In his sermons, which were well finished compositions of their kind, there was this peculiarity--that they were highly acceptable and edifying to all descriptions of serious sensible people, among the poor and the rich, the learned and the unlearned--poor people that had good sense as well as piety, and learned people that had piety as well as good sense: all, in a word, who had good sense to understand him, and piety to relish what he said, used to love to hear Mr. Robins. The last time he ever preached within these walls (on which occasion he attempted to exert himself more than usual, owing to the largeness of the place compared with his own), he appears to have got his bane. He strained the organs of speech so as to bring on the disease that laid him aside. He preached on that passage, "The path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day." I have often thought since, as redounding to the credit of this congregation, of the universal satisfaction which that sermon gave to all descriptions of well-disposed hearers--the plainest and most illiterate Christian, as well as those best informed. The case was this: though he was one of the finest of composers, yet he spake from the heart; and what he said went to the heart. Since he was laid aside, though his usefulness was greatly curtailed, yet he was far from being useless. Modesty prevented his ever publishing any of his own compositions; yet as a friend, as an adviser, as a companion, he has been eminently useful. A respectable minister at his funeral said, "he never, with one exception only, gained so much instruction from any man in private conversation as from Mr. Robins."