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—
“Tem are six tam scoundrels, my Lort, that refuse to pe the Laird o’
Macnab’s Volunteers, and we’re just takin’ tem doon to Stirling, ta curst
hallions tat ta are, to see if ta cauld steel will mak’ tem do their
duty.”
This is quite as good as the wife’s request to her husband to “gang awa
quietly and be hangit, and no anger the Laird.”
Speaking of the Laird and his volunteers calls to memory an episode
which exhibits our hero in the character of a strategist of the first
water. Macnab was proceeding from the West, on one occasion, towards
Dunfermline, in charge of a company of the Breadalbane Fencibles.
In those days, the Highlanders were notorious for their smuggling
propensities, and an excursion to the Lowlands, whatever might be its
cause or import, was an opportunity by no means to be neglected. The
Breadalbane men, accordingly, contrived to store a considerable quantity
of the genuine “peat reek” into the baggage carts. On the party reaching
Alloa, the excisemen located therein got a hint as to the contents of
the carts, so hurried out and intercepted them. Meanwhile, Macnab,
accompanied by a gillie, in true feudal style, was proceeding slowly at
the head of his men, and the intelligence reaching him that the baggage
had been seized by a posse of excisemen, at once roused the lion within
his breast.
“Did the lousy villains dare to obstruct the march of the Breadalbane
Fencibles?” he exclaimed, inspired with the wrath of a thousand heroes,
as away he rushed to the scene of contention.
“Who the devil are you?” he demanded as soon as he reached the excisemen.
“Gentlemen of the Excise,” was the answer.
“Robbers, thieves, you mean!” shrieked the Macnab. “How dare you
lay hands on His Majesty’s stores? If you be gaugers, show me your
commissions.”
Unfortunately for the excisemen, they had not deemed it necessary to
bring such documents with them.
“Ay! just what I took you for; a parcel of highway robbers and
scoundrels. Come, my good fellows” (addressing the soldiers in charge of
the baggage, and extending his voice with the lungs of a Stentor) “prime!
load!”
The excisemen did not wait the completion of the order, but fled at full
speed.
“Now, my lads,” said the Laird, “proceed—the whisky’s safe.”
Another anecdote illustrates how equal he was to a delicate occasion.
The Laird was a regular attender at Leith races. He rode a most
wretched-looking steed, which gave occasion for many jibes at his
expense, and one year, while rushing in to see the result of a heat, his
horse fell and was seriously injured. The year following, a puppy, who
thought he might raise a laugh at Macnab’s expense, looked up to him as
he passed by, and enquired—
“Is that the same horse ye had here last year, Laird?”
“No,” retorted Macnab, bringing his whip-shaft down on his interrogator’s
head with a force that made him bite the dust, “but it’s the same
_whup_!”
But the Laird’s grand escapade—his _coup d’état_—remains yet to be
related. It happened to be the last in his life, and it forms a fitting
climacteric to a truly wonderful career. It is narrated at great length
in a MS. scrap book of his adventures still preserved at Breadalbane
Castle, and is briefly as follows:—
The pressure of a declining revenue began to tell heavily on the Laird,
and he had occasionally to grant bills for his purchases. For many years
these bills were regularly discounted at the Perth Bank, the Directors of
which, knowing their money to be sure, though perhaps not soon, humoured
his idiosyncracies, and took his acceptances although signed “The
Macnab.” Unluckily for the Laird, one of these “cursed bits o’ paper,”
as he termed them, found its way to the Stirling Bank, an establishment
with which he had no direct connection, and, having no personal friend
to protect his credit at Stirling, it was duly noted and protested, and
notice was sent to him. These formalities the Laird treated, of course,
with the most lofty indifference. He was effectually roused, however,
when the alarming information reached his ear that a “caption and
horning” had been issued against him, and that a clerk, accompanied by
two messengers, would proceed to Auchlyne House on the following Friday
for the purpose of taking him into custody. The Laird called a council of
war. Janet, his faithful old housekeeper, and other two trusty retainers,
were made familiar with the disgrace that was threatening to fall on
the Chief of all the Macnabs. Janet was a diplomatist of the true Caleb
Balderstone type, and the Laird trusted chiefly to her wit and ingenuity
in the emergency. “To clap me within four bare stane wa’s,” said he,
addressing his female major-general, “and for what, think ye? A peetifu’
scart o’ a goose’s feather—deil cripple their souple shanks. It would ill
become me to hae ony hobble-show wi’ siccan vermin, so I’ll awa’ doun to
my Lord’s at Taymouth, and leave you, Janet, my bonnie woman, to gie them
_their kail through the reek_.” And off he went, leaving Janet to master
the situation as best she could. This was on Friday morning. In the
course of the day the officers made their appearance at Auchlyne House.
“O, sirs,” quoth Janet, receiving them blandly, “ye maun be sair
forfouchten wi’ your langsome travel. Sit down, and get some meat. The
Laird’s awa’ to see a friend, and will be back momently. What gars ye
gloom that gate? There’s a’ ye want, and muckle mair, locked up in that
kist there, in bonnie yellow gowd, fairly counted by his honour this very
mornin’,” and, so saying, she spread before the wayworn travellers a
plentiful store of Highland cheer—including kippered salmon and braxtie
ham, and a “good willie-waucht” of the “rale peat reek.” The gloaming
came, but brought no signs of the Laird’s returning. “Nae doot,” said
Janet, “his honour will be down at the Earl’s, so ye’ll just e’en mak’
yer beds here for the nicht, and the first thing ye’ll get for your
handsel in the mornin’ will be a sonsie breakfast and weel-counted
siller.”
The terms were sufficiently tempting, and were accordingly closed with.
The two limbs of the law were quartered in a room the window of which
faced the East, while the clerk was, in deference to his social status,
bestowed in a room the window of which looked towards the setting sun.
Now, opposite the window of the room in which the officers slept there
grew a huge tree, the great spreading branches of which creaked and
moaned beneath the blast during the entire night, and now and again made
a crash which caused the drowsy beagles to start in their sleep, and
shiver when they had fairly awakened. Being utterly ignorant of the cause
of these disturbances, and anxious to ascertain, the first glimmer of
daylight brought one of the officers to the window, when, horror! there,
before his eyes, swinging backwards and forwards, suspended from one of
the main branches of the tree, was the body of the clerk, coated, booted,
and fully attired, as if he had been taken and lynched just when ready
for the road. The poor man gave a howl which nearly lifted the roof off
the house. Five minutes later the domestics were alarmed by the officers
rushing headlong down the stairs, and making in the direction of the
door, and by Janet demanding of them in fierce tones—“What the foul fiend
d’ye mak’ sic a din for?”
“W—what’s that on the t—t—tree!” gasped out the officers, simultaneously.
“Oh,” said Janet, with an eldritch laugh, “it’s a bit clerk bodie frae
the Bank o’ Stirling that cam’ here last nicht to deave the Laird for
siller. We’ve ta’en and hangit the silly elf.”
Not another word was needed. The limbs of the law disappeared like water
poured on quick-sand, and were beyond the reach of Janet’s voice ere
she had well finished her sentence. During this brief parley Janet’s
confederates slipped out and cut down the man of straw, which, for the
occasion, had been filling the clerk’s clothes; and, quickly divesting it
of the latter, they had these deftly replaced on the chair beside the bed
where lay their still soundly sleeping owner.
By and by the all-unconscious clerk came tripping leisurely downstairs.
“Are my companions not astir yet?” said he to Janet.
“Yer companions?” queried Janet, with a grim leer in her eyes; “the
Laird’s gillies have ta’en them awa’ to the Holy Loch at Crianlarich and
droon’d them—and they’ll be here for you directly.”
“I hear them comin’!” cried Janet, as the clerk’s heels disappeared out
at the doorway.
Whether the money was ever paid history deponeth not. One thing however,
is certain, and it is this, that not all the estates of all the Macnabs
that ever existed would have tempted another embassy of the same three
to Auchlyne.
The Laird o’ Macnab paid the debt of Nature (there was no shirking this
creditor!) in the early part of the present century. His portrait—full
length, and in Highland costume—painted by Raeburn, is still in the
possession of the Breadalbane family.