Features / Ken Speckle Papers: banging the drum for more anatomy¹

Contributed

8 November 2025 08:36

Being further extracts from a cache of the Rev. Kenneth Speckle’s papers², found earlier this year in ‘Da Pechts Hoose’ at Wadbister, Bressay.

My journal and commonplace book, kept at the Manse of Stobister, Breezey, this 31st day of October 1825.

It was with no small satisfaction that I received today, from our printers in London, Messrs. Park & Ryde, the first proof copy of the pamphlet which Sir Allastir Carbuncle M.P., P.C. is paying to have distributed throughout the archipelago in the Whig interest, in good time for the forthcoming parliamentary election.

The precious document arrived here in surprisingly good condition, given that it had been despatched via a returning collier from Woolwich to Shields, thence by fishing boat to Aberdeen and onward with Mr Garrotte’s sailing packet St Crumpleplates to Breezey Sound, where the postmaster (knowing from bitter experience that the track to Stobister is frequently impassable at this season) entrusted it to my factotum, Brucie Barr. To keep the Whig manifesto from the salt spray as he and Lowrie Stane crossed from Scharniecrick in their whilly boat, Brucie had secreted it in his worsted tunic, next to the skin. This may account for the peculiar odour of the paper, redolent of Navy rum, Dutch Halfzware Sheg tobacco, coal dust and fish.

It had been sleeting from the south-east for much of the morning so I bade the lads dry themselves by the fire with a glass of Miss Sally Geo’s celebrated punch, a concoction of Mr Bardastrom’s best Genever with sundry herbs and roots gathered in the Wartabressa hills. As I broke the waxen seal on the envelope Sally asked: “Whit’s aa dissaboot, Meenister? Is du gotten a letter fae da leears aboot dy inheritance?”

“Not yet,” I replied, “This is a pamphlet I have composed with the intention of persuading the electors of Zetland to cast their ballots in favour of Her Grace the Countess of Coupkecks, Lady Pinkrivlins, at the forthcoming parliamentary poll. You will note that she promises to be accessible and approachable throughout. Here, see what you think of it.”

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Sally and the lads gathered around my escritoire to peruse the publication, taking partickular interest in the handsome aquatints and etchings depicting the Whig candidate in decorous poses with Sir Allastir and St. Beatrix The Silent. I must own, however, that their comments were somewhat disconcerting.

“Is diss da wife at hedd yun peerie coffee hoose ootower, aforeda plague o’ da mortal pox i’da year twunty?” Sally asked.

“Na, shurely no!” Lowrie Stane observed. “Da fancies wizowerweel, du keens, bit da tay, Lord save wiz, da tay wizzas waekas maiden’s watter! Anessfirda price o’ hit, nivir spik!”

“Whit cammahir onnywye? Am no seen hir muckle aboot da toon,” Brucie said.

“It is somewhat surprising to hear that, Brucie,” I replied, “for Lady Pinkrivlins, the Countess Coupkecks, has had a most illustrious career as a Commissioner of Supply, so much so that the lesser commissioners, looking upon her works in awe, elected her as their champion. Although you may not have seen her idling upon ‘Da Strit’ or gossiping with the lower orders of society in such disreputable howfs as ‘Da Toolbar’ and ‘Da Noost’, that is because she is kept very busy indeed at the Town’s House every single day, sometimes even on the Sabbath, if works of necessity and mercy are required.”

I continued: “It is said, not least by the Moderator-General of the Commissioners, Lady Magniebay of Hullsook, that Lady Pinkrivlins ‘has the ear’ of prominent persons in our national politickal life. The Scotch ministers, in partickular, hang upon her every syllable. But her extraordinary talents are recognised far beyond the borders of North Britain, as evidenced by the secondment of Mr McMerkiaverly, formerly a privy counsellor to the First Lord of the Admiralty in the days of Boris the Great, to manage her intromissions with Mr Stairmounter’s administration in Whitehall, in addition to conveying her instructions to Mr McSwimmy, the Keeper of the Great Seal of Scotland. Mr McMerkiaverly’s fees have been reduced to a very modest amount, a few tens of thousands of pounds Scots, owing to the high regard in which our dear leader is held by the mighty and the puissant.”

“I hear dee,” said Sally. “Bit whit’s shü ivvir don fir wis?”

I recounted how, in collaboration with St Beatrix The Silent, Lady Pinkrivlins had written many quietly powerful letters to our temporal masters in Edinburgh and London, demanding immediate action on a new infirmary for the working poor, bigger and better ferries with more staterooms for families of superior rank, the construction of causeways to Feetlore and Fowler and, not least, more autonomy.

“Mair whit?” Lowrie Stane asked. “Mair anatomy? Whit’s du spikkinaboot?”

“Lady Pinkrivlins demands that the Commissioners of Supply should be granted powers plenipotentiary, so that Zetland may act for Zetland, without let or hindrance,” I explained.

“Lord forbid!” replied Lowrie. “Da boggersaheel hae owermuckle pooers eenoo annafatlokka guidit duzonybody. Na, na, I doot I’ll be vottin fir da Stokfisk-Gödelåde wife, no dis witless Coupkecks.”

“I dootam weedy dere,” said Sally Geo. “Bit wha’s yun, chappin at da door?”

Our unexpected guest was none other than Dr Witney Aloysius Garlick, formerly my unwelcome and burdensome lodger for so many tiresome years here at the Manse but now mercifully translated to a hovel of his own at Millagoriebothy, the which he somehow contrived to purchase from the Gudeman of Keldabister Banks for a trifle.

Dr Garlick was out of breath after his mile-long struggle against the continuing south-easterly tempest, his normal mode of transport being a sedan chair carried by Brucie Barr and Lowrie Stane who, of course, had been unavailable this day, being at Stobister already. From this circumstance and from his livid complexion and choleric humour I jaloosed that he had a matter of some import to impart.

“Doctor, du’s fairly drookit! Here, gie me dy cott, takka bowl o’ ponch an sett dee doon afore da fire!” said Sally, briskly. “Brucie, geng t’a stack fir mair paets!”

Dr Witney Garlick.

When he had recovered his breath and composure, Dr Garlick said: “My dear Mr Speckle, you and I may have had our differences in the past, most notably when discussing matters ecclesiastic and politikcal, but as your nearest neighbour I felt bound to come at once and warn you of a great and pecuniary danger. Alas, alackaday and woe is me, for we are comrades in misfortune!”

I thanked him for his gracious acknowledgement but asked him to explain further. He confided that he had received the previous evening, by express runner from Scharniecrick, a curt missive from the Zetland Assessor-General and Collector of Imposts, Mr Yawnsum, on behalf of Lady Pinkrivlins and the Commissioners of Supply, demanding “money with menaces”.

“But how can this be, dear Dr Garlick, when Her Ladyship and her Municipal Underlings invariably act with perfect impartiality and liberality pro bono publico and for the benefit of us all?”

“Dammit, Sir, they want me to pay them two thousand pounds Scots a year for window tax, turnpike dues, cesspit money, well taxes, hawk hens, scat, grassums and wattle. This for a cottar’s house having only three tiny windows, glazed with sheep’s intestines, lying a mile from the nearest paved turnpike and enjoying no services whatsoever from the Commissioners of Supply,” the outraged septuagenarian expostulated. “I warn you, Sir, you will be next! They are working their way south. Several of your windows do have glass in them and can thus be taxed. Why, even Jimmy Lamb o’ da Veng may not be safe!”

“Er, did Chimmy anda wife an bairns no flit ta Botany Bay twatree year fae syne, eftir yun budder wi’ da Press Gang?” Brucie Barr interjected, as he entered the room with a kishie of peats.

“Be that as it may, Brucie, but this is most serious and alarming intelligence,” I responded. “Doctor, pray tell us, how did Mr Collector Yawnsum know of your new address?”

“Some rascal must have clyped on me,” the learned worthy replied. “Yawnsum had first sent a letter, telling me to expect a visit from some priest or other. This I disregarded as I am a known evangelickal atheist and have no truck with clergy of any stripe, your good self excepted. But then, one morning last month, there arrived at my Millagoriebothy a beardless novice by the surname of Prest, or Priest, who announced that he had come to survey my property. He impertinently produced a tape measure and proceeded to note down the dimensions of my shack and sheds. Some days later I received a copy of his ‘survey’, which was deficient and inaccurate in many partickulars. I endeavoured to correct his manifest errors but was ignored.”

Dr Garlick continued: “Priest, Yawnsum and another Municipal Underling by the name of Jointsome merely repeated, again and again and again, that my hovel was ‘a habitable dwelling’, that its distance from the turnpike and its lack of any basic public services were irrelevant. I was immediately to pay them or face the consequences, which would include a letter from Mr Risible, the Writer to Lady Pinkrivlins’ Signet. Mr Yawnsum, the Assessor-General.

Mr Yawnsum, the Assessor-General.

“Now, Sir, my income being naught but a modest pension from a grateful government, a microscopic annuity from Capt. Washoot’s failed Zetland Weakly Interrogator and the few pennies I am able to earn from my literary endeavours, I fear the Commissioners are out to ruin me, a circumstance which would give Mr Risible particular pleasure. You will recall his scandalous neglect of duty as ‘Monitoring Officer’ during the twilight year of Baron Biggity. So, to save me from the indignity of the Poorhouse, I have come humbly to request that you might intercede with Lady Pinkrivlins on my behalf, given your current employment as her promoter and electoral agent.”

At this point Dr Garlick noticed the paper lying on the table: “But what is this, Sir? A Methodist tract? Some Dissenter’s pamphlet?”

Relieved that the topick of conversation had changed (for I was sensible that I could in no wise assist him in the matter of an appeal against his Window Tax assessment, on account of the obvious conflict of interest it would involve), I handed him the Whig pamphlet and asked for his professional opinion, as a man of letters, anent my skills of composition.

After a while, and another draught of punch, the elderly scribe opined thus: “Sir, the form is well enough. It is the content that reveals the fundamental vacuity of your candidate. For example, she says the electors will have ‘a straight choice’. The word ‘straight’ is superfluous. There will be at least four other candidates. To suggest that none of them might challenge the Whigs’ supremacy is vainglorious and arrogant.

He was not finished: “Then Her Ladyship claims to have ‘won millions for Zetland’ from His Majesty’s Governments, plural. That is a factual inaccuracy. Most of these bounties were there for the asking, if the Commissioners had only got around to specifying exactly what it was that they wished to receive, and in any case it was her clerks and abacus men who wrote and submitted the necessary papers. To suggest that Her Ladyship is capable of such feats of arithmetick and persuasion is preposterous!

“Furthermore, the pamphlet says ‘we need to send a strong message’ and that Lady Pinkrivlins ‘will demand fairness’ for Zetland, ‘press the case’ for various desiderata. Well, yes, obviously. Who could disagree?

“Similarly, no candidate will deny that ‘people are always the priority’ or that politicks is ‘about improving the lives’ of constituents. All candidates will claim to be ‘a positive voice’. None will present themselves as a negative voice. These sentiments are uniformly trite and conventional, revealing a shallow, unadventurous mind, ill-suited to the hurly burly of politickal debate.”

He concluded: “The lady says she will ‘bang the drum’ on the issues that matter to us most. I can only say: an empty vessel makes the most noise.”

His words had stung me and I would fain have replied in kind at once, but a pressing call of nature took me outside to the privy offices at the rear of the Manse. When I returned some time later I found Dr Garlick reclining upon my chaise longue, covered with my second best eiderdown and fast asleep.

“Pray, what is afoot here, Sally?” I enquired of my housekeeper and companion, who had just emerged from the pantry with a tray of bannocks and other comestibles for our supper.

“Oh, didn’he no tell dee? Weel, wi’ aa dis hellery an onkerry aboot da windae tax he’s decided ta flit fae Millagorie backta da Manse. He said he dooted du widna mind.”

This is a severe blow, very severe, but I shall bear it with my customary spirit of Christian charity and forbearance.

[1] The publishers wish to apologise unreservedly for this unfortunate typographical error, which Dr Shilpitt only noticed after the latest episode had gone to press.
[2] 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.

The collected Ken Speckle Papers are published in book form here.

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