The Life of John Bunyan [10]
this too was at last
renounced, and finally. The power of Bunyan's indomitable will was
bracing itself for severe trials yet to come.
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 him at his death, in 1655, the character
of a "wise, tolerant, and truly Christian man." The conversation
of the poor women who were destined to exercise so momentous an
influence on Bunyan's spiritual life, evidenced how thoroughly they
had drunk in their pastor's teaching. Bunyan himself was at this
time a "brisk talker in the matters of religion," such as he drew
from the life in his own Talkative. But the words of these poor
women were entirely beyond him. They opened a new and blessed land
to which he was a complete stranger. "They spoke of their own
wretchedness of heart, of their unbelief, of their miserable state
by nature, of the new birth, and the work of God in their souls,
and how the Lord refreshed them, and supported them against the
temptations of the Devil by
renounced, and finally. The power of Bunyan's indomitable will was
bracing itself for severe trials yet to come.
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 him at his death, in 1655, the character
of a "wise, tolerant, and truly Christian man." The conversation
of the poor women who were destined to exercise so momentous an
influence on Bunyan's spiritual life, evidenced how thoroughly they
had drunk in their pastor's teaching. Bunyan himself was at this
time a "brisk talker in the matters of religion," such as he drew
from the life in his own Talkative. But the words of these poor
women were entirely beyond him. They opened a new and blessed land
to which he was a complete stranger. "They spoke of their own
wretchedness of heart, of their unbelief, of their miserable state
by nature, of the new birth, and the work of God in their souls,
and how the Lord refreshed them, and supported them against the
temptations of the Devil by