Meanwhile Bunyan’s neighbours regarded with amazement the changed life of the profane young tinker.  “And truly,” he honestly confesses, “so they well might for this my conversion was as great as for Tom of Bedlam to become a sober man.”  Bunyan’s reformation was soon the town’s talk; he had “become godly,” “become a right honest man.”  These commendations flattered is vanity, and he laid himself out for them.  He was then but a “poor painted hypocrite,” he says, “proud of his godliness, and doing all he did either to be seen of, or well spoken of by man.”  This state of self-satisfaction, he tells us, lasted “for about a twelvemonth or more.”  During this deceitful calm he says, “I had great peace of conscience, and should think with myself, ‘God cannot choose but now be pleased with me,’ yea, to relate it in mine own way, I thought no man in England could please God better than I.”  But no outward reformation can bring lasting inward peace.  When a man is honest with himself, the more earnestly he struggles after complete obedience, the more faulty does his obedience appear.  The good opinion of others will not silence his own inward condemnation.  He needs a higher righteousness than his own; a firmer standing-ground than the shifting quicksand of his own good deeds.  “All this while,” he writes, “poor wretch as I was, I was ignorant of Jesus Christ, and going about to establish my own righteousness, and had perished therein had not God in mercy showed me more of my state by nature.”

This revolution was nearer than he imagined.  Bunyan’s self-satisfaction was rudely shaken, and his need of something deeper in the way of religion than he had yet experienced was shown him by the conversation of three or four poor women whom, one day, when pursuing his tinker’s calling at Bedford, he came upon “sitting at a door in the sun, and talking of the things of God.”  These women were members of the congregation of “the holy Mr. John Gifford,” who, at that time of ecclesiastical confusion, subsequently became rector of St. John’s Church, in Bedford, and master of the hospital attached to it.  Gifford’s career had been a strange one.  We hear of him first as a young major in the king’s army at the outset of the Civil War, notorious for his loose and debauched life, taken by Fairfax at Maidstone in 1648, and condemned to the gallows.  By his sister’s help he eluded his keepers’ vigilance, escaped from prison, and ultimately found his way to Bedford, where for a time he practised as a physician, though without any change of his loose habits.  The loss of a large sum of money at gaming awoke a disgust at his dissolute life.  A few sentences of a pious book deepened the impression.  He became a converted man, and joined himself to a handful of earnest Christians in Bedford, who becoming, in the language of the day, “a church,” he was appointed its first minister.  Gifford exercised a deep and vital though narrow influence, leaving behind