Who, exclaims Owen Feltham, would have thought when Scanderbeg was laid in his tomb, that the Turks would afterwards break into it, and wear his bones for jewels? But _telle est la vie_—or rather, in such a connection, _la mort_. The Rev. John Eagles, avowing an inclination to join in Shakspeare’s anathema on the movers of bones, adverts incidentally to the alleged fact of Swift’s larynx having been stolen, and being now in possession of the purloiner in America,—of an itinerant phrenologist now hawking about Pope’s skull,—and of Mathews’s thigh-bone circulating from house to house. Coupling such corporeal vicissitudes _post mortem_ with the text with which we started, of Jezebel’s scattered remains on the face of the field, we call to mind Ben Jonson’s description (only too historically true) of the dispersed fragments of him that the other day had been virtually master of Rome, and so of the wide world. Contending hands have appropriated all that is left of him: some have ravished an arm, others a thigh; this spoiler has the hands, and that the feet; “these fingers, and these toes; that hath his liver, he his heart.... “The whole, and all of what was great Sejanus, And, next to Cæsar, did possess the world, Now torn and scatter’d, as he needs no grave; Each little dust covers a little part; So lies he nowhere, and yet often buried.” “_CONSIDER THE LILIES._” ST. MATTHEW vi. 28. Vulgar utilitarianism—for there is a vulgar and shallow phase of it, as well as a scientific and a misrepresented one—can surely find little to its fancy (but then it has no fancy) the invitation, or monition, even though uttered in the Sermon on the Mount, of “Consider the lilies.” Why consider them, it would fain object, seeing that they toil not, neither do they spin? But that is the very reason for considering them. They are clothed from above with surpassing beauty, without taking thought for themselves; so clothed, not for utilitarian ends, except in the large sense that the _dulce_ too is _utile_, that a thing of beauty is a joy for ever; and _that_ is undeniably to be of some “use” in the world. Herein lies the simple answer to the query in the laureate’s poem,— “Oh, to what uses shall we put the wildweed flower that simply blows? And is there any moral shut within the bosom of the rose? But any man that walks the mead, in bud, or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humours lead, a meaning suited to his mind.”