On a wooded islet of the Dochart are the tombs of the Macnabs, older lairds of this district. They appear to have been a branch of the Macgregors, their name being taken to mean “Sons of the Abbot,” who in more orthodox climes might have rather been styled “nephews.” They showed themselves right Celts, shutting their eyes to the signs of change, trusting to claymores rather than to charters, and apt to turn out on the losing side, so that they went under the waves of time on the top of which the Campbells rode triumphantly.
The last laird of Macnab figured as a well-known “character” in Scott’s day, his outer man still familiar in Raeburn’s portrait of him. He was huge of stature, imperious in manner, irascible, proud and impracticable to an ultra-Highland degree. To him is attributed that vaunt of the Macnabs having a boat of their own at the Flood, also the declaration that there were many _Mr._ Macnabs but only one Macnab, naturally the crown and chieftain of the human race. When an arrogant scholar boasted in the same spirit that England had only one Master of Trinity, a stuttering don broke the awed silence with too audible comment, “Thank God for that!” With not less irreverence a bold pretender is said to have answered the chieftain’s pride by signing himself _The other Macnab_. Ill would it have fared with the Sassenach body who should thus have bearded the Macnab to his face. In Mr. P. R. Drummond’s _Perthshire_, there is reported this instance of his wrath being provoked by an audacious stranger:--
It occurred after dinner, the laird being a little mellow, for as to being drunk, oceans of liquor would have failed to produce that effect, at least to the length of prostration. The unhappy querist began: “Macnab, are you acquainted with Macloran of Dronascandlich, who has lately purchased so many thousand acres in Inverness-shire?” This was more than enough to set the laird off in a furious tilt on his genealogical steed. “Ken wha? the paddock-stool o’ a cratur they ca’ Dronascandlich, wha no far bygane dawred (curse him) to offer siller, sir, for an auld ancient estate, sir. An estate as auld as the flude, sir; an infernal deal aulder, sir. Siller, sir, scrappit thegither by the meeserable deevil in India, sir, not in an officer or gentlemanlike way, sir; but (Satan burst him) makin’ cart wheels and trams, sir, and harrows, and the like o’ that wretched handiwork. Ken him, sir? I ken the cratur weel, and whae he comes frae, sir; and so I ken that dumb tyke, sir, a better brute by half than a score o’ him!” The querist interjected, “Mercy on us, Macnab, you surprise me. I thought from the sublime sound of his name and title, he had been, like yourself, a chief of fifteen centuries’ standing at least.” The instant this comparison was drawn, the laird’s visage grew ghastly with rage. His eyes caught fire and he snorted like a mountain whirlwind.