s were not
over-praised in the letter of introduction, for, on meeting him once or
twice and knowing him better, Cargrim found occasion to present him to
the bishop. Baltic's descriptions of his South Sea labours fascinated Dr
Pendle by their colour and wildness, and he suggested that the
missionary should deliver a discourse of the same quality to the public.
A hall was hired; the lecture was advertised as being under the
patronage of the bishop, and so many tickets were sold that the building
was crowded with the best Beorminster society, led by Mrs Pansey. The
missionary, after introducing himself as a plain and unlettered man,
launched out into a wonderfully vigorous and picturesque description of
those Islands of Paradise which bloom like gardens amid the blue waters
of the Pacific Ocean. He described the fecundity and luxuriance of
Nature, drew word-portraits of the mild, brown-skinned Polynesians, wept
over their enthralment by a debased system of idolatry, and painted the
blessings which would befall them when converted to the gentle religion
of Christ. Baltic had the gift of enchaining his hearers, and the
audience hung upon his speech with breathless attention. The natural
genius of the man poured forth in burning words and eloquent
apostrophes. The subject was picturesque, the language was inspiriting,
the man a born orator, and, when the audience dispersed, everyone, from
the bishop downward, agreed that Beorminster was entertaining an
untutored Demosthenes. Dr Pendle sighed as he thought of the many dull
sermons he had been compelled to endure, and wondered why the majority
of his educated clergy should fall so far behind the untaught,
unconsecrated, rough-mannered missionary.

From the time of that lecture, Ben Baltic, for all his lowly birth and
uncouth ways, became the lion of Beorminster. He was invited by Mrs
Pansey to afternoon tea; he was in request at garden-parties; he gave
lectures in surrounding parishes, and, on the whole, created an
undeniable sensation in the sober cathedral city. Baltic observed much
and said little; his eyes were alert, his tongue was discreet, and, even
when borne on the highest tide of popularity, he lost none of his
modesty and good-humour. He still continued to dwell at The Derby
Winner, where his influence was salutary, for the customers there drank
less and swore less when he was known to be present. Certainly, such
reformation did not please Mr Mosk over-much, and he