A hidden oasis in the City of London
We often think of the City of London as a busy, high-rise urban kind of place devoted to business and mammon.
But for those who know it, the City has a few small and delightful corners of calm and one most charming is in its northwest corner: Postman’s Park.
Why don’t we have much open space in the City? Because it has always been densely populated and in fact Postman’s Park owns its existence to a rather gruesome consequence of this overcrowding – there were too many dead Londoners that needed to be buried.
If we go back a couple of hundred years the City’s square mile was packed with perhaps 80,000 residents, each of whom lived in one of the 110 or so parishes, with each having its own church and graveyard.
All these Londoners wanted to be buried in their own church and this meant the graveyards got very full.
Traditionally Londoners did not disturb a buried body for 10 years but in times of a high death rate (epidemics of Plague and Cholera were common) this was impossible. The solution was simple – lay the dead on top of the ground and cover them with a layer of soil.
That great observer of London Charles Dickens commented on this:
“the dead were conveniently and healthily elevated above the level of the living”
In 1830 a Cholera epidemic caused a huge number of deaths and it became obvious that the current approach was not sustainable and in 1851 the Metropolitan Burials Act was passed that forbade any burials within the City. A huge new cemetery was built about 10 miles east at Manor Park.
So what to do with the now redundant graveyards? Well in one case in 1858, the wardens of St. Botolph’s announced their intention to turn it into a public park. It then took 20 years to clear the remains and the park opened in 1880. In fact it incorporated the graveyards of two other churches, Christ Church Greyfriars and St Leonard Foster Lane. Due to the different quantity of burials there was a 6 foot difference between the level of the highest and the lowest that had to be filled in.
So why is it called Postman’s Park?
When it opened, this area was the centre of the UK Post Office, with the magnificent grecian porticoed General Post Office on the other side of St. Martin’s Le Grand, and another big post office next door. Even the local station was called Post Office, before being renamed St Paul’s.
The new park quickly became the place where the Post Office staff had their lunch, hence the name. This quickly became the park where the staff lunched.
A memorial to Heroic Self-Sacrifice
The park also includes a very charming and unique memorial.
In order to buy and develop the new park, the wardens needed money – £13,000 in total. To raise part of this, they approached the (then very famous) painter and sculptor George Frederick Watts.
Watts had been trying to set up a memorial for everyday heroes; ordinary people who sacrificed their lives in service of others. The wardens proposed he set up his memorial in their new park, and in return he raised £3,000 of the funds they needed.
Watts memorial was to have a plaque dedicated to each hero, but he himself lived only to see the first 4 put up. A further 48 were added during his wife’s remaining life with her funding. Upon her death the Watts Gallery, who were custodians of the memorial, decided no more should be added. Since then only one has, in 2007, to Leigh Pitt, a hero from a local office.
Here are two of my favourites, if you can use such a word for a memorial:
In 1869, William Drake, a worker from Battersea, was in Hyde Park where people were riding in carriages. One contained Therese Johanne Alexandra Tietjens, the leading operatic soprano at the time. Her horses became unmanageable and William brought them under control. He unfortunately received a kick to the leg, was hospitalised and died from infection 2 days later. He was buried in a pauper’s grave. This was an injury he might have survived if he hadn’t been a pauper.
Soloman Gellman (Galaman) was the 11 year old son of a recently immigrated Jewish family living in Cable Street. He set out to walk to his grandmother’s house with his 4 year old brother, who slipped in the street in front of a moving carriage. Soloman pulled him clear but went under the wheels himself. His mother made it to the London Hospital where her son said “Mother, I am dying. Have they brought my little brother home? I saved him, but I could not save myself.”
Interestingly, his name is misspelt on the plaque, probably because his parents did not speak English.
Mark
