Yet this serves somehow only to make matters worse, rather than offering any real mitigation. Granted, those involved might have been unaware of the instrument’s value, and they later apparently left behind a cheque in an attempt to cover the damages (in keeping with their usual practice when destroying valuable property). If this was an act of mischief, it is hard to feel much sympathy with it. Consider, for example, Oxford’s notorious Bullingdon Club, whose members allegedly once destroyed an irreplaceable Stradivarius as a kind of prank. Of course, not all acts of mischief are created equal. Why is it, then, that tales of mischief so often elicit in us such a positive response? Could it be that there is something virtuous about mischief, and something noble about mischievous people, considered as a type? Mischief is essentially a form of misbehaviour, and its practitioners are generally met with punishment and reproach rather than praise, at least when they are caught. But there is something curious about this. Apparently, this was eventually paid up, and the head was returned.Īpocryphal or not, such tales of mischief are amusing, and apt to elicit in us a certain kind of sympathy. Legend has it that Bentham’s real head was stolen by some students from King’s College London as a prank against their University College rivals, and a ransom demanded for returning it. Meanwhile, his preserved head is elsewhere – his friends thought it looked too grotesque for display, and commissioned the waxwork one instead. Stranger still is that a waxwork head sits on its shoulders, where Bentham’s own head should be, as per his will. One of the stranger sights on the University College London campus is the clothed skeleton of the utilitarian philosopher Jeremy Bentham. from William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (Act III, Scene II) Now let it work, mischief, thou art afoot.
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