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Inchmahome, the subject of the present volume, is a
beautiful little island, of about five acres in extent, situated near
the centre of the Lake of Monteith, beautifully-adorned with trees, and
contains the ruins of one of the most ancient priories in Scotland. The
Lake of Monteith is a beautiful sheet of water, near the south-western
extremity of Perthshire. Situated in one of Scotland’s fairest vales,
and adorned with three isolated islands, this charming lake becomes at
once an object of placid beauty, surrounded by a touch of real grandeur.
On the north, tower the heath-clad hills of Monteith, the home of the
wild cat and the eagle—the abode of the wolf and wild boar of old—the
hiding-place of the outlaw and war-chief of other days. Here the kilted
warrior met his steel-clad foe; for,
“Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from their Highland height,
The Scottish clans, in headlong sway,
Had swept the scarlet ranks away;”
when the fern-covered rocks re-echoed with all the
thunders of war—sounds long since chased away by the music of the
herdsman’s pipe, or the song of the shepherd’s daughter. On the west,
are the rugged passes and scattered crags of Aberfoyle, with the
heath-capped hills of the country of Rob Roy. On the south, are the dark
forests of Cardross, where the roe roams free and the ospray rears her
young; and on the east, mansions dot its pebbled shores, with the lone
country highway winding along the sandy beach, like a huge native adder
in its coils, cooling its poisoned tongue in the silvery waters. Landing
on Inchmahome, one hundred feet from the shore, the Priory looms before
you in gloomy grandeur, the melancholy wreck of its former glory—hoary,
holy pile, gray with age, crumbling to decay before Time’s withering
hand, but still a monument of the zeal and industry of its early
founders!
The eastern gable of the Priory is thirty feet wide and
three storeys high, and is supported by strong buttresses. There' is one
beautiful window in this portion of the building. It looks towards the
lake, and the arches, five in number, are still standing.
The north wall is one hundred feet long, from the eastern
gable to what is called the “Bell Tower,” and twenty-one feet again from
the corner of the tower to the western gable. This wall has four
windows; these, however, are of plain workmanship. The north door,
situated near the centre of the building, is also of plain work. The
holy water basin stood at the north corner of the entrance-hall, leading
up towards the grand altar; and from this point there seems to have been
a direct communication with the Nunnery, situated on a more southern
portion of the Island, and it appears to have been arched over, as part
of the arches still remain. The holy water basin was a beautiful relic
of the past, and might long have remained to point the mind back to the
days that are gone, had not an ignorant native taken it into his head
that money was concealed below it, and smashed it to pieces. The marks
of this murderous pick are still visible. This basin was hewn out of
solid stone, beautifully ornamented; and, until recently destroyed, was
as perfect as when it left the chisel, seven hundred years ago.
Between the corner, where stand the remains of the basin,
and the “ Bell Tower,” there had originally been four arched gateways,
complete trophies of the exquisite chisel of the mason of old. Two of
these alone now remain, but are sufficient to convince us of their
beautiful and delicate workmanship. An image, in a most entire state,
stands on a broken arch near to the tower, and is said to represent St.
Colmicus. This stone was found a few years ago, imbedded among the
ruins, and placed in its present position by the proprietor.
The Bell Tower appears to have been of later construction
than the Priory, as one of the aforementioned arches is completely
covered by it, the tower having been built in its direct front. This
building is twelve feet square inside, and is four storeys high. The top
was reached by a winding stair; and, from the “Bellman’s window,” a fine
view of lake and mountain scenery could be had. The lower portion was
used by the last Earls as a dungeon.
The western gable is thirty feet wide; and the principal
object of attraction is the main gateway, a perfect triumph of Gothic
architecture, which displays, in a wonderful degree, the perfection of
ancient masonic art. There is here an exhibition of masonic skill rarely
to be met with, even in old monastic buildings. Being much exposed to
the weather, however, the fine grooving and minute chisel work are
slowly but surely crumbling away. The wall over the archway has been
adorned with five images, but the ravages of time have very nearly
defaced them. One or two of these are entirely worn off, but on the
remainder, the faint outlines of a face can yet be traced. The doorway
is twelve feet high and six feet wide; and, in our boyish days, some
large trees had their roots on the ruined wall immediately above, and
spread their gray antlers wide to the breeze, but these have been cut
down to preserve the building. One large root still, like a mighty
serpent, creeps among the aged stones, and hides its head in waving
ferns.
A considerable portion of the south wall has succumbed to
time, and has fallen down several feet. This is much to be regretted, as
it gives a sort of ragged appearance to the otherwise entire building.
There have been four arched windows in this portion of the building. Two
of these, however, have been thrown down, but the remaining two prove
that they were moulded by the same cunning hand that adorned other parts
of this ancient edifice.
The choir of the church has long been used as a
burying-ground, probably for five or six hundred years; and here repose
the dust of earls and chiefs of clans, and men who, in days long gone
by, had measured lances on the hillside, when clan met clan in deadly
feud. We enter the “lonely biggin’,” and, as the massive gate reels back
on its hinges, ravens croak and owls flap their wings. Hush, ye tenants
of the air! ye disturb the slumbers of the “ mighty dead.” We step
lightly, for we are treading on the dust of heroes of other days. It
requires no marble slab on the ruined wall to tell of your ancient
glory: the dark and misty track of five hundred years has failed to
efface it—the memory of the Stewart, the Drummond, and De Graeme can
never perish! Here, below each moss-covered stone, are men of fame and
graves of historic renown. Before us, in “sculptured stone,” arm in am
with his Countess, rests the hero of Largs; on our left, ar the graves
of the Grahams of Gartur, Phaedal, Rednock, Leechtown, and Soyock; on
our right, the Grahams of Gartmore, Glenny, Mondhuie; and, close to the
north wall, sleep the founders of the ducal house of Drummond, the
descendants of the Hanoverian King. And here too (but, dear reader, only
whisper it!) rest the ashes of Sir John Menteith, the betrayer of
Wallace; but all trace of his grave has been lost—in fact, wilfully
forgotten.
A few yards south of the Priory stands the burying vault
of the last Earls of Menteith and Airth. This has been a two-storey
building, with arched vaults, the latter being seated round with hewn
stone. There are two very entire windows in this building, the one of
three arches, the other of two. The entrance to the vault was by a grand
arched hall, one hundred feet long, and led. in from the west. On each
side of the gateway stood the crests of the Earls of Menteith and Airth.
Adjoining the aforementioned vault, and on the south
side, stand the ruins of a large nunnery, said to be the oldest building
on the island. It measures nearly one hundred feet long, and the lower
storey has been arched over. One of the apartments, the kitchen, is
still standing —the large chimney and fireplace being very entire. The
windings of a stair which has reached to some high portion of the
building can also be traced.
On the south-western portion of the island, and
surrounded by a broken-down wall, is the original flower garden of the
Earls of Menteith. This plot of ground is thirty-five yards square, and
in the centre stands a fine old boxwood tree, said to have been planted
by Queen Mary. Notwithstanding its having weathered the storm of ages,
it is in a fine healthy and growing state. This tree measures upwards of
three feet in circumference, and has beautifully spread branches.
On a gentle rising knoll, at the western side of the
aforementioned flower-plot, stands what is called “Queen Mary’s Bower,”
said to have been planted by her own tiny hand; and such a spot could
only be chosen by a Queen. This most interesting little spot measures
thirty-three yards round the outside, and was originally adorned with a
row of boxwood trees, planted at regular intervals, with a thorn in the
centre; but through neglect, the plun-
This building is traditionally called “ The Nunnery,” but
for what reason I cannot discover, there being no note in history that
there had ever been a nunnery or nuns on the island. Graham of Duchray
says it was the “dwellings of the churchmen.” dering of tourists, and
the blasts of three hundred years, only five of those hallowed relics of
the past wave their green heads over the ancient playground of the Royal
Maiden. Several years ago, the thorn succumbed to the gale, but happily
a tender shoot sprung from the torn roots, and now stands, like a young
queen, on the spot where its parent stood of old. A neat modern railing
now secures this sacred spot from profane hands, and a row of young
boxwood from the parent stems grows green around it. We linger long near
this ancient bower, the only living emblem of a long unhappy past; for
our fancy delights to roam amid such scenes, and wander back to the time
When monarchs, far from din of court,
Did to thy fairy shades resort;
And maiden queens, with joyous smile,
Sported through the sylvan isle.
A gentle eminence, on the south-eastern corner of the
island, bears the name of the “ Nuns’ Hill;” and on this knoll, it is
said, the nuns used to disport themselves, and gather pebbles on the
shore, during the intervals of their holy functions. A communication
from the Nunnery—by a walk, guarded on each side by high walls,
[Nun's Hill. Universal tradition sets this knoll down as
the “Nuns’ Hill,” and the tradition regarding it is a rather singular
one. A nun, who having fallen in love with a son of one of the first
Earls of Menteith, resolved to throw aside the veil, break her vow, and
leave the dungeons of Cambuskenneth for the sweets of Talla. A meeting
had been arranged on this particular spot, and a boat provided on the
eastern shore to take the nun to Inchmahome. But alas for love! a
neighbouring clan invaded the Earl’s domain, and leading his father’s
clansmen against the foe, the brave youth fell on the dark braes of
Mondhuie. In his last moments, the youth unconsciously divulged to his
confessor his meeting with the nun. Enraged at the insult offered to his
church, the cruel monk resolved to be revenged. Disguised as the young
nobleman, he watched the arrival of the runaway nun. Well, ’twas a clear
moonlight night when the monk threw aside the gown and cowl for a
warrior’s dress, and took his place on the appointed spot. By-and-by a
small black speck is seen on the Inchie shore; ’twas the nun in her
lover’s boat. She, footsore and weary, had trod the plain from Stirling
to the lake, and was now pushing her scallop over the tiny waves.
Shortly the boat touched the sand, and the fair lady sprang into her
supposed lover’s arms; but, alas! it was only to be hurled back to
perish in the blue waters. Next day the monks on the island had the body
taken from the lake, and interred in an upright posture on the
knoll—hence the “Nun’s Hill.” A large stone near the top of the hill
marks the supposed spot. At a certain hour in the evening, tradition
says, a dark figure may yet be seen treading the “Nuns’ Hill.” ]
and still called the “Nuns’ Walk”—led to this place of
retirement, and completely screened them from the vulgar gaze. This
mound appears to have been partly natural and partly artificial. It has
finely sloping sides, with flat top, and a large oak tree spreads its
withered arms around its summit; while, at the east side, a beautiful
specimen of native fir hangs its green tresses over the ancient walk,
once trod by holy feet alone.
Between a point on the south side of the island and the
adjacent “Talla” or “Earl’s Isle,” there is an echo that will repeat
several words at a time; and oft has this “hollow sound” returned the
holy voice of a monk or nun, and sent back the thundering tones of a
belted knight or warrior, or whispered from isle to isle the lisping
accents of the virgin Queen, as the fairy thing sported along the
pebbled shore.
The Island of Inchmahome is beautifully wooded; many of
the trees have attained an immense size, and have spread their antlered
heads for ages over its hallowed soil. A number of these monarchs of the
forest have yielded to the gale, and their gigantic trunks lie scattered
over the soil that gave them birth, telling the spectator that the most
noble of earth’s productions will eventually pass away. The western half
of the island united with “Talla,” the Earl’s residence, to form the
Earl’s demesne; and, but a few years ago, Inchmahome could boast of a
rare and beautiful orchard, but which has unfortunately been allowed to
fall into decay. The tourist no longer looks upon the trees beneath
whose boughs earls roamed, or monarchal hands plucked the golden fruit.
Brighter' days, however, are dawning on the “ Isle of rest;” and we
trust that the good work of restoration already begun will go on until
every breach be repaired, and the rubbish, that lies scattered like the
wreck after a debauch, be swept away.
There is much in Inchmahome for the instruction of the
tourist, the study of the geologist, and the admiration of the
antiquarian. As a place of beauty and retirement— where Nature has
richly displayed her varied charms— combined with the ever hallowed
associations that are heard in every echo, that linger in every glen,
that rest on the .heathery hillside, and are wafted back by every balmy
breeze which floats around its shores — the Lake of Monteith, and the
fairy islands that nestle on its bosom, stand alone in their glory.
The era of monasteries is a date long gone by, “far off
and dim,” a story of an early age; and it is only when we look back
along the dark and misty track of history, that we ever and anon get a
glimpse of the time when those “oases in the natural and moral
wilderness” reared their heads throughout the dark corners of our land.
We must note the era of these as the dawn of civilisation among a
warlike and savage people, and in those dark ages they must have spread
a healthful influence around them. The monks tilled the soil, and the
peasants followed their example. At early dawn and dewy eve they chanted
the praises of God; and warriors, attired only in their kilts, with
naked swords, bowed their heads to listen. By their example, industry
was promoted, and holy religion spread throughout the land. But, alas!
time changed with the roll of centuries, and, through the gifts of the
great and the good, monasteries swelled into magnificence. Instead of
“growing in grace,” however, they became the abodes of revelry, riot,
and dissipation; their glory faded; and the day arrived when they had to
be swept from the earth as an abomination, and only left behind them
those noble weeks — standing stark, like gigantic skeletons — the wonder
and admiration of later years.
The Monastery of Inchmahome is the very earliest
Augustinian monastery in Scotland, and was an extensive and noted one,
the existing ruins bearing proof of its once ancient grandeur. The
Priory was founded by Edgar, King of Scotland, who succeeded to the
throne on the death of his father, Malcolm III., in the year 1098. The
Priory belonged to the Canons regular of the Augustinian order; it was
originally connected with the Abbey of Cambuskenneth, and had four
dependent chapels. It does not appear that Edgar did more than establish
religious men on the island during his reign, for it is certain that the
church at least was either erected or rebuilt by Walter Cumyn, Lord of
Badenoch, who married the eldest daughter of the Earl of Menteith. And
from the document authorising Cumyn to build a religious house on the
island, it appears that it was originally in the diocese of Dunblane;
for, says that paper, “the said Bishop of Dunblane, in the name of his
church, for himself and all his successors, shall renounce all right
which the said bishops or their predecessors, in the name of the church
of Dunblane, have, had, or might or could have, in lands, or money-rents
received from lands, and in all revenues and rents annually drawn in
name of pensions from the church of the Earldom of Menteith.”
Inchmahome was united by James IV. to the Chapel Royal of
Stirling, but was afterwards dissolved from the College, and bestowed by
James V. on John Erskine, third son of Lord Erskine. Erskine having
outlived his brothers, succeeded his father as Lord Erskine. He
afterwards acquired the title of Earl of Mar, and was elected Regent of
Scotland. It appears from an Act in the reign of James VI., that
Cardross, in Monteith, belonged to the Priory; for, according to said
Act, entitled “Act of annexation of Forfaulted Landis and Rentis to the
Crown,” the lands of Cardross are therein described as “feu lands of
Inchmahome.”
That Inchmahome had long been an occasional royal
residence is fully authenticated by history. We find from Buchanan that
Duncan II., King of Scotland, was murdered here in the year 1094, by
M'ender, the Earl of Mearns. M'ender was bribed by Donald Bane, the
deposed monarch, to assassinate his king, and being a factious nobleman,
marched to Monteith, under the cloud of night, and succeeded in killing
Duncan and afterwards making his escape. Tradition asserts that King
Edgar, who reigned from the year 1098 to 1107, resided frequently on the
island. There is, however, no other historical notice of royalty having
been on the island till Bruce’s visit on the 15th of April 1310, and it
was then the scene of his issuing some royal prerogatives. One of these
is the confiscating of all the goods, moveable and immoveable, of John
de Pollox, who is described as an enemy of the King; and concludes,
“Given at the island of Saint Colmocus, the fifteenth day of April, in
the year of grace one thousand three hundred and ten, and fifth year of
our reign.” Queen Mary was carried to Inchmahome by her guardian, the
Marquis of Montrose, and Lord Erskine, immediately after the battle of
Pinkie, in September 1544. It is not correctly known how long Mary
resided here, but there is a space of three months from the date of
Pinkie to the time when she sailed from Dumbarton for France, and it is
generally believed that the most of that time was spent on Inchmahome,
where she planted the boxwood bower that still retains the name of its
royal founder.
James VI. is said to have been the last crowned head that
sought the sweets of retirement in Inchmahome, and this is supposed to
have been when the King was on a visit to his old class-fellow, the Earl
of Mar, at Cardross House.
Among the many royal sports practised on the Island of
Inchmahome, none is said to have been so popular with the “ crowned
heads,” as that of fishing with geese. This singular and original mode
gave much amusement to the spectators, and was of a most interesting
kind. A number of geese were let loose upon the lake, each having a line
with hook and bait attached to its leg. The poor goose would not proceed
far before some huge pike would pounce upon the bait, and then began
“the tug of war.” As soon as the fish found itself hooked, it would dart
far amid the blue waters, dragging the unwary goose below the
surface; but, instantly recovering itself, the noble fowl would flap
,his wings and make the vain endeavour to fly off, but would be again
and again drawn back. By-and-by, however, the distinguished member of
the farm-yard would prove too much for its adversary, and the
floundering pike would be landed in triumph.
Interesting as every spot on the Island of Inchmahome
is—its^ ruined walls, its “sky-roofed halls,” the King’s walks, and the
Queen’s garden,—yet there is none so full of deep interest, and that
tends to carry the mind back to the dark vista of time when the mantle
of oppression hung its thick and sable folds deep around1 Scotland, than
the last resting-place of the heroes of other days. Side by side sleep
those early champions—warriors who had robed themselves in martial glory
in their country’s cause; and though many of them live but in tradition,
and on the stones that cover them, their memory will for ever find a
place in the bosom of an ever-grateful native population.
The first grave that attracts attention, is one
immediately in front of the entrance-gate, consisting of two figures in
sculptured stone, executed in bas-relief, representing Walter Stewart
and his Countess. This Walter Stewart was son of Alexander, the High
Steward of Scotland. He • married the second daughter of the Earl of
Menteith, and succeeded to the Earldom on the death of Comyn, who was
married to the eldest daughter. The historian of the house of Buchanan
asserts that he was married to the heiress of Comyn. This Walter Stewart
was a very prominent man of his time, and took part in all the leading
incidents of the day. He commanded a part of the army at the battle of
Largs, when Haco, King of Norway, invaded Scotland, in 1213. He was a
distinguished Crusader under Louis IX. of France; and was one of the
arbiters on the part of Bruce, in his competition for the crown with
John Baliol. Walter had two sons, Murdoch, his successor, and Sir John
Menteith of Rusky, the betrayer of Sir William Wallace, and the ancestor
of all those of the surname of Menteith. There is here, perhaps, the
greatest contrast between a father and son to be found in the history of
this or any other country. The father, it would seem, during the whole
tenor of his days, had but one grand object next his heart—the welfare
of his heartbroken bleeding country; and the strength of his interest
and the prowess of his arm were used in securing for Scotland her lawful
rights, and ridding her shores of foreign oppressors;—the son selling,
for a paltry reward, the greatest hero that ever trod its soil!
The next spot that attracts attention, is the last
resting-place of the illustrious members of the house of Drummond —the
tombstone being of the most ancient and interesting kind. This
remarkable stone is executed in bas-relief, and the carving represents
the figure of a knight in full armour, accompanied by the archangel
Michael, and St. Colmocus trampling on the dragon. The inscription is
much wasted by its great age; and, by the gross carelessness of those in
charge of the island some years ago, the stone unfortunately got broken.
It reads thus:— “John of Drumod, son of Malcolm of Drumod. His widow,
that she may loose their souls from punishment and the sting.” The
intelligent reader will understand that “ Drumod” is the ancient Celtic
pronunciation of Drummond. This stone is proof that the Priory was
dedicated to St. Michael; and St. Michael’s fair used to be held on the
farm of Miling, on the shores of the lake. Sir John Drummond,
represented on this stone, was son-in-law of Walter Stewart, Earl of
Menteith, and brother-in-law to Sir John, the betrayer. Sir John
succeeded his father about the year 1278. He was said to have been a man
“of great parts and influence.” He was the eighth chief of his family,
and Thane or Earl of Lennox. At the hot discussions and violent contests
that raged in Scotland about the succession of Alexander III., he took a
prominent part in Bruce’s cause. His son Malcolm was a keen supporter of
Robert Bruce, and distinguished for his opposition to the English king.
Malcolm was, however, taken prisoner in the year 1301, by John Seagrave;
and so great was the joy of the English monarch, that, on the 25 th of
October of the same year, he offered public thanks in the Cathedral of
Glasgow for the “good news.” Sir Malcolm was, on this occasion,
compelled to swear fidelity to Edward, and was afterwards set at
liberty. On his return to Monteith, however, he renounced all alliance
with the English king, and repaired at once, with his vassals, to the
standard of Bruce; and thus we find him once more face to face with his
old enemy. He afterwards took a prominent part in the battle of
Bannockburn, which resulted so disastrously to the English. Immediately
after the battle, he was gifted with extensive grants of lands; and
being of a very pious turn of mind, he conferred upon the Priory of
Inchmahome his estate of Cardross.
There was another true defender of his country, Sir John,
son of the above Malcolm Drummond. This Sir John had a mortal hatred of
his cousins, the Menteiths of Rusky, the grandsons of the betrayer. And
it requires no great stretch of fancy to imagine how this would occur,
seeing that the family of the Drummonds were warm adherents of their
country, and the others its mortal and direst enemies. Whether it was to
revenge his own private quarrel, or for the purpose of punishing the
Menteith family for the disloyalty and the disgrace brought upon the
country, we have no means of knowing, but history affords us a clue to
the terrible results. The traditions of the country are, however, that
it was a bold and determined plan, on the part of Drummond, to destroy,
at once and for ever, every seed of the obnoxious family. Accordingly,
early in the year 1360, he attacked the Menteiths near Rusky, with a
strong band of his chosen vassals. The Menteiths collected in strong
force to defend themselves, but were unable to cope with the fierce
character of Drummond, and they received at his hand a terrible
chastisement, three out of five brothers of the Menteiths being slain,
besides a great number of their followers. Some short time after this
deadly fray, an agreement was effected between the families, and Sir
John Drummond renounced to the youngest of the two surviving brothers of
the Menteiths, as compensation for the slaughter, the estate of
Roseneath. The treaty between the chiefs of the two families, is dated
“Banks of the Forth, near Strivelyn, 17th May 1360.” Sir John was
married to the heiress of Montifex, and their only daughter was the
accomplished Queen of Robert III., and said to have been born at
Drumnacaistal, near Drymen, and for which the people of Drymen ought to
feel justly proud.
“The Story of the Drummonds,” as it is called in
tradition, is a curious and singular one, and had a very important
bearing on the early history of Scotland.
During the reign of Malcolm III. of Scotland, there was
staying at the Court of the King of England a young foreign prince, the
son of the King of Hungary. He was pious, young, and brave, and was a
great favourite at Court. The King, too, had an only daughter, the
affianced bride of the King of Scotland; and when the time drew near
when she was to leave her home and her fatherland, to become the Queen
of the northern monarch, Maurice, “the young Hun,” as he was called,
being soldier and sailor as well, was selected chief of the staff that
was to escort the fair maiden to her distant home. With tears in his
eyes, and his heart at the breaking, the old monarch handed his young
daughter over to the charge of the prince, and he sailed away from
England’s shore. When the maiden’s heart grew weary, and longed for her
father’s Court, he cheered her up with hope, told her stories of love,
and sung the war hymns of his native land. All went well, and at last
the shores of old Scotia dawned in view. It was the last night at sea;
the sun sank behind the still waters with unusual splendour; and all but
one spoke of a happy landing on the shores of their new home. There was
one old sailor there who shook his head, stroked his grey beard, and
whispered doubts of the morrow, as he scanned the western sky. During
the night all was still; but in early morn the stillness awoke into a
breeze, the breeze broke into a storm, and with daylight came the
hurricane, and all around was tempest and roaring sea. The wild waves
rolled, the wind howled, and the sails flapped; while the frail bark
creaked from stem to stem, and drifted fast ashore.
Hope fled from every breast. Behind was the raging sea;
before, the rugged rocks; around was heard the cries of drowning
sailors, the crash of falling masts, and the din of floating timber.
Calm and unruffled stood the young Hun, with the tender maiden half dead
in his arms. One wave rolled past; and he gazed at it, but hesitated.
Another, greater than the first, came rolling on; but still he only
looked on its foaming surface. Another, greater than the two, came
hissing after; and, lifting his heart to Him who had brought him safe
from fiery foe and battle-field, he sprang amid the angry tide and was
rolled ashore, and, with the grasp of despair, clutching the rock, and
dragging himself and the unconscious maid up on to the crags, he landed
England’s Princess and Scotland’s Queen safe on land.
He took the three waves for his coat of arms, and for his
bravery he received from the Scotch King extensive grants of lands. So
says tradition; history tells the rest. He was gifted by King Malcolm
with the lands of Drummond, and was afterwards known as Maurice De,
Drummond. All the early chiefs of the house of Drummond are interred in
the choir of Inchmahome. There is another remarkable gravestone in the
choir, it is also executed in bas-relief, and bears the arms of the
Grahams, with the following initials carved upon it, “ G. D. E. D.”
being the initial letters of the words “Gloria Deo Esto Data;“ Let glory
be inscribed to God.” This stone is also of antiquity, and appears to
have been the burying-place of the first Earls of the name of Graham.
He had also Cardross, Balfron, and Roseneath. |
