There would have been a greater charm in the man for Oliver than what belonged to the simplicity and gladness which took every circumstance of his lot bravely and thankfully, singing over his baking trough, singing back to the roar of the waves of the Northern sea. His heartily admiring biographer has recorded Dick’s honest practice as a tradesman:—‘His quarter loaf always contained four pounds full, while the two-pound loaves of many of the other bakers were short by about four ounces. Cheating had the advantage over honesty of six per cent. on every loaf—a profit in itself, few weighing their bread and deducting the deficiency.’ At last Oliver’s mind rambled off to a comical recollection of his grandfather, the first Oliver Constable, miller and baker, of whom his grandson had very authentic information, in addition to a faint personal recollection. This Oliver had been enterprising and ambitious as any founder of a race. He had gone from a country bakehouse to London, and served for a term there, in order to be taught what might be the metropolitan mysteries and perfections of the trade. He had certainly attained the power of concocting a certain pudding, which was long held in high estimation in Friarton. The old Oliver, his wife, children, and kindred a little farther removed, had piqued themselves on this acquirement, and in order to keep it a private inheritance, had shrouded it in a captivating secresy. Even in family conclave, when there was an annual friendly gathering and festival in the baker’s house each Christmas, and when the supper was crowned with this very London pudding, as a fitting compliment from the host to his guests, the rites of the piece of cookery were conducted not only with peculiar ceremony, but with closed doors. In the course of the evening, the hostess, having retired and seen that a collection of the necessary materials—eggs, butter, milk, flour, fruit, and spices, was complete, and without flaw, ranged in her own back kitchen, returned to the company, and asked her husband with brief significance, ‘Goodman, are you ready?’ The head of the house—a man of solid gravity both of body and mind—then withdrew with quiet importance from the circle of his friends for the space of half-an-hour. The prevailing standard of manners exacted that nobody should remark on the retirement of the entertainer for the good of the entertained, though it was fully comprehended that he had thrown off his company coat, donned his professional apron, and was then whisking eggs and beating butter in solitude, as the highest proof of his hospitality. The result figured at the banquet, and then all tongues were loosed in praise of the dish and its maker.