Divine call to the ministry became increasingly evident, both to himself and to others.  His engagements of this kind multiplied.  An entry in the Church book records “that Brother Bunyan being taken off by the preaching of the gospel” from his duties as deacon, another member was appointed in his room.  His appointment to the ministry was not long delayed.  After “some solemn prayer with fasting,” he was “called forth and appointed a preacher of the word,” not, however, so much for the Bedford congregation as for the neighbouring villages.  He did not however, like some, neglect his business, or forget to “show piety at home.”  He still continued his craft as a tinker, and that with industry and success.  “God,” writes an early biographer, “had increased his stores so that he lived in great credit among his neighbours.”  He speedily became famous as a preacher.  People “came in by hundreds to hear the word, and that from all parts, though upon sundry and divers accounts,”—­“some,” as Southey writes, “to marvel, and some perhaps to mock.”  Curiosity to hear the once profane tinker preach was not one of the least prevalent motives.  But his word proved a word of power to many.  Those “who came to scoff remained to pray.”  “I had not preached long,” he says, “before some began to be touched and to be greatly afflicted in their minds.”  His success humbled and amazed him, as it must every true man who compares the work with the worker.  “At first,” he says, “I could not believe that God should speak by me to the heart of any man, still counting myself unworthy; and though I did put it from me that they should be awakened by me, still they would confess it and affirm it before the saints of God.  They would also bless God for me—­unworthy wretch that I am—­and count me God’s instrument that showed to them the way of salvation.”  He preached wherever he found opportunity, in woods, in barns, on village greens, or even in churches.  But he liked best to preach “in the darkest places of the country, where people were the furthest off from profession,” where he could give the fullest scope to “the awakening and converting power” he possessed.  His success as a preacher might have tempted him to vanity.  But the conviction that he was but an instrument in the hand of a higher power kept it down.  He saw that if he had gifts and wanted grace he was but as a “tinkling cymbal.”  “What, thought I, shall I be proud because I am a sounding brass?  Is it so much to be a fiddle?” This thought was, “as it were, a maul on the head of the pride and vainglory” which he found “easily blown up at the applause and commendation of every unadvised christian.”  His experiences, like those of every public speaker, especially the most eloquent, were very varied, even in the course of the same sermon.  Sometimes, he tells us, he would begin “with much clearness, evidence, and liberty of speech,” but, before he had done, he found himself “so straitened in his speech