The Mütter Museum is a 162-year-old medical history museum. It contains countless mysteries.

Amid recent debates about the ethics of displaying human remains at museums worldwide, the Mütter has been mired in controversy over the acquisition and provenance of its vast collection of specimens. Most were obtained from fellows of the College of Physicians of Philadelphia, the Mütter’s parent organization, between 1883 to 1918.

During the past two years, researchers have embarked on a project called Postmortem: Mütter Museum.

Staff invites public feedback on these contentious issues as they uncover new information about the typically anonymous individuals whose body parts are on view. But when it comes to this history, there are no easy answers.

A Tale of Two Philadelphians

The Mütter Museum holds the remains of thousands. These are two of their stories.

Published

This is Thomas Jeff. He was a Black child born in 1875 with hydrocephalus, a condition that causes one’s head to swell due to a buildup of excess fluid in the brain.

Jeff’s skull has a circumference of about 27 inches, roughly the size of a cantaloupe.

“I would hear children making fun of his skeleton because of the shape of his skull,” said Giselle Makler, the Mütter’s collections research specialist.

Makler’s research aims to foster greater empathy and develop storytelling that focuses on people, not just their disabilities.

The museum’s de-anonymization efforts started with Jeff.

During his short life, Jeff was frequently put on display as a “freak” in unsavory sideshows across Philadelphia.

His final performance was reportedly at a theater on Walnut Street where he sang “Yankee Doodle” and “Rule, Britannia!” alongside a five-legged rabbit and two-headed calf.

Jeff’s earnings supported his impoverished family.

His parents, Letitia and Thomas Jeff Sr., lived near Fifth and East Passyunk Streets in the historic Seventh Ward, a predominantly African American neighborhood, with their three sons.

Thomas Jeff Jr., died on April 2, 1882 at the age of 7.

The family had 18 hours with his body before doctors took him away.

His rare condition made him a target for curious medical students.

Mrs. Jeff received a $20 offer to buy her son's body. Today, that price amounts to about $650.

The family needed the money; Mrs. Jeff's other son was partially paralyzed and required specialized care. Days after Jeff’s death, she told The Times, a local newspaper, that the doctors refused to pay more.

Eventually, she made the devastating decision to sell her son's body.

The reporter quoted her with a tone of derision and prejudice in the story …

“I sooner sell ‘im fo’ dat dan hab ‘im dug up outen his grabe by med’cal fellers an’ toted away widout me gittin’ a picayune.”

Mrs. Jeff's fears were valid: grave robbing was a rampant practice, particularly at African American cemeteries.

Just months later, in December 1882, it was reported that “body snatchers” had been stealing thousands of corpses from South Philly’s Lebanon Cemetery for years.

The intent was to dissect them at Jefferson Medical College (now called Sidney Kimmel Medical College under Thomas Jefferson University).

“There’s hard evidence that bodies of Black people were deliberately preyed upon and taken for specimens, traded amongst professional physicians, used to teach medical students, and, of course, put on display,” said Rana Hogarth, a professor of medical history at University of Pennsylvania who studies slavery, race, and colonialism.

“I wonder if [Mrs. Jeff] had heard rumors that if her son’s body even got to the cemetery — if they could afford that — that he was going to end up on a table, taken in the middle of the night.”

On April 6, 1882, Mrs. Jeff sold her son’s body to Richard Harte, a renowned surgeon and Penn alum.

Years later, Harte would become president of the College of Physicians of Philadelphia.

The college is the oldest private society of doctors in the country. It was founded in 1787 by a group of physicians, including Declaration of Independence signatory Benjamin Rush.

In the late 1800s, the Jeff family couldn't afford access to a dedicated physician, whereas wealthy white families typically received medical care at home.

On the opposite end of that medical care spectrum was Mary L. Caley, the woman to whom this enlarged kidney belonged.

Caley, a notable Quaker woman, was a revered minister in Philadelphia. She lived her entire life unaware that she had been born with only one kidney.

A mother of four, she frequently spoke publicly at Quaker meetings and advertised sermons in local newspapers, inviting working-class audiences to attend.

Caley, her children, and her husband, Samuel, were treated at their Center City home by the family physician, Francis G. Smith.

She died on May 28, 1862 at the age of 53 following years of cognitive decline.

Smith performed an at-home autopsy.

The autopsy revealed that Caley previously experienced a stroke and had two unique organs …

… an exceptionally large kidney and a uterus with a structural anomaly.

Two weeks after her death, Caley’s kidney, uterus, and bladder were presented and discussed at a meeting of the Philadelphia Pathological Society.

There is no documentation regarding whether Caley (or her husband) gave her organs to their doctor or the college. Mütter leaders speculate that the Caleys “may have shared ideas with these elite physicians about the importance of medical inquiry and progress.”

Caley was buried in Laurel Hill Cemetery, which was eventually where Smith was also laid to rest.

One jar = 60 specimens

A year later, college fellow Thomas Mütter founded the eponymous museum with 1,700 objects and specimens for medical education.

Today, the Mütter Museum houses 6,483 human remains.

The staff has so far researched a dozen case studies of about 480 specimens on view.

Jeff’s and Caley’s stories are only two out of thousands represented in the Mütter’s current collection.

While the Postmortem project has concluded, the Mütter will continue its efforts to learn more about the individuals in the museum and share their stories with the public as a way to better contextualize their bodily autonomy and agency — or lack thereof, in many cases — in the history of medicine.

What does the museum do now?

“Collections like this have typically been interpreted in the past [with a primary focus on] the biological and pathological facts of that specimen,” said Sara Ray, Mütter’s senior director of interpretation and engagement.

“… which is, inherently, untethered from the human story of it.”

“The more information that we have about who a specimen is, the more intentional we can be about the type of storytelling we do … We're able to foster a conversation that feels more relevant to [visitors] and humanizes [the people on display].”

Staff Contributors

  • Design and development: Charmaine Runes
  • Reporting: Rosa Cartagena
  • Editing: Bedatri D. Choudhury, Sam Morris
  • Illustration: AJ Dungo
  • Copy Editing: Brian Leighton

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