Features / The Ken Speckle Papers: of empty shelves and peat reek …
…being further extracts from the papers of the Rev. Kenneth Speckle, B.D. (failed) Edin. (1747-18??), transcribed and edited for publication by Jonathan Wills.
My journal and commonplace book, writ at Stobuster this thirteenth day of February 1826.
It was, I think, the English sea captain John Smith who, on his visit to these islands almost 200 years ago, wrote in his log: “No ship dare look upon this coast in the winter quarter.” This has been true of the past month and more, when incessant tempests have quite disrupted Mr Garotte’s packet boats, the St Crumplebows and the St Binkleplates, partickularly when attempting to enter the port of Aberdeen through the roaring breakers at Girdle Ness. On several occasions these vessels have berthed at Sandra’s Wharf in Scharnycrick to disembark crowds of passengers so discommoded by the raging billows that they were scarce able to stagger ashore.
The merchants of Scharnycrick complain that they are quite unable to secure regular supplies of provender. In Mr T. Scow’s emporium the shelves stand empty and likewise at Mr Kopie’s warehouse. The poor have been worst afflicted but the store cupboards of the more prosperous are much depleted also. Here in God’s Own Island of Breezey, however, Divine Providence hath so ordered it that we want not for wholesome fodder in our pantries, such as totties, neeps, aigs, kell and reestit mutton, all from Mr Giffo’s rolling acres.
Some there are who blame Mr McSwimmy’s ministry for the poor weather. Only the other day I overheard Mr Bigally holding forth in Damellshop: “Du keens, da wadder gied aatahell da year at da dwined Essenpee won da vott an’ hit’s bin nae idder wye fae syne!”
I remonstrated with him, reminding all and sundry that Holy Scripture makes it clear that storms, tempests, hurricanes, doontooms, moorikavvies, and uplowsins are all sent by Our Lord, in his infinite mercy and compassion, as a punishment for our wickedness and as a spur to repentance. Mr Bigally merely grunted. I fear we shall not see him any Sabbath soon at the Chapel of Our Blessed Lady St Beatrice the Silent.
Matters of a secular rather than religious nature have occupied much of my time these past weeks, for the date of the parliamentary election draws near. My lodger, Dr Witney Garlick, reports that Mr Unguent of Boorach has thrown his hat into the ring and will seek the approbation of the electorate for his newly-incorporated Propatria Scotica Party. This, Dr Garlick confides, consists of Mr Unguent and his “one and a half disciples”.
But what of The King’s Party? Formerly dominant, in the days when our own dear Sir Allastir Curmudgeon held Cabinet office in the Cameronian coalition, the High Tories are in some disarray, due to a charlatan by the name of Forage enticing many of the more eccentrick Tory squires into yet another new junto, the Reformatory. Their disgraceful proposal to rename Tait’s Closs (a stinking vennel in Scharnycrick) as ‘Reform Lane’ must be stoutly resisted.
As for Mr Stairmounter and his Pinkertories, I think Her Ladyship need not fear them, for the affair of Lord Mandible has quite confounded this formerly fearsome party, albeit that Mr Stairmounter still enjoys the wary confidence of the House of Commons. The discovery that our former ambassador to the court of the rebellious American colonists had been surreptitiously passing intelligence, both diplomatick and commercial, to agents of the Boyars of Far Muscovy, is the speak of the London and Edinburgh coffee houses. Dr Garlick is licking his chops at the prospect of a treason trial, possibly also involving a Royal Prince of the House of Schleswig von Gotha mitt Battenberg, but I fancy that will not happen. The ranks of the governing classes will close, as so often of yore, and suppress it, for a publick trial would undoubtedly expose to vulgar contemplation certain matters that are best left undisclosed, for the preservation of our blessed Hanoverian Constitution.
However, our Whig ship of state is not yet safely harboured through the raging billows of Zetland’s politicks. This very afternoon my amanuensis, Brucie Barr, brought me an express letter from Lady Pinkrivlins’ man of business, Mr Frank Leigh-Tyro who apologised for not visiting in person but he was detained upon urgent business in the Whig campaign “head quarters” at the foot of Harlot Street in Scharnycrick. In his message the troubled young gentleman unburdened himself thus:
“Private and in confidence. The situation as regards our candidate grows more alarming by the day. Her ladyship appears quite incapable of enunciating Whig policies to the electors, notwithstanding her undoubted command of the pliant Commissioners of Supply when gathered in her municipal tea rooms.
“Thus, many voters are as yet unaware that a parliamentary contest is to take place and sundry others are under the mistaken impression that our candidate is Sir Allastir Curmudgeon, who has been so ardent in his promotion of Her Ladyship’s genius and benevolence.
“The only solution to this crisis, it appears to me, is to allow and indeed to foster the public misconception that Sir Allastir is our candidate and to refer in our publications only to ‘The Whig Candidate’, rather than identifying her by name. In this manner we may deceive a sufficient number of electors to save the day. Otherwise I fear that our cause is lost.”
This is a desperate measure, indeed, but probably within the bounds of electoral law as it stands. In my reply to Mr Leigh-Tyro I confessed I was rather more concerned about the threat from Dr Hermitage, whose party of Diggers, Levellers and Ranters proposes to abolish the ancient practice of cutting peats for fuel, alleging that the vapours from the burning of peats in the peasants’ domestic hearths add greatly to the pollution of the atmosphere. This, they contend, is the cause of the great deterioration in our climate, leading to the recent storms that have so disrupted communication with the continent of Scotland.
Dr Shovego (as the vulgar multitude have dubbed him) wishes also to curb the activities of the gentlemen adventurers in the British Peat Oil Company, thus threatening the livelihoods of the tar boilers and grease blenders at the great works of Solemn Vow. I suggested that we solicit support from the combinations of workmen there, and issue encouraging statements of solidarity without making any specific commitments.
My epistolary composition was interrupted at this point by Miss Sally Geo, my housekeeper and dear companion, who said: “Is du no feenished wi´yun scribblin yit? Wir Brucie’s waantin ta ketch da hidmaist ferry afore dey tie opp ageen wi dis godless nicht o’ distress.”
Pocketing my dispatch to Mr Frank Leigh-Tyro, the bold Brucie assured me: “Nivirdu leet, Meenister! A’ll tellimdu hezza plan!” And with that he was gone, out into the driven sleet with a lowin’ tind in his hand and a gale at his back.
“Couldn’ hit no a waitit fur da moarn?” Sally scolded.
“No, my dear Sally, it could not,” I gravely replied, “For this is a matter of such extreme urgency that there is not a moment to lose.”
