribe. I look for him every day.
A letter from Rome informs me that he is on his way. It is a pleasant