Every night I come across something that makes me really sad or angry, but tonight it sparked my curiosity. While reviewing my usual ten lairs, I came across an entry for Jane Japp. As I looked into her history, I discovered she suffered from St Vitus’ Dance, also known as Sydenham’s chorea.

St Vitus’ Dance, or Sydenham’s chorea, is a neurological condition that typically develops in childhood following an infection caused by Group A beta-hemolytic streptococcus — the same bacterium responsible for rheumatic fever. The hallmark of this condition is involuntary, rapid, and irregular movements of the arms, legs, and facial muscles. It affects girls more commonly than boys and usually appears between the ages of 5 and 15.

Today, St Vitus’ Dance is generally treated with a course of penicillin. However, in the late 1890s, Jane was admitted to the asylum system, where she remained until her death in 1900.

The Bairns Lair 183 & 306

 

 

Robert Bell  Lair 271

Robert Bell – Lair 271

Robert Bell was born around 1868 in Glasgow to Robert Bell, a blacksmith, and Elizabeth Bell (née Bell). He appears to have been part of a large family, with records showing at least six sisters — Jessie (b. 1864), Annie (b. 1866), Jane (b. 1870), Elizabeth (b. 1871), Margaret (b. 1874), and Agnes (b. 1883) — and one brother, James (b. 1876). Another brother may have died young, as he does not appear in census records.

Interestingly, the 1881 census also lists another James Bell, born in 1860, living at the family home. It’s possible he was an uncle to Robert, raised as a sibling — a common occurrence in extended households of the time.

Robert’s parents were married in 1863 in Bridgeton, Glasgow. Over the decades, the family moved several times within the Glasgow and Rutherglen area:

• 1871 – 366 London Road, Calton, Glasgow

• 1881 – 11 Green Wynd, Rutherglen

• 1891 – 31 Burnhill Street, Rutherglen

• 1901 & 1911 – 34 Mill Street, Rutherglen

By 1911, only Robert (aged 43) and his father (aged 68) were living at the Mill Street address. The 1915 Valuation Roll confirms Robert senior was still the tenant there.

Robert’s mother disappears from census records after 1891, suggesting she may have passed away sometime in the 1890s.

Robert lived with clear physical and cognitive disabilities. Census entries describe him as “not strong enough for work” (1881), “born paralysed in lower limbs” (1891), and “feeble-minded” (1901). Despite these challenges, he remained with his family throughout his life, possibly cared for by his father until the older man's death. It seems likely that Robert was admitted to Hartwood Hospital shortly after becoming alone or unsupported.

Robert died within Hartwood on 5 April 1918, and was laid to rest three days later on 8 April 1918, in Lair 271.

Henry Boyce Lair 257

Catherine Thomson Weir Lair 612

One of Only Seven Headstones. One Heartbreaking Story.

Once again, our hearts are broken as we uncover yet another powerful story among the 1,255 souls laid to rest at Hartwood. This time, the story comes through an email we received from Cathy and Darren Crerar in Australia—relatives of Catherine Thomson Crerar, one of the very few individuals in the cemetery to have a headstone. What they shared is both deeply moving and a poignant reminder of how mental health and silence shaped so many lives.

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“Hiya, You can all be very proud of the work you are doing with the cemetery. We came across your group while Googling during COVID and were so excited to see the photos. We visited Hartwood in 2018 but sadly missed the cemetery—only to later discover that Darren’s great-grandmother, Catherine Thomson Crerar, is buried there in Lair 612 with a headstone.”

Catherine’s name also appears on the family memorial in Carnwath, but until recently, her story had remained largely unknown—even within her own family. There had been a long-standing belief that Catherine had died when her children were still young. In reality, she remained at Hartwood Hospital for many years. Darren’s grandfather, John Weir Crerar, Catherine’s youngest son, was told she had died when he was a boy. Tragically, he only learned the truth during a visit in 1950—just after she had passed away.

Cathy and Darren wondered who had placed the headstone, which bears only a simple tribute: “In Memory Of.” A follow-up email later confirmed that John and his brother Daniel—Catherine’s sons—were responsible. Her husband, Daniel, had passed away in 1946.

“We believe Catherine found some contentment in her situation and think she would have been very proud of her sons and all the following generations. Imagining her grave with snowdrops blooming is a comforting image.”

The family visited many of Catherine’s former homes on their 2018 journey, including:

• Westsidewood, where she was born—now a stately home.

• Cleugh Farm, Wilsontown, now operating as a B&B called The Bothy.

• Newmains Cottage, Catherine’s last known home before her long stay at Hartwood. It still stands today and is now named Dippoolbank. The gardens there have been part of the Scottish Open Gardens scheme:
  Dippoolbank Gardens

They’ve even considered purchasing something from Dippoolbank to plant in the gardens at Hartwood—an act of remembrance and connection across time and continents.

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Catherine's hospital records were detailed at first, but like many patients of the era, the entries slowly faded away as the years passed. It’s believed she never returned home, but the family noted that in 1916, during WWI, her eldest son Daniel listed her—Catherine of Newmains Cottage—as his next of kin on his military records. A flicker of connection that remained, despite everything.

“It is important to talk freely and be open about our past and share the knowledge to understand and begin the healing where it is needed.”

We are so grateful to Cathy and Darren for sharing their family's story. Catherine’s headstone is a rare and silent witness to love, resilience, and remembrance. Her story, like so many others, deserved to be known—and now it will be.

Charles McCluskey – Lair 515

Also remembered: Hugh Sharp – Lair 169

We were recently contacted by Dean, who asked if his wife Maria could visit the cemetery after they discovered that her great-grandfather, Charles McCluskey, was buried at Hartwood. Like many of the families who reach out to us, they had grown up hearing fragments of conversations—snippets whispered between adults, not meant for young ears, but remembered nonetheless. As time passes, the meaning of those words becomes clearer.

As is often the case, the historical records held some inaccuracies—possibly due to poor literacy at the time, a misheard name, or a simple clerical error. Charles was originally believed to have been born in Mid Calder, but thanks to Dean’s research and our own verification, we now know he was born in Cadder near Kirkintilloch, and we’ve confirmed his correct birth date and his wife’s maiden name.

On Thursday, Dean and Maria visited Hartwood, where we were able to pinpoint Charles’s final resting place. They planted a ranunculus in a pot near his lair and placed small butterfly decorations around it—a quiet, heartfelt tribute. Like so many visitors before them, the realisation settled in that they were probably the first family members to visit his grave in over a century.

It’s important to acknowledge the historical context. Mental health was rarely understood, and stigma ran deep. Families often didn’t know how to cope or talk about loved ones who were admitted to asylums. For many, silence seemed easier than heartbreak. But that silence didn’t mean those lives weren’t deeply felt or loved.

Dean expressed something that resonates with many:

“I do think we are lucky to find him, as many of my family ended up in common ground or paupers' graves and their exact location cannot be pinpointed. I found it surprising and comforting that the people at Hartwood took the time to number the graves and keep such detailed records.”

But their journey didn’t end there.

Dean’s continued research uncovered even more of the family’s hidden story. He found that Charles had a cousin, Hugh Sharp, who is buried in Lair 169. Hugh died a year before Charles, on 1st May 1911. He was born on 12th December 1872 in Cadder, the son of Patrick Sharp and Jane Gallacher.

Dean also discovered that Charles’s brother Edward had also been a resident at Hartwood. Edward self-admitted and was always considered “sane.” Later, Edward’s fourteen-year-old son was nearly admitted after intervention by the Tollcross Police, but was ultimately refused.

This has sparked a new line of thought for us: just how many cousins, siblings, and family connections lie quietly among the 1,255 graves at Hartwood?

Rest in peace, Charles and Hugh.
You are remembered, not just in names or numbers, but in stories finally being told.

Roseanne McIver Lowe Lair 

Also known as Rose Ann McKeever, McKever, McIver or Low
Admitted to Hartwood Asylum in 1910

As Told By Janice McCrossan 

Roseanne’s life was marked by hardship, loss, and strength in the face of unimaginable sorrow.

She married William Lowe in 1888 in Saltcoats, Ayrshire, and together they raised six sons: Robert, James, William, Thomas, Charles, and Michael.

Like so many mothers of her generation, Roseanne watched her family torn apart by war. Her sons answered the call to serve during the First World War, and the toll it took on her was immense. Two of her sons—Thomas and Charles—never came home. Her son William served in the Navy, while the rest of the family endured the daily uncertainty of wartime.

In 1910, just before the war began, Roseanne was admitted to Hartwood Asylum. Whether due to personal trauma, mental illness, or the growing strain of life’s burdens, her admission marked a turning point. We may never fully know her struggles, but we do know that grief, loss, and separation from her children likely weighed heavily on her.

In Honour of Her Sons

Private Charles Lowe
Service No. S/4126
9th Battalion, Black Watch (Royal Highlanders)
Killed in action: 25 September 1915
Commemorated at: Loos Memorial, France
Panel: 78 to 83

Private Thomas Lowe
Service No. S/10484
1st Battalion, Black Watch (Royal Highlanders)
Killed in action: 18 November 1917
Commemorated at: Tyne Cot Memorial, Belgium
Panel: 94 to 96

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Roseanne’s story is not just one of sadness—it is a reflection of the thousands of women whose silent suffering echoed through generations. Her name, along with those of her sons, now lives on through remembrance, love, and a commitment never to forget those who bore the cost of war in silence.

Rest in peace, Roseanne, Charles, and Thomas. You are remembered.

Jane Muir Symington Lair 203

Shared by her great-grandson, John

One of the most meaningful parts of our work is helping people reconnect with their ancestors—bringing stories long hidden in the shadows back into the light. Earlier today, I received a message from John, who had been searching for his great-grandmother, Jane Muir Symington. He believed she had died at Hartwood Asylum on 22 March 1914, but did not know where she was buried.

He had visited the cemetery around two years ago, unsure of her plot number. After a quick search, we were able to locate her final resting place—Lair 203, in Hartwood Cemetery.

John shared:

“Her name was Jane Muir Symington—though she was sometimes known as Jean or Jeanie. She has an interesting, if tragic, back story.

She was a single mother in 1888, at a time when that was socially unacceptable. I suspect this contributed to her being in Hartwood. She had been there from as early as 1901—very sad, really.

My mother was 93 when she first told me the story. When she was 14, her Granny sent her alone on a train to Allanton every week, carrying a white bowl of food because her mother didn’t like hospital meals. From there, she walked to the clock tower at Hartwood, where her mum was a voluntary patient for what they called ‘her nerves.’

I tried to find out more about my gran and the shock treatment she received. That’s when I discovered that my great-grandfather—her dad—had also spent most of his life in Hartwood with what was called ‘Religious Mania.’ He was buried there too.

We were told he had ‘just left.’ No one ever mentioned his name. But I found him: Edward Murphy, admitted in 1911 and died in 1939. He never left Hartwood.

It was devastating reading about him in the big leather ‘lunatic asylum book’ at the Heritage Centre in Motherwell. But now, he is remembered. It described him as ‘an agreeable, pleasant fellow.’ He wasn’t allowed out because he constantly asked to go home. They saw him as an ‘escape risk.’

He and my great-grandmother married at 16 and had one child, my gran. I have no photo of Edward. But yesterday, my daughter and I visited his grave. He finally had visitors. We brought rocks and shells from beaches around Scotland—places he never got to see.”

Jane’s life was, for many years, forgotten—her memory quietly erased by her family. But John has made it his mission to restore her name, her story, and her dignity.

Jane Muir Symington was born in Lesmahagow in 1865, the daughter of shoemaker John Symington and Janet Forrest. Her parents were married that same year, but by the 1871 census—when Jane was only six—she was no longer living with them. Instead, she was raised by her maternal grandfather, Samuel Forrest, and his family. Throughout her youth, she adopted their surname and was often recorded as a Forrest.

On 14 October 1888, at the age of 22, Jane gave birth to a daughter, Janet Forrest Symington, in Abbeygreen, Lesmahagow. No father was named on the birth certificate. However, a court decree a year later identified Andrew Brown, a labourer from Stockbriggs Farm, as the father. He vanishes from the records shortly afterward.

By 1891, Jane and her young daughter were still living with the now elderly Samuel Forrest. Life continued, marked by hardship.

In 1895, the Lanark District Asylum at Hartwood opened. By 1901, Jane—then 36 and listed as a former domestic servant—was recorded as a patient there. She died at Hartwood on 22 March 1914, aged 50. Her address was listed as Auchterteare Lodge, Lesmahagow, though it’s unclear when she last lived there. Her cause of death was recorded as Morbus Cordis (unknown) and certified by Dr Dunlop Robertson and an attendant named Haggart. Strangely, another woman died just three days later with the same diagnosis, certified by the same doctor and attendant.

Jane was buried in an unmarked grave, Lair 203, in Hartwood’s cemetery. Whether she remained in the asylum for the full 13 years, or if she was ever discharged and later re-admitted, remains unclear.

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What Became of Her Daughter, Janet?

Jane’s daughter, Janet Forrest Symington, was raised by her grandfather—or possibly great-grandfather—as the records vary. By 1908, Janet was working as a machinist and married William Shearer, a coal miner from Hamilton. On her marriage record, she declared that “Forrest” was the name she had borne since childhood—"being the name of my grandmother."

In 1913, Janet and William had a daughter, Peggy Shearer. But tragedy struck again when, in November 1916, William was reported missing and later presumed killed during the Battle of the Somme.

In 1922, Janet remarried, this time to Alexander Barr—John’s grandfather. She used both surnames: calling herself Janet Symington, but signing the marriage certificate as Janet Shearer.

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This story reminds us just how easily society once erased people—especially women—who didn’t fit the mould. But names like Jane Muir Symington matter. Her story, once buried and forgotten, now lives on thanks to the love and dedication of her great-grandson.

We are honoured to help paint a fuller picture of those buried at Hartwood. With each rediscovered life, we return dignity and identity to the 1,255 souls laid to rest here—and help their descendants reconnect with their past.

Rest in peace, Jane. You are no longer forgotten.

Agnes Wilson Lair 117 

From Number to Life

One of the most meaningful parts of our work is helping families reconnect with lost ancestors—especially those whose lives were once reduced to a number on a register. There’s nothing more rewarding than being able to say, “We’ve found them.”

In September, we were contacted by Gordon Mason, who was searching for his great-great-grandmother:

“I wonder if this lady is on your list of burials at Hartwood. This is my GG Grandmother. I've never been able to track down her grave, although the family by that point were spread across Lanarkshire and may possibly have taken her for burial closer to one of the various homes.”

After a quick check of our records, we found her: Agnes Wilson, buried in Lair 117. And with that, her story began to unfold.

Agnes had long been something of an enigma in Gordon’s family history. There were many unanswered questions—chief among them, the mysterious absence of any solid record of her alleged husband, William Wilson, ever living with the family.

Agnes first appears in the 1860s in Kirkmuirhill, Lanarkshire, having arrived from Ireland with her sister and children. She worked as a strawberry pollinator, and the children originally bore the surname McCurfill, despite Agnes identifying herself in records as the wife of William Wilson. It was not uncommon for Irish immigrants to adopt the surname Wilsonin Lanarkshire, making Agnes and William Wilson among the most difficult names to trace in the region.

Her sister and daughter later worked as house servants at Crag Lodge in Carmunnock, which was given as Agnes's home address—suggesting they may have cared for her there before she was admitted to Woodilee Asylum.

A particularly moving part of the story involves Agnes’s sister, Mary Ann, who also experienced mental health challenges. She was diagnosed with arteriosclerotic dementia but remained in a family setting, cared for by Agnes’s son, James, in his Stonehouse home, where she died a few years later. Mary Ann was laid to rest in Stonehouse Cemetery.

This contrast highlights how families often made impossible decisions: Mary Ann’s condition may have been more manageable at home, while Agnes’s may have necessitated institutional care—an all-too-common reality at the time.

Records show some inconsistencies regarding Agnes’s age. The 1861 Census lists her as 31 years old, though this varies slightly in later documents. If the 1861 figure is accurate, she would have been around 76 years old when she died on 12 October 1906. She was buried five days later, on 17 October, in Lair 117.

She rests with Elizabeth White (née Craig)—and while we have no formal layout for the cemetery, the lair number places her toward the top back corner, not far from where Princess Felice is believed to rest.

Thanks to Gordon’s persistence and our shared records, Agnes is no longer just a name on a register. Her story—once fragmented and uncertain—is now part of the rich tapestry of lives remembered at Hartwood.

Agnes Carmichael Wilson Lair 117

Agnes Carmichael Wilson was born around 1830 in County Derry, Ireland, the daughter of James Wilson and Jane King. She married William Wilson, though intriguingly, she appears in the 1861 census at Boghead near Kirkmuirhill without him. Living with Agnes were her three young children—Mary (4), Robert (3), and James (1)—all born in Ireland, indicating the family had only recently arrived in Scotland.

Also residing with them were Agnes’s elder sister Mary Ann and their younger brother James. Agnes worked as a “flowerer,” which involved hand-pollinating strawberry and tomato plants in local greenhouses. Nearby lived her mother, Jane King, with another sister, Jane, and her family.

Agnes’s brother James later married three times and established a large family in Stonehouse.

Agnes and Mary Ann eventually moved to Carmunnock, where they found employment as domestic servants or farm laborers. By 1881, the sisters were still living together, raising Mary’s three daughters—Mary had a son before marrying and having five more children later. When Mary left, the elderly sisters continued to care for her older children. By 1901, only Agnes and Mary Ann remained at home, with a 22-year-old granddaughter, Jane, working locally as a domestic servant.

Mary Ann passed away in 1902 while living with their brother James in Stonehouse; he died a year later in 1903.

In 1904, at the age of 74, Agnes was admitted to hospital, initially Woodilee Asylum, and later died in Hartwood on 12 October 1906. She is buried in Plot 117 alongside Elizabeth White (née Craig). Both Agnes and Mary Ann had arteriosclerosis, which, alongside emphysema, heart failure, and lung congestion, was listed as Agnes’s cause of death.

Agnes’s daughter Mary also died in 1906. Little is known about her sons James and Robert, but many of Mary’s children went on to marry and have families. For example, one granddaughter—my grandmother—had 16 children, almost all of whom married and produced at least 30 grandchildren, along with many great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren. Descendants of Agnes Carmichael Wilson are now scattered worldwide, from Australia to the Americas, though many remain in Scotland. It’s estimated that several hundred people worldwide can trace their lineage back to Agnes.

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Piecing Together the Final Years

In researching the timeline leading to Agnes’s death, I felt a sense of abandonment surrounding her hospital admission, especially since her death certificate made no mention of next of kin.

In the 1901 census, Agnes and Mary Ann were still living together in Carmunnock, ages recorded as 74 and 78 respectively, both listed as “former farmworkers,” likely reflecting limited or no income. A 22-year-old granddaughter, Jane, lived and worked locally but then disappears from records, possibly due to marriage or emigration. Agnes’s daughter Mary lived with her husband and children in Bridgeton.

By 1902, Mary Ann had died while living with their brother James, who died in 1903. Another sister Jane and their mother, Jane King Wilson, had also died by this time, leaving Mary as Agnes’s nearest kin. However, Mary was battling cancer while caring for her younger children and died only eight days after Agnes.

In an era before the NHS and formal social care, it’s possible that Agnes’s hospitalization provided the family some respite to focus on Mary’s care during her final months, believing Agnes was safe and looked after. The close timing of their deaths suggests a strong emotional connection between the two women.

Mary’s eldest daughter—another Agnes, and my grandmother—was responsible for registering Mary’s death. She gave Mary’s age as 40 (at least eight years younger than her actual age) and listed herself as Mary’s sister rather than daughter, continuing a family tradition of inconsistency in official records.

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Notes on Family Records and Ages

Agnes’s father is listed as James Wilson on census returns (1861, 1881, 1891, and 1901), rather than William as noted on her death certificate. James was the husband of her mother Jane King and the father of her sister and brother, as confirmed by their death certificates.

Based on census data, Agnes was born around 1830, making her approximately 76 years old at her death in 1906.

Hortense Vervoort Lair 289

We recently received a heartfelt message from a relative eager to share their family story. We always encourage this—after all, it’s their story to tell, and no permission is needed from us.

I truly admire the work you do. My 2nd great-grandmother was admitted to Hartwood, resting in Lair 289. Unfortunately, her voice was never truly heard, but I’m grateful for the chance to share her story.

Hortense Vervoort was born Horthansia Vervoort on 23 January 1892 to Joannes Baptista Vervoort and Joanne Maria Mertens. She was the youngest of six siblings. Her father died when she was only seven years old. Hortense grew up on a farm in Antwerp, Belgium. (A photo of Hortense accompanies this story.)

She married Julius Van Megroot on 21 December 1913, and we believe she was happy at first.

When Germany invaded Belgium in 1914, Hortense became a Belgian refugee and fled from Antwerp to Glasgow. She arrived in Glasgow in March 1915, seven months pregnant and alone. Julius was a Belgian soldier fighting in France. Hortense had no family in Glasgow and spoke very little English.

She gave birth to a baby boy, Albert, on 9 June 1915.

Shortly after, on 22 June 1915, Hortense was admitted to Renfrew District Asylum. Her diagnosis was recorded as "person of unsound mind." On 6 January 1916, she was transferred to Lanark District Asylum (Hartwood), where she remained until her death on 7 March 1919.

According to her admission notes, she was considered suicidal and dangerous to others, and it was believed she would remain in the asylum indefinitely.

During her stay, Julius never visited her. The only visitors she had were representatives from Belgian charities who offered comfort and financial assistance. It is understood that Hortense suffered from postnatal depression and desperately needed a friend.

Reports noted that she showed little or no interest in her infant, refused nourishment, and was anxious about her husband, who was fighting at the front. There were rumors that Julius was having an affair with a German woman, leading Hortense to believe she had been abandoned.

While at the asylum, Hortense was described as extremely emotional, often crying out and weeping hysterically. Unable to understand her condition, doctors confined her to bed for days at a time, during which she developed several bedsores.

After nearly three years in the asylum, Hortense died on 7 March 1919 from disseminated tuberculosis.

Following her death, Julius and their son Albert—who would have been nearly four years old—emigrated to Canada.

With kind regards,
Charlotte

Rest in peace, Hortense.

Jock O'Law 

Robert Yuill Lair 130 

Perhaps one of the greatest tragedies of the so-called “golden age” of large public asylums is the countless children who died within their walls. Many children were committed to these institutions, though very few were truly mentally ill.

Children with epilepsy, developmental disabilities, and other conditions were often institutionalized simply to remove them from their families’ care. These children were subjected to the same harsh treatments as adults, including brutal methods such as branding. Due to the security measures and the stigmas of the era, children committed involuntarily were rarely visited by family members, leaving their treatment unchecked and without outside oversight.

Given these bleak circumstances, it is perhaps unsurprising that children experienced unusually high mortality rates in large state-run asylums. Some deaths may have resulted naturally from untreated or poorly managed epilepsy, but one must wonder how many others were caused by abuse, suicide, infections such as malaria, and the myriad other dangers endured in these institutions.

The early 20th-century obsession with eugenics added another horrifying layer to this tragedy. Intellectually disabled children and those deemed “racially impure” were institutionalized as part of society’s cruel attempt to “cleanse” itself of those considered undesirable.

Thankfully, times have changed, but the journey toward acceptance and compassion must continue.

Research by Liz Smullen uncovered the story of Robert Yuill, buried in Lair 130. Robert was institutionalized at age seven. His records noted that while he could do some things for himself, he needed assistance with others. Born out of wedlock in the early 1900s, this may have influenced the path taken for him. He lived in an institution in Larbert before becoming a patient at Hartwood as a teenager. Over the years, his behavior deteriorated until he was described simply as a “clappy, happy, drooling young man.”

One haunting observation noted no change in his condition one day—and the very next day recorded that he had died. No detailed explanation was given for his death at just 26 years old.

It is heartbreaking to imagine that Robert was a lonely, frightened boy, separated from his family by the parish council. The treatments he endured, along with isolation, likely had a devastating impact on him. He was probably among the first patients at Hartwood Hospital, and as a family, we were deeply saddened to learn his story.

We are incredibly grateful to the team who located his grave, and a marker has now been placed in his memory—so that Robert may finally know he is not forgotten.

Our Polish Princess Lair 

A tale of riches to rags