One more anecdote, and we trust our illustrations of the vicar’s character will be perfect. The reader will remember, that to Dr. Doseall, the renowned Esculapius of the village, he had given the title of _Polyphemus_: this might appear inconsistent with his acknowledged kindness, and we are therefore bound to state his justification. “Was it not,” he asked, “a notorious custom in Athens to give nicknames expressive of personal peculiarities? Do we not learn from Aristophanes, that the poet Theognis, from the deficient warmth of his compositions, went by the name of _Snow_? and moreover, did not the Athenians, as a body, from their passion for news, and their habit of swallowing open-mouthed the flying rumours of the day, receive the soubriquet of _Gapers_, just as the London inhabitants of the present day rejoice in that of _Cockneys_?” We have thought it right to relate these few anecdotes, in order to vindicate the propriety of the major’s choice, and to convince the reader that a better qualified master of the ceremonies could not possibly have been provided. Having, therefore, paid this homage to the judgment of the major, and to the antiquarian lore of the vicar, we shall return to the party, whom we had rather abruptly quitted, and continue our relation of the conversation which followed. “So, then, you have determined that the vicar shall superintend the banquet,” said Mrs. Seymour. “There is, however, one part of the ceremony which I shall certainly not feel disposed to resign into his hands, the ordering and disposition of the bridal cakes; the genius of Gunter shall be invoked to produce one of the most triumphant specimens of his art.” “Psha, nonsense! you surely would not countenance that ice-clad mountain, through whose dark regions the demon of indigestion holds undisputed sway.” “Why, zounds, vicar, do you expect me to submit to such vagaries?--a wedding without a cake!--it cannot be tolerated. I shall next hear of an English feast without roast-beef,” vociferated the major. “You shall, doubtless, have your cake; but let it be the true Roman bride-cake, made after the receipt which Cato has given in his work, _De Re Rustica_, chapter 121. You must be aware, Mr. Seymour, that the _mustacea_ of the Romans, the species of cake used at weddings, consisted of meal, aniseed, cummin, and several other aromatic ingredients.” “And do you seriously believe that any of us will swallow such a medicated farrago?” said the major. “The unenlightened may, perhaps, refuse it; and should the children prefer your modern combination, they might stand excused, since classical inspiration rarely descends upon a boy, until he has construed a Greek chorus,” observed the vicar. “Were I to swallow a grain of it,” said Mrs. Seymour, “I verily believe I should be ill for a week.”