Features / The Ken Speckle Papers
Making the Archipelago Great Again
Being further extracts from a cache of the Rev. Ken Speckle’s papers1, found earlier this year in ‘Da Pechts Hoose’ at Wadbister, Bressay. The keeper of the Stobister Muniment Room, Dr Ebenezer Shilpitt, recently announced that the latest discovery, from a formerly unexplored inner chamber of the souterrain, includes fragments, much stained and torn, of notes and letters in a spidery hand, penned by Speckle’s neighbour and former lodger, Dr Witney Garlick. We now publish these eagerly awaited insights into the political affairs of early 19th century Shetland.
At Millagoriebothy, this 25th Sept. 1825.
For the urgent attention of M. Jacques Plankton at Reprobate Lane, Scharniecrick, Zetland, being some further Materials anent my putative Politickal Biography of the Hon Tovarish Lairdsloon, Duke of Salmosalar and Scion of Goddiehice.
Mon Cher Jacques,
Salutations! Last evening there came a hammering at the door. I bade my housekeeper and companion, Mistress Mana Berg, open it, which she did with commendable alacrity for a lady of her years and dimensions.
She announced in a loud whisper: “Witty! Witty! Hit’s yun demmed aald fule Bigally wi’ some sootheen. Dirrina godless stoor!”
I replied: “Bid them come ben, Madam, I pray.”
From his beetling brows and florid complexion I saw that Mr Bigally was indeed in a state of some agitation, not ameliorated by having to tramp several miles through mire and heath on a night of equinoctial gale and rain. He explained that his companion, whom he introduced as “Mestir McMerkiaverly fae Central Office”, now had sole charge of the politickal business of the Zetland Commissioners of Supply, their leader, Lady Pinkrivlins, the Countess Coupkecks, being so preoccupied with confectionery policy that she had no time to apply her remarkable talents to such trivial, ephemeral tasks as attempting to influence the King’s Ministry for Zetland’s interest.
From what little I could see of his face, Mr McMerkiaverly appeared utterly exhausted but still he cut a striking figure, with his long black cloak and wide-brimmed felt hat, both of which pieces of apparel were saturated and now dripping upon my study carpet.
“Pray forgive the intrusion, learned sir,” he muttered with a conspiratorial air, “But the occasion of our unannounced call is one of extreme urgency.”
“It had better be,” quoth I, “For I was about to partake of a modest supper. However, we Zetlanders are famous for our hospitality to strangers, so will you deign to join me in this repast, while it is still at least lukewarm?” At this, Mistress Mana Berg promptly brought in two more bottles of claret, a second leg of roast lamb and another bucket of boiled potatoes.
Between mouthfuls, Mr Bigally explained the nature of the crisis: “Hit’s da aald laird, du sees. He’s turned agin da Whigs. Weel, he wis nivir een o’ ‘Da Thairty Five’, du keens, bit at least he keepit his lang neb oot o’ poleetiks. Noo he’s geen an pitten oot a pamphlet in Herr Martyr’s rag sayin da Commeeshners irabaanda ‘pathetic waeklins’! Did du iver hear dalikkadat?”
“As you will readily appreciate,” Mr McMerkiaverly added, “This is most damaging to the Whig candidate at the forthcoming hustings, for one of her predecessors as the Whig Member for Zetland was the none other than Hon Tovarish Lairdsloon, heir to the Laird of Goddiehice.”
“Indeed, Gentlemen, but in what manner might I be of assistance in this matter?” I replied.
“Are you not writing a biographical sketch of Lairdsloon?” Mr McMerkiaverly inquired. “We had imagined that you might suggest to him that he ask his pater to withdraw the remark, perhaps by implying that there had been a misunderstanding in translation?”
“But, my dear Mr McMerkiaverly, the biography is an unauthorised one, and more in the character of an exposé than a hagiography,” I explained. “Its subject is unaware of my projected quarto and his co-operation has not been requested. Thus, were I to propose any course of action to Lairdsloon, it would certainly be rejected. So I regret that I cannot help you in this business, the more so as my own sentiments concur precisely with those of his father.”
“Dat’s fairly richt, Witty,” Mana Berg interjected, opening a fourth bottle of claret. “Wir aald laird aye says whit he tinks true an he aye sticks till his principles, du keens.”
To this Mr McMerkiaverly retorted: “Truth, Madam? Principles? Pray, what on earth have truth and principles to do with politicks?”
And so our disappointed visitors took their leave, without touching the fourth bottle, Mana Berg giving them a lowin tind to light their way as they departed our brigstanes.
Presently she said: “Oh my guid loard, Witty! Sees du dat? Dir gyaan sooth ower da Wadbister rigs ta Stobister! Whit’ll Mestir Speckle say whinny hears dir news? He laekly kens naethin aboot it, fir da boys is bin pittin a new flair i’da sedan shair furr a stert noo an dir no taen him ta Scharniecrick furra fortnicht.”
What transpired at the Manse of Stobister I know not but I shall find out. Alors, Jacques, mon cher camerade, you will know exactly what to do with this paper. Liberté! Égalite! Fraternité! Vive le suffrage universel masculin!
À tout à l’heure! Ton vieux copain, X
-oOo-
Editor’s note: Dr Witney Garlick’s report to Jacques Plankton, his fellow conspirator in the Zetland Corresponding Society for Universal Male Parliamentary Franchise, ends here. There are other fragments but, in order to keep the collection of papers in chronological order, our next production includes, interleaved with his daily diary, the Rev. Kenneth Speckle’s report to Mr McSwimmy, the Keeper of the Great Seal of Scotland, to whom he was also writing regularly, apparently working as a double agent to maximise his stipend(s). Remarkably, it is dated the same day as Garlick’s scribbled note:
-oOo-
My journal and commonplace book kept at the Manse of Stobister, Breezey Island, Zetland, this twenty fifth day of September in the year of Our Lord 1825.
Last evening I was holding aloft a lantern in the parochial shed at the lee side of the Manse, supervising Lowrie Stane and Brucie Barr in their much delayed work of repairs to my sedan chair. They had reached a critical juncture in the process, involving Lowrie holding the hammer and Brucie a two-inch nail with which to secure the final plank in the chair’s floor, replacing a section of rotten timber.
“Steady, Lowrie… steady… hit her… noo!” cried Brucie. At the same instant there was an eldritch shriek from the parochial pantry where my housekeeper, Miss Sally Geo, had been preparing our supper of soorskett and sweedheid:
“Ocheesus hit’s da Deil hissel! Loard sain me!” Sally screamed.
“Omibloddyfinger!” roared Brucie, simultaneously.
The apparition that had so affrighted her was none other than my new friend and benefactor Mr McMerkiaverly who, it must be admitted, bore more than a passing resemblance to Satan, clad as he was in that sinister cloak and hat.
What had brought him hither with Mr Bigally was the shocking and disturbing news that the majority heritor of the parish of Breezey, Sir Jock Keldabister, had seen fit to send to the publick prints an unflattering description of poor Lady Pinkrivlins and her junto. My visitors had travelled under silence of night, Mr Bigally explained, because they did not wish Herr Martyr of Ye Zetland Intelligencer to know what consternation the publication of this vile slander had occasioned.
“Wir needin dee ta spik ta da aald laird aboot dis,” Mr Bigally confided.
“It would indeed be a great service to the cause of Whiggery, Reverend Sir, were you to exert your influence as a man of the cloth and impress upon Sir Jock the urgent necessity of withdrawing his offensive remarks,” Mr McMerkiaverly urged.
“But gentlemen,” I replied. “I fear this is impossible, for the old laird and I have not been on familiar terms since a disagreement some forty years ago, when he declined to contribute funds to repair my ruinous manse here, declaring that the parish of Stobister and Pendicles had been vod, ley and in the hill for several centuries and the heritors thus had no obligation to pay for its upkeep. Besides, he would never recant, being notorious for his adherence to the truth and his principles.”
“Du can say yun ageen, Meenister! Da aald laird’s airt kent fir dat,” added Sally Geo, who had been listening at the door, holding a lem pig of Mr Bardastrom’s best genever and three tankards.
At this Mr McMerkiaverly rolled his eyes and snorted, while Mr Bigally shrugged his shoulders. Short after, they made their excuses and left in the direction of Goddiehice, where they apparently intended to confront Sir Jock in person. At Sally’s suggestion I despatched Lowrie Stane and Brucie Barr with them as guides, lest they “smoor in a stank”, as she delicately put it.
After they had gone, in my study I pondered how best to rescue Lady Pinkrivlins from her unwelcome predicament. In a flash the solution came to me, after only my second tankard of genever: we shall tell Mr Olsterfry, the Town Crier, about a bold new announcement of publick policy that shall distract the multitude from this latest provocation. We shall call it ‘a stirring demand for more autonomy’ and claim that it will Make the Archipelago Great Again. I fancy that will ‘shoot the Tory fox’! I shall write to Herr Martyr tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I have made a wet copy of the following missive, sent privily in a diplomatick pouch aboard Mr Nawflink’s packet, St. Binkleplates, to Sir J. McSwimmy, Keeper of the Great Seal of Scotland, at Holyroodhouse Mews, Edinburgh.
at Stobister, Isle of Breezey, Zetland.
ye 25th September 1825
Esteemed Sir,
You may recall the parliamentary career of the Hon. Tovarish Lairdsloon, who at one point was the Scotch Ferries Secretary in the Whig Ministry of North Britain, during the years before the Separatists and the Jacobites of the Green gained pre-eminence. In that office he ordered two new sailing packets or ferryboats, the St. Binkleplatesand St. Crumplebows, to carry the Royal Mails betwixt the Continent of Scotland and Zetland. These vessels, which had fewer staterooms for passengers than their predecessors, are now elderly and much complained of, as Lady Anna Stokfisk-Gödelåde may have mentioned to you.
Tiring of politicks, Lairdsloon retired from publick life some years ago for, in the words of Dr Sam. Johnson, “No man likes to have his all neglected, be it ever so little.” St. Beatrix the Silent succeeded to the seat but she too appears to have wearied of being an appendage to the rump of a once great party and will stand no more for the pretended Scotch parliament. The Scion of Goddiehice meanwhile makes a handsome living by extolling the purported virtues of those gentlemen adventurers who have invested their treasure and reputations in Det Norsk Piltockmonopol, El Monopolio de la Piscicultura Chilena and suchlike speculations.
It is said that Lairdsloon takes no part in Whig affairs these days but his male parent, formerly our Monarch’s Trusty and Well Beloved Lieutenant of this County, recently gave vent to an incontinent outburst against the conduct of the Zetland Commissioners of Supply, whom he described as “pathetic weaklings”. While not mentioning the Whig candidate by name, he nonetheless libelled her by association, for she is the senior commissioner. It is feared that, shaken by this desertion from the upper ranks of society, Her Ladyship may decide, as Lairdsloon did before her, that the game is not worth the candle.
Dear Sir, you will know exactly what to do with this unattributable information.
I remain, with the greatest fealty and respect,
Your Obedient Servant,
Kenneth Speckle B.D. Edin. (failed)
1 The Rev. Kenneth Speckle, it may be remembered, was banished to the remote charge of Stobister and Pendicles in 1785 after a misunderstanding concerning the communion wine accounts of a parish in Fife. It had previously been thought that Speckle did not survive the poverty and distress that so afflicted him in the early 1820s, but the latest find of his papers shows that he not only survived but prospered, despite his connection with the controversial jobbing philosopher and agitator Dr Witney Garlick.
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