CHAPTER 7

MEMORIAM

Like any other city with a large population, Philadelphia contains a vast number of cemeteries and burial grounds. In the years of Pennsylvania as a colony, most families chose to inter their loved ones at their local church cemeteries or on their estates themselves. Since the city had no shortage of churches, meetinghouses and places of worship, many residents were buried in the small churchyards that surrounded them. Most of these tiny burial grounds have vanished from the landscape, but some still exist. Some churchyards of the older congregations filled up before 1730, and additional land purchases were needed. Christ Church, founded in 1695, is surrounded by a pre-revolutionary burial ground. But by 1716, the widening city had surrounded Christ Church. New land for a burial ground was purchased in 1719 four blocks away at Fifth and Arch Streets, then the “outskirts of town,” as anything farther west was forest. There the Christ Church Burial Ground still sits, behind a stone wall. It contains many important American founders, such as Benjamin Franklin, Benjamin Rush and Commodore William Bainbridge.

A few decades into the nineteenth century, it was very clear that crowded churchyards were unhealthy and impractical. Thoughts and feelings regarding the proper dispensation of the dead began changing. Once thought of as more of a ritualistic event, visitation of graves of loved ones became less somber and formal. The concept of erecting large physical monuments to commemorate one’s life became more commercial and sociological. Following in the footsteps of Boston’s Mount Auburn Cemetery, the nondenominational “park cemetery” was introduced in Philadelphia in 1836 with the opening of the Laurel Hill Cemetery. A new concept, the park cemetery acted as a place of public leisure and refuge. The idea of decorating the place where the dead rest was a shaky new idea at the time. However, it was also a marketable idea. In the 1850s, several other park cemetery companies purchased land around the city. Thinking ahead, most purchased tracts of remote land, far detached from any populated areas. By the close of the Civil War, park cemeteries had fast become accepted—due to the urgent need of burial space if nothing else.

As the Industrial Revolution proceeded and the Civil War ended, Philadelphia’s park cemeteries became an industry of their own, competing with one another through advertising and political and legal back-and-forths. The time from the post–Civil War period until the end of the century was probably the best in America for park cemeteries. Under Victorian-era beliefs and customs, these cities of the dead thrived. Their heavenly display of love for the bygone souls they represented was the ultimate example of affection. The twentieth century would slowly change this attitude, however, and the cemetery business would begin to lose its appeal to investors. As Philadelphia modernized itself by necessity, through depression and war, its fantastical relationship with its dead would also mature.

By the twenty-first century, the concept of extravagant burial monuments had become a historic institution in itself. Most park cemeteries operate today using state or city funds, as well as occasional plot sales. The Philadelphia area contains many scenic park cemeteries, some of which are listed on the National Register of Historic Places. However, a number of them have simply not survived in business form and have since fallen into a state of neglect and abandonment. This chapter will clear away the brush from two such burial grounds and delve into their compelling pasts.

Mount Vernon Cemetery’s army of stone angels often points toward the heavens. Today, their cold fingers act as perches for hawks, eagles and other rare birds. The rustic property’s ironic location in the urban jungle of North Philadelphia is one of its more compelling contrasts.

Mount Vernon Cemetery

IN 1856, TWO YEARS AFTER Philadelphia’s consolidation, the Mount Vernon Cemetery Company was founded. In an attempt to capitalize on the seemingly charmed success of Laurel Hill Cemetery, the trustees of Mount Vernon Cemetery Company purchased land directly across Ridge Avenue from Laurel Hill. The land had been part of Mount Peace, the colonial estate of the Ralston family. Robert Ralston, founder of the Church of Saint James the Less in 1846, lived there at the time. The cemetery company’s first treasurer, Robert Buist, worked closely with his friends and owners of Laurel Hill, purchasing additional acreage from the adjacent cemetery. The cemetery’s nearly seventy-five acres bordered Lehigh Avenue (then Hart Lane) to the south, Ridge Avenue and Hunting Park Avenue (then Nicetown Lane) to the west and the rest of the Ralston property to the north and east. The remaining Ralston land would later be purchased by the Odd Fellows for their new park cemetery, which carried on the name of the former Ralston estate, Mount Peace.

Not surprisingly, the architect of Laurel Hill’s landscape as well as its Italianate gatehouse, John Notman, was called on to design a bigger, better gatehouse for Mount Vernon. Notman and Buist had been longtime friends and had arrived in America together on the Thames. After some discussion over the erection of the gatehouse, it was decided that “the Committee on Improvements be authorized to contract for the building of the tower. Two sides of marble and two sides of cut square stone and the remainder as proposed, provided the amount does not exceed thirty-four hundred dollars and occasion delay of more than one month.”

Attached to the gatehouse was a living quarters for the groundskeeper. However, dissatisfaction over the delay of its construction caused some friction. Meanwhile, the layout of Mount Vernon’s grounds was arranged by G.M. Hopkins Jr. Its grand circle and rolling hillside were not uncommon of cemeteries of the time. Many of Mount Vernon’s first interments lay just beyond its gatehouse, where their tall marble columns and obelisks seem to thrust skyward. Many are topped with statues of angels whose right arms are extended above their heads, pointing up toward the heavenly destination of the souls they represent.

In September 1857, Mount Vernon superintendent William Linten wrote monthly to Buist, informing him of the progress of construction: “The dwelling house has been roofed and the floors laid. The marble and stonework on the tower is all done…The circles are ready for marble work.”

In August, Linten wrote, “The work on the tower is well on towards completion…The marble work on the entrance goes on slowly. The two small side arches, over the footways are finished, the arch over the carriageway spring, and two of the figures ready to be put up.”

When the gatehouse was finally completed in 1858, its landmark bell tower could be seen for blocks, and the clean-cut Italian marble of its façade stood tall over its neighbor, Laurel Hill. Notman was paid a total of $400 for his work, and according to Buist in 1859, the cost of the entire project—including paving, curbing, installation of gutters, landscaping and the erection of the gatehouse—was $35,330. In the book John Notman: Architect, author Constance Greiff described the completed gatehouse as “the setting for an Italian fairytale,” with an “ethereal and dream-like quality.” Today, the gatehouse is missing its signature tower, which collapsed. Covered in rampant overgrowth, its majesty is no longer gleaming. Notman died at age fifty-five in 1865 and was interred across the street at Laurel Hill. By then, it was clear that park cemeteries existed more to pacify the living than to serve the dead.

These two-hundred-year-old gravestones from the Second Presbyterian Church Burial Ground in Old City—moved to Mount Vernon Cemetery in 1867—have been mercilessly battered by the elements. Sadly, the original colonial markers are indecipherable.

Although quickly filling up with ornate sculptures and stones, Mount Vernon received its most coveted monument in 1864: the Gardel monument. The fact that little is known about the Gardel family adds more mystery to the monument’s ominous presence. Julia Hawkes Gardel was a Philadelphia schoolteacher, founder of a women’s seminary school and an advocate for better public schools. She married fellow teacher and art collector Bertrand Gardel, who was absurdly well off for a French language teacher. His art collection was sought after upon his death, and his ability to tour the globe with his wife, purchasing art and jewelry, clearly demonstrated his status of wealth. He was a friend of famed artist Thomas Eakins and even appears in one of Eakins’s paintings. According to a Philadelphia Inquirer article of 1871, Mrs. Gardel was on a “world tour,” traveling from Jerusalem to Damascus, when she was “attacked by the Bedouins” and killed. Clearly a shocking end for an apparently endearing woman, her husband responded to his grief financially.

While an obvious show of fortune, the incredible monument erected to Julia Gardel by her devastated husband in 1864 is also the most unique and personalized expression of Victorian romantic tragedy that exists in any cemetery in Philadelphia. The twenty-five-foot monument, made from Ohio sandstone, Italian marble and imported granite, cost an unbelievable $36,000—the equivalent of about $2 million today. Designed by famed Belgian sculptor G. Geef, the giant pyramid was fronted by a host of statuary displaying Julia’s love of traveling the world. Large marble figures represent the continents of Asia, Europe and Africa. Perched above the pyramid door are statues of Hope and Faith holding up a carved relief of Julia. Mount Vernon’s trustees used drawings and photographs of the monument in their sales brochures, and it soon became the cemetery’s mascot. Bertrand finally followed his wife into the vault in 1895.

In 1867, the cemetery acquired more than 2,500 graves from the crowded Second Presbyterian Church burial ground on Arch Street, most of which dated from the early eighteenth century. Included were several Revolutionary War heroes like George Washington’s secretary of war Henry Knox, as well as noted historical characters like author Peter Stephen DuPonceau and Reverend Peletiah Webster (the “Forgotten Founding Father”). Although not known to most and largely ignored by history, Webster was hailed as one of the most important figures in the creation of the United States Constitution. The old churchyard plot also contains the remains of Constitutional Congressman William Houston. Sadly, theirs are some of the many original unreadable stones from the Second Presbyterian churchyard, and their exact locations cannot be determined. Cemetery company treasurer Robert Buist himself became a resident at Mount Vernon upon his death in 1880. Over the years, Mount Vernon received other notable interments, such as brewery owner Louis Bergdoll Jr. and actress Dorothy McHugh, who’s single line on a TV commercial became legendary: “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” Actress Judy Lewis, an illegitimate child of Clark Gable and Loretta Young, best known for her role on General Hospital, also rests at Mount Vernon. But perhaps its most famous interments are the Drew family.

Louisa Lane Drew was an aspiring actress at the Arch Street Theater in the 1850s and ’60s. She later married the owner of the theater, John Drew. Upon his death in 1862, Louisa became the theater’s new owner and operated it herself with success. Louisa became the grandmother of Hollywood superstars John, Lionel and Ethel Barrymore. She died in 1897 and was buried with her late husband at Mount Vernon. The Drews’ small plot received its last interment in 1980. John Barrymore, best known for his roles in Richard III and Hamlet, died in Hollywood in 1942. Although his will stated that he wished to be buried in the Drew lot at Mount Vernon, his body was interred at Cavalry Cemetery in Los Angeles. His funeral was attended by some of the most prolific actors of the century.

The twenty-foot pyramid erected for Julia Gardel represents Victorian romantic tragedy like no other monument in Philadelphia. Her bereaved husband paid more than $30,000 for its construction in 1864, the equivalent of about $2 million today.

After decades of rest, however, John Barrymore’s body was removed by his son, John Barrymore Jr. (father of actress Drew Barrymore). In December 1980, John Jr., in his truly odd fashion, had the remains of his father removed and cremated. It is said that John Jr. couldn’t resist the opportunity to take a peak at his father’s body before it was cremated. He then personally flew the ashes to Philadelphia. Showing up in the middle of the night, stoned, with his father’s ashes in a suitcase, John Jr. eventually followed the proper channels and left instruction on where to bury the little bag containing the remains of the most legendary actor of the day.

Finally, on December 12, 1980, Barrymore’s remains were reburied in the Drew plot at Mount Vernon. No one was present at John Barrymore’s long awaited reunion with his parents except the undertaker and John Jr., who reportedly stated, “Now it is finished.” Leaving as fast as he came, John Jr. flew back to Los Angeles the next day and apparently never returned to his father’s final resting place. No stone or marker of any kind was purchased. In fact, the presence of Barrymore’s grave was largely unknown until 1997, when a group of fans and donors erected a small stone on which is engraved one of his best-known lines: “Alas poor Yorick.” Even today, most people are not aware that John Barrymore rests in Philadelphia. Hopefully in the future, with some encouragement (and landscaping), the Drew plot can host new surprised visitors and old devoted fans.

Today, Mount Vernon Cemetery is like a wildlife refuge in the middle of the inner city. Nature has reclaimed most of the grounds, hiding its beauty with weeds and brush. The cemetery is not open to the public, and with an out-of-state owner and only occasional visits by volunteer groundskeepers, its historic monuments are held captive from would-be visitors. Some of the mausoleums have been vandalized, and others are in danger. A fence secures the property, but the centuries-old oak trees whose branches wither and collapse and the wild vines that wrap and twist around the fragile monuments are the real dangers to this once proud safe keeper of Philadelphia’s past.

Mount Vernon, however, remains one of Philadelphia’s most interesting yet underappreciated pieces of land. Given its former social status, its notable interments, its collection of unique monuments, its history and its location, the cemetery’s presence is intriguing enough. But top it off with overgrowth, neglect and decay, and what emerges is an almost fantastical, irrational environment. Its cloudy geography and mysterious appearance offer up curious historical perspectives nearly too enticing for urban explorers to resist. It is a virtual puzzle, featuring real historical characters and parameters, that offers real rewards of knowledge and comprehension to anyone willing to solve its thousands of challenges. The majesty of Mount Vernon Cemetery definitely makes it a site worth saving.

One of Mount Vernon’s more elaborate stones, the Keller monument features a ten-foot-tall cross and base—carved from a single piece of stone—and a life-size statue.

This modest stone is better than none at all for Hollywood legend John Barrymore. It was purchased and placed atop his unmarked grave at Mount Vernon Cemetery in 1997 by a devoted group of fans.

The rear of Stephen Button’s 1855 Norman gatehouse at Mount Moriah Cemetery gathers trash in 2008. It once housed the cemetery’s offices and groundskeeper’s quarters.

Mount Moriah Cemetery

THE CONCEPT OF BURYING our dead is as old as humanity itself. The concept of marking the ground where the dead lay is not much younger. But the idea of building a grand, permanent monument to oneself—meant literally to last forever—was an act reserved only for kings until the last millennia. With the success of Laurel Hill, Philadelphia’s first park cemetery, several profit-hungry groups of investors and businessmen began buying land to lay out other park cemeteries. By the 1850s, the cemetery business had become a profitable one, as several new park cemeteries emerged in Philadelphia, including Mount Vernon, Cedar Hill, Mount Lawn, William Penn, the Woodlands and others. On March 27, 1855, the Mount Moriah Cemetery Company—whose board was largely made up of local Freemasons—was granted a permit for fifty-four acres fronting Philadelphia’s southwestern border, Cobb’s Creek.

Stretching from a point near the current intersection of Cemetery and Kingsessing Avenues west to the creek, the original portion of the property was chosen due to its position at the top of a sloping hill, then the highest elevation in the area. Before row homes, telephone poles and streetlamps, the view from the peak of the hill would have been breathtaking. The layout of the original portion cleverly utilized the sweeping landscape in the plan of its roadways, with its two main circles crowning the summits of its two highest peaks. By October 1855, the first circle was completed, followed by its diametrically crossed footpaths. Its grand entrance gatehouse would be fronting the circle on the property’s eastern edge.

In the park cemetery business of the mid-nineteenth century, the gatehouse was a cemetery’s most important showpiece, acting as its visual slogan. Therefore, Mount Moriah’s Masonic board of trustees took its time deciding on the perfect face for its dreamy, pseudo-spiritual park of memories. From a host of other submitted designs, architect Stephen Decatur Button’s plan for a brownstone Norman gatehouse was the chosen entry. His experience as a noted church architect shows in the simple placement of the gatehouse. But the subtle Masonic influence is also present in the way in which it was built to face the rising of the sun. It featured a single gated arch that Button capped with an imposing statue of Father Time, who gazed down on visitors as they entered, like a morbid reminder.

Although spirituality played a significant role in the Mount Moriah Cemetery Company’s actions, it was, after all, a business, and selling plots was the main objective. The ways that several of the city’s park cemeteries were able to achieve success in the days before the Civil War is interesting. For instance, a few succeeded in purchasing the remains of famous historical individuals and bygone revolutionary heroes for reinterment. In 1857, after some political and financial negotiations, the remains of Elizabeth Griscom Ross Claypoole (Betsy Ross) were removed from the Free Quaker Burial Ground at Fifth and Arch Streets and reinterred at Mount Moriah along with her sisters and her husband, John Claypoole. Fraternal and charity-based organizations would raise money year after year for the upkeep and beautification of Ross’s grave. The Daughters of the American Revolution erected a flagpole there and kept a flag raised atop it for decades. Only the flagpole remains today.

When the Reading Railroad laid its tracks along the main line in the late 1850s, it connected the city to the new cemetery. Mount Moriah Station was opened at Kingsessing and Cemetery Avenues soon after, and the sale of plots quickly rose. Shortly after the close of the Civil War, the cemetery encompassed almost two hundred acres, stretching equally on both sides of Philadelphia’s western border with Yeadon, Delaware County. A large plot for soldiers was purchased on the Philadelphia side of the property. It was paid for by many of the same philanthropists who ran the Volunteer Refreshment Saloons, which operated throughout the city during the war. The soldiers’ plot was full by 1866 and contained Confederate as well as Union soldiers, a rare practice in the area. Other military plots were soon purchased, such as the Philadelphia Soldier’s Home plot and the Naval Hospital plot.

Fraternal organizations, needless to say, were the largest purchasers of plot space at Mount Moriah. Lots belonging to local Masonic, Odd Fellows and Elks Lodges patch the landscape of the cemetery. The property’s expansive acreage was perfect for the construction of common vaults for large occupancies such as these. The cemetery company’s president, John H. Jones, attempted to further mystify Mount Moriah’s image by giving the roads, circles and even Cobb’s Creek new names. The Circle of Saint John, the second circle, was laid out in 1856 for the Keystone Chapter of Pennsylvania’s Grand Lodge. The Glen of Silence was the name of the area along the Cobb’s Creek, on the Philadelphia side, now occupied by the Cobb’s Creek Parkway. Some early maps even refer to the creek as the Stream of Kedron.

Local private institutions like the Presbyterian Home for Widows and Single Women and the Seaman’s Church Institute were the second-biggest purchasers of large plots. The small community of Kingsessing was expanding away from the cemetery, and the railroad also brought new development to the area. Seeing this as a hindrance to its idyllic atmosphere of shady trees and babbling brooks, the cemetery’s board quickly bought up more surrounding land. By 1870, the property contained more acreage on both the Philadelphia and Yeadon sides. But the cemetery truly came into its own in 1871, when the Circle of Saint John received its centerpiece: the Schnider monument.

Until recently, vines and weeds had imprisoned much of Mount Moriah’s eloquent Victorian statuary. The Friends of Mount Moriah Cemetery, a nonprofit volunteer group, is working to free the monuments from their natural bondage.

The monument of former Mount Moriah Cemetery Company president John H. Jones supports a solemn statue of Father Time, which once sat atop the gatehouse glaring at entering visitors.

When Grand Tyler William Bockius Schnider died in 1867, the members of his chapter had him placed in a vault in the now-defunct Monument Cemetery until their momentous plans for his funerary procedure could be solidified. Having served as “Grand Tyler” for more than two decades at Samuel Sloan’s Gothic Masonic Temple on Broad Street—before it was destroyed by fire in 1886—Schnider proved a beloved brother to his fellow Masons. In 1871, the members erected a thirty-five-foot-tall monument for him—the largest and tallest in the city at the time. The giant Ionic column was made of imported Italian marble and capped with a Masonic square and compass. The triangular marble base of the monument featured a carved bust of Schnider on one side, Masonic symbols on another and the altar and Bible on the third. The total cost of the monument was $7,500, equivalent to about $200,000 today. In 1874, the death of cemetery company president John H. Jones affected Mount Moriah forever. Per Jones’s request, upon his burial, the statue of Father Time that sat on top of the gatehouse was removed and placed atop his large stone, which sits just behind the gatehouse.

As in most cemeteries of the period, the more expensive plots featured large monuments and underground vaults. These plots were usually situated in the circles and along the main roads, while the less expensive majority of burials filled in the midsections. The not-uncommon custom of the day at park cemeteries like Mount Moriah of planting exotic imported trees and flowers at the graves of loved ones gave the cemetery another unique role as host to some rare flora. Well-groomed bushes and saplings, decorated by a frontage of colorful flowers and a backdrop of weeping trees, transformed the artistic statuary of the stones and monuments into a visual Eden. Some types of decorative trees caught on almost immediately as a trend in many cemeteries, such as the odd-looking Japanese pines that grew in the shape of mushroom clouds. Others became less desirable due to cost or availability. But today, Mount Moriah is ironically one of the few places in the Delaware Valley to view some of these exotic trees.

By 1890, Mount Moriah housed more notable interments, such as world-famous stage actor John McCullough. Born in Ireland in 1832, McCullough’s career was one of the most impressive of any Victorian-era Philadelphia actor. He arrived in Philadelphia in 1847, having fled the famine of Ireland at his father’s insistence. Under the management of John Drew, McCullough played his first acting role—that of Thomas in The Bell’s Stratagem—at Drew’s Arch Street Theater in 1857. Like many actors of the time, it was McCullough’s nagging persistence that furthered his career. Stage roles, especially for Irish immigrants, were very hard to come by in the mid-nineteenth century. McCullough mingled with other actors and theater folk of the day, such as Edwin Booth (father of John Wilkes), Edwin Forrest and Frederick Warde.

Under the management of D.C. theater owner John T. Ford, McCullough played his favorite role (the one that would also be his most famous), “Virginius” in Hamlet. By 1884, McCullough was showing signs of “feeble-mindedness” and retired from the stage. He was committed to the Bloomingdale Sanitarium in New York before returning to his home in Philadelphia, where he died in 1885. When McCullough was buried in 1887, his funeral was said to be one of the largest in Philadelphia memory. His monument was said to be, at the time, the tallest ever erected for an actor. It featured a life-size bronze bust of McCullough that, sadly, has since been stolen. The arrangement of his monument and the choreography of his funeral procession took more than a year of preparation, and it was attended by more than five hundred guests.

The 1890s, probably the last great decade for Gilded Age money, were transitional years at Mount Moriah. New city charter laws and regulations, increased taxes and the first subtle hints of the slow decline of the park cemetery in America rained dark forebodings on the future of the cemetery. The turn of the twentieth century brought a slight decrease in the frequency of expensive, towering monuments, a trend that would continue into the 1930s. The First World War brought more public attention to the city’s cemeteries, and a trend of war monuments swept Philadelphia. Many old monuments were restored, and a sense of appreciation for history seemed to drive Philadelphians. The 1920s were no less sparing. The rising economy seemed to briefly boost the sale of plots at Mount Moriah, but by 1928, the cemetery had begun cutting back on its printed ads. The property expanded again in the 1930s, when the adjacent Fels and Paschall properties on the Philadelphia side were purchased, bringing the property to its current four hundred acres or thereabouts.

Depression-era work programs like the Works Progress Administration also enhanced the grounds at Mount Moriah by improving its aged and failing drainage system, connecting it to a culverted stream that formerly cut through the property. The Second World War brought a new wave of internments to Mount Moriah, overfilling the soldiers’ plot. The surrounding neighborhood began its ethnic changes in the late 1950s, and the cemetery business in Philadelphia was not what it once was. The last financial decline for Mount Moriah began slowly in the 1960s. Many of the big plot holders, such as the Keystone Lodge and the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks Lodge, had filled up their century-old plots decades before. Most had either relocated or closed their local institutions by 1970, and those resting beneath the Circle of Saint John became only distant, unknown relatives. The once prestigious Keystone Chapter’s circle was quickly forgotten and began growing into the jungle it is today.

One of the more interesting events in the cemetery’s history took place in 1975, when city officials—in preparation for the bicentennial celebration—removed the remains of Betsy Ross from her overgrown prison at Mount Moriah. They were reinterred in the side court of the newly renovated Betsy Ross House on Arch Street, in the hopes of attracting more visitors to the economically dry city. However, the Claypoole plot at Mount Moriah was in a sad state of ruin by the 1970s. Ross’s headstone had been stolen years before, and the others were covered in weeds and debris and were unreadable. Although someone was removed from the plot, it was never exactly clear whom. In the years following, and still today, the question of who was actually removed and reburied is an interesting topic among local historians. The remains of America’s most beloved seamstress may still lie beneath the weeds in Southwest Philadelphia.

One of Mount Moriah’s more recent famous interments was that of legendary Motown producer John Whitehead, pioneer of “that Philly sound,” who died in 2004. Evidence suggests, however, that his remains have since been relocated. Later that year, the still operating Mount Moriah Cemetery Association’s last living member, Horatio Jones Jr., died, throwing the property’s legal administration into a state of life support. Held together by the efforts of a loyal employee of the association, the cemetery legally remained in business, although burials were scarce. Its last were those of Muslims, who predominated the neighborhood of Kingsessing by the turn of the twenty-first century. Mount Moriah was, at the time, the only nondenominational cemetery in Philadelphia that allowed Muslim burials.

As attention to the grounds dropped off the city’s priority list, it went into a sort of coma, remaining in limbo and becoming a common dumping ground. Kept shielded from curious visitors by the neighborhood’s negative reputation, the long-overgrown Circle of Saint John section grew into a small forest, as did the original circle behind the historic gatehouse. By 2008, the rustic cemetery—hiding burned-out cars, illegal dogfighting arenas and, in some cases, nonresident corpses—had become enough of a problem to begin appearing in the local and national news. But with no official owner on which to place legal and financial blame, Mount Moriah had become a real thorn in the city’s side, and officials fought to avoid inheriting the property. Police found the miles of broken cemetery roadway—which was often blocked up by piles of trash—too difficult or impossible to regularly patrol. Its vast acreage of weeds, trees and winding roads resembled a nature park, complete with wildlife.

The thirty-five-foot monument to William B. Schnider, Grand Tyler of Pennsylvania’s Central Grand Lodge, marks the center of the overgrown Circle of Saint John at Mount Moriah, a popular burial site of nineteenth-century Freemasons.

In 2011, according to city reports, the Mount Moriah Cemetery Association ceased its business interests without informing the City of Philadelphia or the Borough of Yeadon. The illegal act sparked the beginning of another court battle, which further held up any actual property maintenance. However, the nonprofit organization Friends of Mount Moriah Cemetery—a group of devoted historians and local residents—was thankfully able to gain temporary legal ownership of the property. Since 2011, mostly through volunteer efforts, the group has cleared roads, removed overgrowth and removed every old car on the property. Today, Friends of Mount Moriah continues its hard work to keep the property clean and safe for other curious visitors.