“‘Nec tellus nostræ, nec patet unda fugæ, Restat iter cœli, cœlo tentabimus ire.’” (“The earth and the sea are shut up against us, and neither of them can favour our escape; the way to heaven is alone open, and this way we will strive to go.”) Incidentally, it adds to the interest of every such passage in Leighton’s writings to remember a noteworthy circumstance respecting his death. He had been used to say that if he were to choose a place to die in it should be an inn—for that would look so like a pilgrim’s going home, to whom this world was all as an inn. It was his opinion, also, as we read in the memoir of him by Aikman, that “the officious tenderness and care of friends was an entanglement to a dying man, and that the unconcerned attendance of those who could be procured in such a place would give less disturbance.” He had his wish. At the Bell Inn, Warwick Lane, Robert Leighton, in his seventy-fourth year, stranger and pilgrim, drew his last breath. “An inn receives me, where, unknown, I solitary sit me down; Many I hear, and some I see— I nought to them, they nought to me. Thus, in those regions of the dead, A pilgrim’s wandering life I lead; And still at every step declare I’ve no abiding city here. ... The world is like an inn; for there Men call and storm and drink and swear; While undisturbed the Christian waits, And reads and writes and meditates. Though in the dark ofttimes I stray, The Lord shall light me on my way; And to the city of the sun Conduct me, when my journey’s done. There by these eyes shall He be seen, Who sojourned for me at an inn; On Sion’s hill I those shall hail From whom I parted in the vale.” Of him who walks by faith and not by sight, who places eternity by the side of time, and so regards the one as a mere path or stepping-stone to the other, it is well said by Dr. Chalmers that he actually moves through life in the spirit of a traveller, feels his home to be heaven, and all his dearest hopes and interests to be laid up there; “walking therefore over the world with a more light and unencumbered step than other men, just because all its adversities to him are but the crosses of a rapid journey, and all its joys but the shifting scenery of the land through which he is travelling, and visions of passing loveliness.” As in the pilgrim’s song of a contemporary clerical poet: “My rest is in heaven; my rest is not here: Then why should I murmur when trials are near? Be hushed, my dark spirit! the worst that can come But shortens thy journey, and hastens thee home. ... A scrip on my back, and a staff in my hand, I march on in haste through an enemy’s land: The road may be rough, but it cannot be long; And I’ll smooth it with hope, and I’ll cheer it with song.”