Lucy's Bones, Sacred Stones, & Einstein's Brain

by Harvey Rachlin

  Bentham achieved fame because of his application of utilitarian philosophy (the idea of promoting the greatest happiness of the greatest number) to questions of ethics, jurisprudence, politics, and prison reform. A wide-ranging thinker, he extended his imagination to uses of the dead and with great zealousness set forth his ideas in an unpublished treatise entitled “Auto-Icon; or, farther uses of the dead to the living.” This embraced the ideas that dead bodies could be used in certain ways for the edification and enjoyment of living people, and that for the benefit of future generations, corpses should be preserved in their own likeness.

  Bentham listed eleven categories of uses of the dead: “moral, political, honorific, dehonorific, money-saving, money-getting, commemorative, genealogical, architectural, theatrical, and phrenological.” He envisioned people becoming comfortable with the sight of Auto-Icons and consequently becoming better able to deal with their own mortality; the exchanges of ideas based on mock debates between celebrated Auto-Icons; a more beautiful world with Auto-Icons adorning properties, homes, and buildings.

  With a wax heard adorning his body (and his real head on the floor between his feet), Jeremy Bentham lives on today as an "Auto-Icon."

  To fulfill his vision Bentham suggested a multitude of ways in which Auto-Icons could be used: as collateral for loans; as stage props for dramatic purposes; for aesthetic purposes such as the wealthy maintaining in their mansions a room of Auto-Icons as they would statues; as subjects for instructive public lectures on the human anatomy. Bentham suggested churches exhibit Auto-Icons on religious holidays with sacred music playing in the background to arouse spiritual awakening. He proposed a temple in which corpses would be shifted for display in a Hall of Fame or a Hall of Infamy, depending on how their reputation fared. So thorough was Bentham in his plan that he expanded on everything down to the sartorial and gender aspects of displaying Auto-Icons and suggested a litany of display possibilities. Why use barber poles, he wondered, when “a pair of fashionably-dressed ladies” would do?

  Bentham wanted his own body used in anatomical demonstrations and hoped that it would not only communicate to scientists “curious, interesting and highly important knowledge” but also “show that the primitive horror at dissection originates in ignorance and is kept up by misconception and that the human body is as much more beautiful than any other piece of mechanism as it is more curious and wonderful.”

  Bentham’s postmortem directions were carried out but seemed to get off to a shaky start. On June 9, 1832, three days after his death, Bentham’s trusted friend Dr. Thomas Southwood Smith delivered an anatomical lecture at the Webb Street School of Anatomy and Medicine with Bentham’s corpse by his side. In the audience were friends and supporters of Bentham who received invitations for “an illustration of the structure and functions of the human frame.” But the 3:00 P.M. session was interrupted by a thunderstorm so violent that it disconcerted even the iron-nerved Smith.

  Soon afterward Smith undertook the making of Bentham’s effigy. He extracted Bentham’s fleshy parts and deftly hinged the bones together into a skeleton. Unfortunately, the preservation of Bentham’s head didn’t go as well. Smith extracted the fluids of the head “by placing it under an air pump over sulphuric acid,” as he later wrote. But “by this means the head was rendered as hard as the skulls of New Zealanders . . . all expression was of course gone.”

  Would the spirited Bentham be condemned to eternal life with a stony face? No, that certainly wouldn’t do him justice. Smith had a well-known French medical model maker, Jacques Talrich, make a wax head. Some people claimed that Talrich’s model, which even used some of Bentham’s own hair, bore an astonishing likeness to the original.

  Bentham was indeed on his way to becoming an Auto-Icon. Smith stuffed the skeleton with straw, hay, and wool, dressed the figure in the actual garments of the philosopher, seated it in a chair with Bentham’s cane in one hand, and deposited the whole icon in a mahogany-and-glass case.

  Many people paid calls upon Jeremy Bentham in his posthumous repose at Smith’s Finsbury Square offices, until the physician moved to new quarters some seventeen years later. Not having room for the Bentham assemblage in his new quarters, Smith donated it to the Anatomical Museum at University College London.

  It was expected that in his new home, in an institution frequented by the public, Jeremy Bentham would enjoy widespread attention and the greetings of his former colleagues and the curious. But that was not the case in the beginning. Dr. Smith expressed his disappointment that “no publicity is given to the fact that Bentham reposes there in some back room.”

  Over the years, the body—whose padding has been replaced at least twice—was moved from one location in the college to another, being consigned to a museum, a library, and a faculty office. Even Bentham’s real head suffered an indignity. It had been stored on a ledge above a door until students from a rival school, King’s College, stole it in the 1960s as a prank for Rag Day, when students organized events to raise money for charity, and demanded a twenty-five-pound ransom for its return. College officials got it back after they promised not to contact the police if the head was returned. The students did return the head, and today it is kept locked safely away.

  Some legends have grown about Bentham. For example, his ghost is supposed to haunt the building where he now resides. At night, it is said, one may hear Bentham tapping “Dapple,” his walking stick (named after the donkey of Cervantes’ Sancho Panza), along the corridors.

  Perhaps the most famous story attached to the effigy of Jeremy Bentham is that he would be wheeled into meetings of the college council, to sit alongside distinguished staff members. The secretary would record in the minutes, “Mr. Bentham present but not voting.” It is certainly a whimsical and amusing yarn but simply untrue.

  Still, Jeremy Bentham is very much “alive” today as an Auto-Icon, and from time to time he even attends special functions. In 1986 he helped kick off the International Bentham Society by honoring his fans with a corporeal appearance. And the Auto-Icon made its first international trip, when, from June through October 1992, it was displayed at a major exhibition on London at Essen, Germany. Today the college beadles where he resides even unlock the outer case doors of his glass booth to afford a better view.

  In 1831, the year before he died, Jeremy Bentham wrote “Farther uses of the dead to the living,” in which he made his case for preserving corpses as Auto-Icons for people’s benefit. When the unpublished pamphlet was eventually discovered, the question in people’s minds was: Is Bentham putting us on?

  With Bentham’s Auto-Icon continuing its bizarre heritage after more than 150 years, the same question may be asked today.

  LOCATION: University College London, London, England.

  THE ONE-CENT MAGENTA

  DATE: 1856.

  WHAT IT IS: Arguably the world’s most valuable stamp.

  WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE: It is octagonal, magenta, and bears the design of a ship and the Latin motto Damus Petimus Que Vicissim (To give and seek in return). This design is similar to the British Guiana colony seal. The stamp measures 2⅕ inches horizontally and 1⅗ inches vertically. It is signed with the assistant postmaster’s initials, “E. D. W.”

  It is only a small piece of paper, with its corners clipped off, but for its weight and size, it is perhaps the single most valuable object in the world.

  Indeed, most stamps appreciate in value over time, some dramatically. But why has this magenta stamp, issued for only a penny in a remote British colony, soared in price higher than any other?

  The story of the One-Cent Magenta begins in April 1856 in British Guiana (later called Guyana), in the northern part of South America, off the Atlantic. The colony’s post office exhausted its inventory of stamps from its normal supplier, the British concern Waterlow and Sons, and unable to wait for a new shipment to arrive, engaged a local company in Georgetown to run off a new supply.

  The company, being primarily a printer of newspaper
s, was not in the business of making stamps, and the resulting issues were not particularly attractive. The stamps bore ordinary black type on magenta, or dark purple, paper and a simple picture of a ship to imitate the colony’s seal. In separating the printed stamps the postmaster probably clipped the edges. The reason for this is unclear, except perhaps to form an octagon, but since the stamps could easily be counterfeited postal officials were ordered to initial them.

  The stamps from this series—both one-cent and four-cent stamps—were purchased and used over the years but apparently few people were saving them. Some four-cent stamps would survive, but although no one at the time realized it, the one-cent was on the verge of extinction.

  But then, in 1873, a twelve-year-old local schoolboy with an avid interest in stamp collecting came across either a wrapper or envelope with the “black on magenta” and soaked off the stamp, which had on it a canceled mark of Demerara (the name sometimes used for the colony) and bore the initials “E. D. W.,” after the assistant Demerara postmaster, E. D. Wight. The boy, L. Vernon Vaughan, could hardly have imagined that he was saving what would one day become the world’s most valuable stamp, and when he soon received on approval some handsome new stamps from England, he was delighted that a local dealer by the name of N. R. McKinnon was willing to take off his hands the uncommon but unattractive “black on magenta” for a handful of shillings (reported over the years as anywhere from fifty cents to $2.50) so he could purchase the new shipment he received.

  Eventually McKinnon came to realize that the One-Cent Magenta was indeed rare and a few years later sold it to a Scottish dealer, who in turn sold it to an English collector, who in turn sold it for over $800 to a Parisian collector. Although this was believed to be a record, its value would soar with the next owner. The value of stamps, like antiquities, depends upon their rarity and history of ownership. Because this last gentleman went on to build perhaps the greatest stamp collection in the world and was becoming a legend in philatelic circles for his all-consuming passion for stamps, the One-Cent Magenta would later bring in an astronomically higher price when it would be offered for sale—after its owner’s death. The collector was Philippe la Rénotière von Ferrari, the son of a wealthy family; his mother was an Austrian duchess. Philippe developed an interest in stamps at a young age, and with money not an obstacle, went around to stamp shops buying whatever he wanted. Later, with a full-blown passion for stamps, he went around purchasing whatever collections he desired. He acquired numerous fabulous collections, eventually building his into the world’s greatest and most valuable. Unlike collectors of later generations who would specialize in certain kinds of stamps, Ferrari collected stamps from all over and of all kinds, including numerous rare stamps.

  In 1873 a twelve-year-old boy found this bright magenta-colored stamp, saving from extinction an issue of stamps made in British Guiana. The boy sold it for less than $2.50, and just over a century later the stamp brought in nearly $1 million.

  Count Philippe von Ferrari died in 1917 at the age of sixty-nine and left his million-dollar-plus collection to a Berlin museum. However, after World War I, in claiming war reparations from Germany, France obtained the magnificent Ferrari stamp collection. France sold off the Ferrari collection in a series of fourteen auctions beginning in 1920 and ending five years later. The auctions drew international attention but the stamp that caused the most sensation was the One-Cent Magenta, considered the rarest in the world. Among the parties said to be interested in bidding on the stamp were three kings.

  In the end, the winning bidder was Arthur Hind, a wealthy American textile manufacturer and well-known stamp collector. Hind (through his representative) bid approximately $36,000 and brought the “black on magenta” home with him to Utica, New York.

  Some colorful anecdotes attend Hind’s possession of the stamp. For example, one day someone came to his office claiming to possess another One-Cent Magenta. He showed it to Hind, who asked him how much he wanted for it. They settled on a substantial amount, and the next day Hind took possession of the stamp. Upon receiving it he burned it with a match and declared, “Now there’s still only one!”

  After Hind died in the mid-1930s, the British Guiana one-cent stamp was exhibited at the 1939-40 New York World’s Fair and around the world. Hind’s widow, who had to go to court to take ownership of the stamp since there was a dispute, then sold it for more than $40,000 to an anonymous man from Florida (it was Frederick Small, an Australian engineer) who kept it until 1970. Throughout this time, Small never publicly displayed the stamp, although he sometimes showed a facsimile. The stamp was then purchased for $280,000 by a syndicate of Pennsylvania investors headed by Irwin Weinberg, a Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, stamp dealer who first saw the One-Cent Magenta exhibited in 1940 at the New York World’s Fair. Traveling with bodyguards and the stamp locked in a suitcase handcuffed to his wrist during the 1970s, Weinberg exhibited the magenta stamp in Tokyo, Prague, Hamburg, Paris, London, New York, and other cities. Tens of thousands of avid collectors queued up all over the world to see this icon of philately. When the stamp wasn’t on the display circuit, it was stored in a bank vault. Purchased as a hedge against inflations, the One-Cent Magenta reaped rewards for its owners ten years later when it brought the sum of $935,000. At the moment of delivery Weinberg printed his initials on its back, continuing a modern tradition associated with the stamp.

  The one-cent British Guiana stamp was purchased by a member of a prominent industrial family, the Du Ponts. Although the owner probably keeps the stamp in a bank vault, legend has it that from time to time he sleeps with it under his pillow. Wealthy stamp collectors from all around the world would love to acquire it.

  It has been claimed that the One-Cent Magenta is not authentic; some have said that the Four-Cent Magenta, which looks identical to it except for the denomination, was altered. To date, no evidence at all has surfaced to substantiate this claim, and the stamp was once studied by philatelic experts and pronounced to be authentic.

  Although market conditions make valuing an object speculative, the million-dollar Four-Cent Magenta is an extraordinary item considering its weight and that it is made only of paper. It weighs 120 milligrams, or less than two grains. Considering that there are 480 grains to a troy ounce, two grains is virtually weightless. Yet this “weightless” paper could probably command more money than any other substance of its weight and size. Rare stamps on envelopes have been sold for fantastic sums, but there is the added element here of the envelope. At an auction held in March 1991 in Europe, an exotic envelope with the mid-nineteenth-century British Penny Black was auctioned for $2.4 million. In November 1993, again in Europe, the “Mauritius cover,” an envelope bearing two stamps that was mailed in 1847, was sold at auction for $3.3 million. Some experts believe the One-Cent Magenta would fetch an even higher price on the open market.

  The One-Cent Magenta was created in a printer’s shop in northeast South America in mid-nineteenth-century British Guiana. Were it not for a schoolboy’s astuteness, this stamp would be extinct. It is the last of its kind, at once a sole survivor and superstar in the world of philately.

  LOCATION: In the vicinity of Newtown Square, Pennsylvania.

  JOHN BROWN’S BIBLE

  DATE: 1859

  WHAT IT IS: The Bible that abolitionist John Brown read ardently after his failed raid on the Harpers Ferry armory, while awaiting his execution in prison. In a way, Brown himself comes alive in the text—that is to say, the book evokes his personality—since the radical antislavery proponent marked off numerous hellfire-and-brimstone passages condemning violence and oppression.

  WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE: The Bible measures 6 inches by 4 inches and has a light brown leather cover. It was printed by the American Bible Society in 1854 and has 767 numbered pages.

  The verdict was in. For leading the insurrection at Harpers Ferry, for usurping property of the federal government, for murder, for treason to Virginia, the antislavery activist was guilty. The defen
dant having rejected an insanity plea, the trial moved swiftly, and the sentence was set. John Brown was to be hanged on the gallows.

  The trial ended on November 2, 1859, six days after it commenced. Brown and his men had been taken prisoner by soldiers after they seized the federal arsenal at Harpers Ferry, Virginia, on October 16. Even before this time, there were many people who wanted to put him on trial. For the past few years the abolitionist had been leading raids to free slaves and had been involved in the killings of proslavery people.

  In Kansas, which had not yet decided the slavery question for itself, he conducted guerrilla operations and was viewed as radical by proslavery people. Brown moved around a lot to carry out what he saw as a divinely ordained mission to abolish slavery. By taking over Harpers Ferry at a time when the country was moving toward civil war, he had hoped to rouse the black population to action and subsequent freedom. That did not happen, and the raid was an immediate failure—with injuries and fatal casualties on both sides. Now the trial was over, and with the sentence to be carried out in a month and lawmen fearing a lynching scene, Brown and his associates would remain under heavy guard in jail.

  John Brown whiled away the last days of his life behind bars, convinced that his actions were justified and that his purpose was noble. While the proslavery faction despised him and eagerly awaited his execution, his reputation in other quarters as a martyr grew during his trial and incarceration.