With the beggar is at last laid low.”
CHAPTER XVII
THE LAIRD O’ MACNAB
No collection of the national humours could be regarded as representative or complete that did not contain more than a passing reference to the Laird of Macnab, who was the hero of many a ludicrously funny story, and who, like Sir John Falstaff, was not only witty himself, but frequently the cause of wit in others. The Macnabs were originally the proprietors of extensive estates in the Highlands of Perthshire, and were sometimes styled “The Macnabs of Auchlyne,” at other times “The Macnabs of Bovain,” “The Macnabs of Kinnell,” and “The Macnabs of Glendochart.” Francis—our hero—was the last relic of the ancient, stern, feudal system. His obtrusive peculiarities were pride of family antiquity and rank, and a withering scorn of the trousered Sassenach. He was extremely poor, but was extremely proud, and, having no money to boast of, he boasted all the more of his “lang pedigree.” On this latter, indeed, he could scarcely ever speak dispassionately. As compared with the Macnabs, the Campbells and the M’Leans and such like were creatures of yesterday. These might trace their ancestral line even to the Flood, but that afforded them next to nothing in the comparison, for the Macnab, bless you—the chief of all the Macnabs—why, he had a boat of his own, and would never condescend to be beholden to Noah, or any such plebeian individual. No, no, the Macnab recognised no superior, and there were doubtless many Maister Macnabs, “but the auld black lad may hae my saul,” he would say, “if I ken but o’ ae Macnab.” How it would have roused the Laird’s ire had he lived to see the Highlands overrun with Cockney tourists—and not only so, but to see many ancient family seats passing into the hands of wealthy brewers and manufacturers—we can from his own words form some idea.
“Macnab, are you acquainted with Macloran of Dronascandlich, who has lately purchased so many acres in Inverness-shire?” asked a fellow-guest of the Laird one day at a dinner party.
“Ken wha?” burst in the Macnab, thus easily sent off on his genealogical steed. “The puddock-stool o’ a creature they ca’ Dronascandlich, wha no far bygane daured, curse him! to offer siller, sir, for an auld ancient estate, sir? An estate as auld as the Flood, sir; a hantle deal aulder, sir. Siller, sir, scrapit thegether by the miserable sinner in India, sir, not in an officer or gentleman-like way, sir; but, hang him, sir, by makin’ cart wheels and trams, sir, and barrows, and the like o’ that wretched handicraft. Ken him, sir? I ken the creature weel, and whaur he comes frae, sir; and so I ken that dumb tyke, sir, a better brute by half than a score o’ him.”
“Mercy on us, Macnab! you surprise me,” interjected the querist; “I thought from the sublime sound of his name and title, that, like yourself, he had been a chief of fifteen centuries’ standing, at least.”
“By the saul o’ the Macnabs, sir,” rejoined the Laird, snorting like a mountain whirlwind with rage at the daring comparison, “naething but yer diabolical Lowland ignorance can excuse ye for siccan profanation! Hear me, sir! It’s fifty years and mair bygane, a’e time I was at Glasgow, wanting some tyking, or Osnaburgs, or what the fiend ca’ ye them, what ye mak’ pillows and bowsters, o’? Weel, sir, I was recommended to an auld decent creature o’ a wabster, wha pickit up a miserable subsistence in the Gallowgate. I gaed east a bit past the Spoutmouth, then up a’e pair o’ stairs—twa—three—four pair o’ stairs—a perfect Tower o’ Babel in meeniature, sir. At last I quat the regions o’ stane an’ lime an’ cam’ to timmer, sir—about twenty or thirty rotten boards, that were a perfect temptation o’ Providence to venture the fit o’ a five-year-auld bairn on. I gaed in at a hole—door it was nane—and there I found a miserable anatomy—the picture o’ famine, sir; wi’ a face as white as a clout, an auld red Kilmarnock night-cap on his poor grey pow, an’ treddle, treddling awa’ wi’ his pitifu’ wizened trotters. Wha think ye, sir, was this abortion o’ a creatur—this threadbare, penniless, and parritchless scrap o’ an antediluvian wabster? This was Macloran’s grandfather, sir! This was the origin o’ Dronascandlich, sir!! And a bonnie origin for a Highland chief, by the saul o’ the Macnabs!!!”
Recognising no superior, the Laird was consequently a law unto himself, or rather claimed the right to be so. He rarely, however—never in fact—was known to concede another’s title to exception from the strictures of law and order. “Like the Laird o’ Macnab’s Volunteers,” has become a Scotch proverb, and thereby hangs the following tale, which shows that the Laird’s ideas of volunteering were as original as any Irishman’s could possibly be. When the French war broke out the Laird organised a corps of infantry, which he styled “Macnab’s Volunteers.” A kenspeckle lot they were, we may be sure; but to our tale.
One day while Lord Breadalbane was driving down Strathyre on his way from Taymouth Castle to Stirling, he encountered a horse and cart, the latter containing the living carcasses of six brawny Highlanders tied neck and heel, and the whole in charge of a cordon of armed gillies. On his lordship inquiring as to the meaning of the strange spectacle, he was informed by the kilted driver that—