This philosopher wanted his mummified body on display – then his head disappeared
What happens to your body when you die?
Well, if you’re a mildly eccentric 19th century philosopher and social reformer who cares deeply about his friends, you have it ‘stuffed’ so they can visit you after your soul has departed.
That might sound more than a tad grim, but is exactly what happened in the case of Jeremy Bentham.
Born in Spitalfields, London, on February 15, 1748, Bentham was a child prodigy, learning Latin as a toddler and attending Oxford University at 12.
His father wanted him to become a lawyer, following in his footsteps. The young Bentham quickly became disillusioned with the law however, and instead dedicated his life to campaigning for improvements to it.
Prison reform, free education, a minimum wage, sick pay and free education were all values he fought for.
And all are very worthy, but right now, that’s not what we’re here for.
Despite his radical and forward-thinking ways, Bentham is still perhaps better remembered in death than life – probably because he is still on display in the halls of UCL, of which he is described as the ‘spiritual founder’.
It was Bentham’s wish that, after he died, his body be dissected and preserved so – legend has it – his friends could wheel him out at dinner parties if they missed him.
The latter may not be true, but the rest certainly is, even if he isn’t quite ‘stuffed’ as often described.
Instead, what people see today is Bentham’s embalmed skeleton inside padding dressed in his own clothes, topped by a wax head, known as his Auto-Icon.
The wax head was a late addition – he had hoped for his actual head to be preserved, using the practices of the New Zealand Maori. He supposedly spent the final ten years of his life carrying around the glass eyes he hoped would be used in his pockets.
Unfortunately for Bentham, the friend charged with the gruesome task, Dr Southwood Smith, wasn’t particularly experienced at the technique, and the result wasn’t quite up to standard.
A wax replacement was called upon, which remains today, but for a time his own, badly preserved, head lay at his feet inside the wooden and glass box built to house him.
Until 1989 that is, when students from rival university King’s kidnapped it, demanding a ransom for its return. The story goes that they also played football with it as they headed down Kingsway, ‘resulting in severe damage and a formal complaint from UCL’.
The headnapping is real, the football we can’t be sure. Still, it is unsurprising that such an iconic Auto-Icon should spawn numerous stories in the almost two centuries since Bentham’s death in 1832.
One of the most popular is the idea the Auto-Icon is wheeled into meetings of the College Council, and even votes when members are equally split.
Disappointingly, UCL says this is not true.
What is real, however, are the 26 ‘mourning rings’ Bentham also had made for his nearest and dearest to remember him by – just in case they couldn’t visit his Auto-Icon.
The gold rings feature Bentham’s silhouette and, you might not be surprised to hear, a lock of his hair.
Very on brand for the eccentric Jeremy Bentham.