Before I came to London, a man met me one Sunday in a dreadful state of rage. He vowed he would horsewhip me for bullying him from the pulpit. What had I said? I asked. “What have you said? You looked me in the face and said, “What more can God do for you? Shall he give you a good wife? You have had one: you have killed her by bad treatment: you have just got another, and you are likely to do the same by her.” “Well,” I said, “did you kill your first wife by your bad treatment?” “They say so; but I was married on Saturday,” said he. “Did you not know it?” “No, I did not, I assure you,” I replied. “I have no knowledge whatever of your family matters, and I am sure I wish you joy with your new wife.” He cooled down a great deal, but I believe that I had struck the nail on the head that time—that he had killed his wife with his unkindness, and he scarcely liked to bring his new wife to the place of worship to be told of it.
The cap fitted him. And if any cap fits you, I ask you to wear it. For so far from shrinking from being personal, I do assure you I try to be as personal as ever I can, for I long to see the word go home to every man’s conscience and convict him and make him tremble before God and confess his sin and forsake it.