indeed, undertaken till nearly fifty years after the battle of
Killiecrankie, but whose pictures of those men and times have all the
freshness and colour of a contemporary. The author of those memoirs of
Lochiel of which Macaulay has made such brilliant use, has credited
Claverhouse with a considerable knowledge of mathematics and general
literature, especially such branches of those studies as were likely to
be of most use to a soldier. Lastly, Doctor Munro, Principal of the
College of Edinburgh, when charged before a Parliamentary Commission
with rejoicing at the news of Killiecrankie, denied at least that he had
rejoiced at the death of the conqueror, for whom he owned "an
extraordinary value," such as, in his own words, "no gentleman, soldier,
scholar, or civilised citizen will find fault with me for."[2]

It would be as foolish to take these witnesses too literally, as it is
foolish to call Claverhouse a blockhead because he could not spell
correctly. For many years after his death men of position and abilities
far more distinguished and acknowledged than his, were not ashamed to
spell with a recklessness that would inevitably now entail on any
fourth-form boy the last penalty of academic law. Scott says that
Claverhouse spelled like a chambermaid; and Macaulay has compared the
handwriting of the period to the handwriting of washerwomen. The
relative force of these comparisons others may determine, but it is
certain that in this respect at least Claverhouse sinned in good
company. The letters of even such men as the Lord Advocate, Sir George
Mackenzie, and the Dalrymples,--letters written in circumstances more
favourable to composition than the despatches of a soldier are ever
likely to be--are every whit as capricious and startling in their
variations from the received standard of orthography. If it is
impossible quite to agree with his staunch eulogist, Drummond of
Bahaldy, that Claverhouse was "much master in the epistolary way of