History
Extracted from Bobbysimpson.org.uk
In a secluded enclosure within the grounds of Hartwood Hospital, there is a cemetery where there are interred 1,255 bodies, all but three of whom were patients of Hartwood Hospital. Some were private patients, but the overwhelming majority are recorded as being pauper lunatics.
Each grave tells its own tragic story.
History of the Cemetery
Some people think graveyard and cemetery mean the same, I did, but, if we want to be a little nitpicky, we should say that a graveyard is a type of cemetery, but a cemetery is usually not a graveyard. Confused?
To understand the difference, we need a little bit of history.
From about the 7th century C.E., the process of burial was firmly in the hands of the Church and burying the dead was only allowed on the lands near a church (now referring to the building), the so-called churchyard.
The part of the churchyard used for burial was called graveyard.
As the population of Europe started to grow, the capacity of graveyards was no longer sufficient (the population of modern Europe is almost 40 times higher than it was in the 7th century). By the end of the 18th century, the unsustainability of church burials became apparent and completely new places for burying people, independent of graveyards, appeared and these were called cemeteries.
The etymology of the two words is also quite intriguing. The origin of “graveyard” is rather obvious: it is a yard filled with graves. However, you might be surprised to hear that “grave” comes from Proto-Germanic *graban, meaning “to dig”, and it is related to “groove” but not to “gravel”.
course, the word “cemetery” did not appear out of the blue when graveyards started to burst at the seams. It comes from the Old French cimetière, which meant, well, graveyard. Nevertheless, the French word originally comes from the Greek koimeterion, meaning “a sleeping place”.
So going by that, we have a cemetery, but I prefer koimeterion as I often refer to these souls as resting or sleeping.
The Hallow Ground
The Lanarkshire Lunatic Asylum officially opened its doors on 14th May 1895 in Hartwood, and just a few months later, on 24th August, the adjoining cemetery received its first burial.
Within this cemetery lie 1,255 identified souls, interred in 634 graves. The ages of the deceased range from just 6 days old to a reported 115 years, as recorded in the official registers. Each lair was dug to a depth of five feet. Reflecting strict Victorian values, men and women were never buried together, and while most graves contain two individuals, a few hold three.
Today, most of these graves remain unmarked, save for the occasional cast iron marker bearing only a lair number—some of which still survive, weathered by time. The final burial took place on 11th April 1952, when the cemetery reached capacity, bringing to a close 56 years of active use.
Despite the simplicity of the funerals, records suggest they were conducted with some dignity.
There were a few coffins, with the majority being buried in shrouds, and services were short, some attended only by a clergyman and the gravedigger.
Contrary to persistent legends, there is no evidence of mass or undignified burials.
Many factors contributed to families not reclaiming the remains of loved ones. In some cases, poverty made travel or burial arrangements impossible. In others, the stigma of having a relative in an asylum led to silence or erasure. And sadly, some patients were simply forgotten over time, their identities and connections lost through the long years of institutionalisation.
Today, as we remember those buried here, we honour their lives and stories—ensuring they are not forgotten again.
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Hartwood Asylum Cemetery: Honouring the Forgotten Lives
The Lanarkshire Lunatic Asylum officially opened its doors in Hartwood on 14th May 1895. Just a few months later, on 24th August, the adjoining cemetery received its first burial.
Within these grounds lie 1,255 identified individuals, interred in 634 graves. According to the official registers, their ages ranged from just six days old to a reported 115 years. Each lair was dug to a depth of five feet. In line with strict Victorian morality, men and women were never buried together. Most graves contain two individuals, though a few hold three.
Today, the vast majority of these graves remain unmarked—distinguished only by the occasional cast iron marker bearing a lair number, some of which still endure, worn by time and weather. The final burial took place on 11th April 1952, when the cemetery reached capacity, bringing to an end 56 years of use.
Though the funerals were modest, records suggest they were carried out with a measure of dignity. Most of the deceased were buried in shrouds rather than coffins. Services were brief and often attended only by a clergyman and the gravedigger.
Despite persistent myths, there is no evidence of mass or undignified burials in this cemetery. Many factors contributed to families not reclaiming the remains of their loved ones. In some cases, poverty made travel or funeral arrangements impossible. In others, the stigma of having a relative in an asylum led to silence or erasure. Tragically, some patients were simply forgotten—lost to the long, isolating years of institutionalisation.
Today, as we remember those buried here, we honour their lives and stories. Though they may no longer have a voice, we carry the responsibility to ensure they are remembered with the dignity and respect they were too often denied in life.
Society's understanding of mental illness has evolved greatly—and continues to do so—as we strive to dismantle the stigma that has long surrounded it. It falls to us to keep breaking down the barriers of fear and misunderstanding, to foster hope, and to build safe, supportive, and empowering environments for those affected by mental ill-health today.
Looking back, it’s clear that those who suffered were too often subjected to experimentation rather than genuine care. Were the treatments cruel, or necessary? The uncomfortable truth is—they were often both. Advances in psychiatric care were made possible through the pioneering work of those who came before us, but that progress came at a great human cost. Generations of people were denied agency, subjected to invasive procedures, and treated not as patients in need of compassion, but as subjects of study.
For the trauma endured within asylum walls, we owe a solemn apology—and a deep commitment to remember, to reflect, and to learn from the past.
Over the past two centuries, mental health care has undergone profound change: moving from a system rooted in isolation and institutionalisation to one increasingly focused on compassion, understanding, and community-based support. It is our duty to honour that journey—not only through remembrance, but through continued advocacy for humane treatment, dignity, and inclusion. Only then can we ensure that the mistakes of the past are never repeated—and that every individual is treated with the care and respect they deserve.
Sometimes, the causes of mental ill-health seem clear—bereavement, poverty, abuse, marital breakdown, or other life-altering events. Yet, both then and now, the root causes often remain elusive. Some patients were admitted multiple times, which may be interpreted as a failure of the asylum system. But this view reflects a misunderstanding of mental health.
Like physical health, mental well-being can fluctuate throughout a person’s life. Many of those admitted likely lived with conditions that had no cure, but were cyclical in nature. In that context, the so-called “revolving door” of the asylum was not a failure, but a lifeline—a place of safety during times of crisis, and a source of much-needed respite for families.