Stories of Relocated Cemeteries in Pennsylvania

PENNSYLVANIA

Monument Cemetery (Philadelphia)

Moved: ~28,000
Now: Temple University grounds; remains reburied at Lawnview Cemetery; monuments in Delaware River / Betsy Ross Bridge foundation

Some places are lost to time.

Others are taken.

Monument Cemetery, established in 1839 at North Broad and Berks Streets, was Philadelphia’s second great Victorian garden cemetery—a landscaped sanctuary inspired by the rural burial grounds of Paris. Though modest in size, its seven acres held nearly 28,000 burials, a quiet city of the dead tucked into the living streets.

For generations, it served not only as a burial ground, but as green refuge—where neighbors walked, rested, and found stillness in a growing city.

But by the mid-20th century, the tide had turned.

Victorian spaces had fallen out of favor. What had once been admired was now dismissed as outdated, even burdensome. As maintenance waned, the cemetery grew worn, and its condition became justification.

Temple University, expanding just across the street, set its sights on the land.

Public hearings were held. Arguments were made. The cemetery, once a place of peace, was recast as something else—an eyesore, a nuisance, even a danger to the neighborhood. Voices were brought in to support its removal. And though some families protested, there was not enough public will to stop what came next.

In 1956, Monument Cemetery was condemned.

The graves were opened.
The dead were removed—nearly all gathered into a mass grave at Lawnview Cemetery in nearby Rockledge, their individual resting places surrendered to consolidation.

And the monuments—the carved stones that marked their lives—met a different fate.

They were taken, by the thousands, and dumped into the Delaware River. Marble, granite, and memory cast into the water, repurposed as fill beneath the foundation of the Betsy Ross Bridge.

Even a memorial honoring George Washington and Lafayette was dismantled in the process.

At low tide, as recently as 2011, the stones could still be seen—edges and inscriptions breaking the surface, as though refusing to disappear completely.

It is a difficult truth to sit with.

That a place designed for remembrance could be so thoroughly undone.
That those once laid to rest with care could be gathered, moved, and their markers discarded.

Not forgotten, perhaps.

But not preserved.

Suggested Note to Readers - For those who wish to see what remains, I encourage you to view the photographs of the headstones in the Delaware River. They are still there—visible at low tide, quiet witnesses to what was done.

The Watery Remains Of Monument Cemetery - https://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2011/04/watery-remains-of-monument-cemetery.html

How Monument Cemetery was Destroyed

http://thecemeterytraveler.blogspot.com/2011/05/how-monument-cemetery-was-destroyed.html

The Forgotten Souls of Voegtly Cemetery

Beneath what had long been an ordinary stretch of land on Pittsburgh’s North Side—pavement, traffic, and the quiet hum of modern life—there rested a community that had once been known, loved, and mourned.

In 1987, as preparations began for highway construction near East Ohio Street and the 16th Street Bridge, the past gently—and unexpectedly—made itself known. A backhoe uncovered human bones, and with that moment, the work of progress paused. What lay beneath was not simply soil, but the resting place of the Voegtly Church Cemetery, established in 1833 and used through 1861 by a congregation largely made up of Swiss and German immigrants.

There had been no clear records to mark its presence. Time had softened its memory, and generations had passed without knowledge of those buried there. Yet they remained.

What followed was not hurried removal, but careful and respectful recovery. Over the course of four months, teams of archaeologists worked long days—patiently, deliberately—uncovering row after row of graves. In all, more than 700 individuals were brought back into the light, each one a life once lived in the growing city of Allegheny.

The physical condition of the remains told quiet, often difficult stories. Many had endured hardship. Evidence of illness—tuberculosis, infection, and the wear of arthritis—spoke to lives shaped by labor and limited medical care. Dental disease was common, and injuries had left their mark. Among some, even small personal habits remained visible, such as the telltale signs of pipe smoking etched into worn teeth.

The youngest were among the most fragile. The remains of children, especially, had suffered greatly from time and the elements—a somber reminder of how many lives in that era were brief, and how deeply families must have grieved.

Taken together, these findings reflect a community that lived with resilience, but not without struggle. Life expectancy was often short, and loss—especially of infants and children—was tragically common. And yet, these were not merely statistics. They were parents, daughters, sons, neighbors—people who built lives, formed bonds, and were laid to rest with care by those who remembered them.

After their study, the individuals were reburied together in 2003 at Voegtly Evangelical Cemetery in Troy Hill. A single marker now stands in quiet acknowledgment—not of anonymity, but of shared memory. Though their individual names may be lost to time, their presence is not.

For over a century, they rested unnoticed beneath a changing city. Today, their story reminds us that even when memory fades, humanity does not. Beneath every forgotten place lies a history not erased—but waiting, patiently, to be remembered.

Read more in: Pittsburg Post Gazette - Aug. 19,2013