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The Metropolitan Sepulchre: Thomas Wilson’s Grand Plan for London’s Dead

A drawing of a very large pyramid
Willson's proposal

In Georgian and Victorian London, finding a place to live was a challenge for many, with the city’s rapid urbanisation leading to severe overcrowding, particularly in poorer areas. But as the population grew, Londoners faced an even greater challenge: finding a dignified place to be buried. The city’s graveyards were filling at an alarming rate, leading to unsanitary conditions, public scandals, and, in some cases, morbid spectacles that made a mockery of Christian burial traditions.


By the early 19th century, London was grappling with the disturbing reality of overpopulation in its burial grounds. Graves were dug deep into the earth, but with so many bodies being buried on top of one another, the ground itself began to betray the horrors beneath. Coffins jostled for space, and decomposition gases leaked through the soil, creating odorous affronts to the living. Public health concerns escalated, as did fears of disease spreading from decaying bodies just inches below the surface of the city’s streets and churches. Londoners found themselves faced with the grisly consequences of death on a mass scale.


Innovators began to present solutions, often proposing new burial grounds outside the city or radical new internment techniques. Amongst these was the ambitious and imaginative Thomas Wilson, whose bold and somewhat macabre idea for London’s dead was far removed from the traditional garden cemeteries. He envisaged a monumental, pyramidal structure that would hold millions of bodies and dominate London’s skyline—an answer, in his eyes, to the growing burial crisis.

A detailed drawing of a pyramid

The Vision of the Metropolitan Sepulchre

Thomas Wilson’s ambitious plan was to create a colossal pyramid that would house the dead of London in one grand, towering edifice: the Metropolitan Sepulchre. This wasn’t just any pyramid—Wilson proposed a structure that would dwarf the city’s most iconic landmarks. It was to be built on Primrose Hill in North London, an area that in the early 19th century offered an elevated vantage point over the city. The pyramid would be vast, with a base as large as Russell Square and a towering height nearly four times that of St. Paul’s Cathedral.



Wilson imagined this structure as a kind of ultimate architectural wonder, a “coup d’oeil of sepulchral magnificence unequalled in this world,” as he poetically described it. Built primarily of brick with a granite façade, the pyramid would be a permanent and striking addition to London’s landscape, visible from miles away. It would stand as a testament to the eternal rest of London’s dead, a sprawling monument to those who had lived and passed on in the great city.


The interior of the pyramid was equally ambitious. Wilson’s plans called for the Sepulchre to eventually house some five million bodies. It would include a fully staffed administrative area, complete with a keeper, a clerk, a sexton, and a superintendent. There would be offices and a chapel as well. For Wilson, this was not merely a place of storage for the deceased, but a carefully organised necropolis—a city for the dead, replete with all the infrastructure required to maintain order in a structure of such scale.


A Monument to Megalomania or Pragmatic Urban Planning?

Wilson’s Metropolitan Sepulchre quickly drew both fascination and scepticism. It was a project of staggering ambition, one that some viewed as a logical response to London’s burial crisis, and others saw as a grotesque display of hubris. N.B. Penny, a historian, famously called it a “nightmarish combination of megalomaniacal Neo-Classicism and dehumanised Utilitarian efficiency,” reflecting the uneasy reception of the project in intellectual circles. Penny and others found something deeply unsettling in the prospect of a massive pyramid containing millions of bodies, a burial site that seemed to prioritise mechanical efficiency over human dignity.

An illustration of a pyramid

But Wilson remained undeterred. He saw the Sepulchre as a magnificent addition to London, one that would solve the practical issue of space while simultaneously serving as an architectural landmark. His reasoning was also sound from a financial perspective. The Pyramid General Cemetery Company, which was set up to manage the project, had calculated that the profits would far outweigh the costs. The pyramid, after all, would fill at a rate of 40,000 bodies per year, generating consistent revenue from the sale of family vaults. According to Wilson’s calculations, the project would eventually net nearly £11 million in profit—a staggering sum for the time.


The Clash of Ideas: The Garden Cemetery Movement

In 1825, Wilson presented his plans to Parliament, seeking the necessary approvals to begin construction. But his timing was unfortunate. At the same time, George Frederick Carden, a barrister from Inner Temple, was making his own pitch for a new kind of cemetery. Inspired by the garden cemeteries of Père Lachaise in Paris, Carden proposed creating serene, landscaped burial grounds on the outskirts of the city—green spaces where families could visit the graves of their loved ones in a tranquil, almost pastoral setting.



While Wilson’s pyramid was undeniably bold, it was also cold and imposing. Carden’s garden cemeteries, on the other hand, were peaceful and inviting, offering a more sentimental and romantic vision of death. Londoners, who were already wary of overpopulation and disease, found Carden’s proposal far more appealing. Wilson, perhaps sensing the public’s preference, allegedly withdrew his proposal before Parliament could render a final verdict, allowing Carden to proceed with his garden cemetery plans.


Despite Wilson’s withdrawal, the dream of the Metropolitan Sepulchre did not die easily. Models and plans for the pyramid remained on display at the National Repository in Charing Cross for two years, attracting attention and sparking debate. Though initially ridiculed by the press—The Literary Gazette in 1828 called it a “monstrous piece of folly”—over time, the Sepulchre garnered a more sympathetic reception, with some recognising the boldness and scope of Wilson’s vision.


The Pyramid That Never Was

For Wilson, the ultimate failure of his pyramid was a bitter disappointment, and the fallout from his efforts left him in a precarious position. Accusations of intellectual theft began to fly when Wilson believed that Carden had stolen elements of his own burial scheme. In a series of heated letters published in John Bull, Willson accused Carden of plagiarising his ideas. Carden, in turn, responded by suing Willson for libel, ultimately forcing Wilson to issue a public apology. The affair ended in humiliation for Wilson, while Carden emerged unscathed, his garden cemetery plan gathering momentum.

Black and white photo of a man sitting in a chair
Thomas Wilson

By the time of the Great Exhibition in 1851, Wilson had scaled down his dream. A model of what was now called the ‘Great Victoria Pyramid’ was displayed at the event, a reduced version of his original vision that would house 625,000 bodies instead of the five million originally proposed. The new pyramid was to cover just five acres, far smaller than the earlier plans, yet still a sizeable project by any measure. But by then, the public’s interest had waned. The garden cemeteries, with their bucolic landscapes and charmingly melancholic air, had won the day. Willson’s vast pyramid became little more than a curiosity, a relic of a bygone idea that never quite took root in the popular imagination.


A Sepulchral “What If?”

It is fascinating to imagine what London might have looked like if Wilson’s Metropolitan Sepulchre had been realised. The city’s skyline, dominated by the looming pyramid, would have been strikingly different. The pastoral quietude of the garden cemeteries would have given way to a massive, urban structure—a true necropolis in every sense. Perhaps historians of medicine and forensic anthropologists would be combing through its chambers today, studying the remains of London’s past generations within the granite walls of the pyramid.



Instead, London’s burial crisis was ultimately solved by the creation of those very garden cemeteries, which still exist today as peaceful oases in the city’s bustling landscape. Though less grand and less imposing than the Metropolitan Sepulchre, these cemeteries provide a fitting resting place for London’s dead, offering dignity, peace, and beauty in death where the alternative might have been a crowded, towering structure of brick and stone.


In the end, Wilson’s pyramid may have represented a grand dream, but the quiet victory of the garden cemetery reflected the city’s preference for life—even in death, they chose something with soul over sheer scale.

 




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