My attic is my space, most of it given over to books, photographs and a very old but loyal computer. It is not the most accessible of places so visitors are very few and far between but for the past year or so I’ve found it very crowded.
Waiting for me every morning have been two St Monans worthies and while they have dominated what I would call my attic ‘working’ hours, they have been with me nearly every waking hour as well. I’m retired now and tend to keep myself to myself so this pair started off as quite an intrusion. Our relationship over those months has become complicated; not helped by the fact that they have both been dead for nearly two hundred years.
No, this is not a ghost story, far from it; in fact, it is the opposite. The last year has forced me to examine ways to bring both of these characters back to life. Back in the early 19th century they were peers, near neighbours with one living on the Braehead, in sight of my attic, and the other in what was Coal Wynd, now Forth Street.
They would have known each other fairly well and I do know they communicated with each other, though that channel appears to have been the written word. It’s doubtful they ever sat down for a good blether and laugh and although there might appear to be a hint of tetchiness between them I’m fairly confident there was a mutual, albeit restrained, respect.
And much as I have tried, despite their common background, I have not been able to completely bridge a sense of distance, perhaps even rivalry, between them and that is a shame because St Monans is indebted to both and yet has ignored them, and the incredible legacy they left their town.
My two guests have been John Jack and Thomas Mathers. The former a schoolmaster; the latter a fisherman. While both worthy careers these are not what gives them their place in history, it is their secondary callings – Jack as a writer and newspaper correspondent, Mathers as a poet.
In their lifetime one was controversial the other celebrated but, in common, after death they and their work became largely forgotten. Given their era was that of the great herring draves and huge socio-economic change in Scotland, their words are deserving of at least a little national resonance. But the fact that St Monans has failed to honour them is simply shameful, and they both lie in unmarked graves.
I felt that same indignation over William Easton when I compiled the book of his photographs, ‘We Live By The Sea’. Easton at the dawn of the 20th century provided a lasting insight into St Monans in its fishing hey-day. But that was the ending of a story that began to peak a century before. And while a picture may well be worth a thousand words, before those images Jack and Mathers captured daily life, one in astonishing verbosity and the other in verse.
I have the longer and stronger relationship with Jack, my Braehead neighbour and a contributor to titles I once edited... though it took quite some time to develop that connection.
His name will be less familiar to St Monans residents today than that of Maggie Morgan, the wronged teenager who is recognised as the last witch to be executed in the town, burned alive in front of the Auld Kirk, while the authorities sat on the office bearers’ chairs and watched her writhe in agony.
The debate continues today over the whole Maggie Morgan legend – which is another issue – but to mark this gruesome injustice St Monans & Abercrombie Community Council gave the nod to the naming of a street after her, with the grisly tale picked up and shared by national, regional and local media.
That tale, whether it be a re-telling or a creation, came from the nib of John Jack. It was exploring this that led me deeper into Jack’s life as a writer and a correspondent. His books and contributions started out as quite inaccessible. His philosophy seemed to be why use one word if half a dozen or the more obscure could do the same job? Eyes became visual organs, feet were pedastals, fishing was a piscatorial avocation, while fish became a scaly tribe...
But what started out as infuriating became intriguing, and reading gave way to hearing a distinct voice, and it was one that offered a unique and fascinating insight into mid-19th century life.
There are rants and wisdom; empathy and rage, humour and sarcasm. Apparently he had followers who eagerly awaited his next reports, not because they had any connection to St Monans but because he was a ‘must-read’. Some laughed with him; others at him.
In one of his books he dealt with the superstitions prevalent at one time in the fishing community. Most of these were not unique to St Monans but there was one fisherman who was aggrieved by this – Mathers. It was enough for the piscatorial poet to put a pen to paper in grievance to the supercilious scribe. That correspondence appears to have been lost but it would seem to be a perfect reflection of how Jack was perceived, and who the rankled rhymer was. And that led to Mathers joining myself and Mr Jack in my attic.
As a young man, Mathers met Lord Byron in Venice, and whether that inspired, motivated or reinforced his muse is unknown but poetry became a major feature in his life. Words did not put food on the table and while Jack earned his keep in front of a classroom, Mathers did so with boat, net and line.
Where Jack tended to be cynical and irreverent, Mathers was a strict God-fearing Presbyterian, a family man promoting temperance, and a respectful servant to the local gentry. The two drew from very different inkwells but had much in common.
Both men, at approximately the same time, sought out a career on the high seas, then settled in St Monans and contributed to the local press. Jack published two books and Mathers’ enduring ambition was to see a volume of his poetry published. His individual works were praised and prized, and he had a solid national following but it was 1851 before his collection of ‘Musings...’ finally went to print. Struck down by jaundice he managed to see and hold his work shortly before he died at the age of 57, but before any of his supporters had received a copy.
Jack would die eight years later, shortly after his second book, but both men’s canon quickly fell out of the public eye, never really to return. What is surprising is that the community they were a part of, and so proud of, never granted them any recognition.
Jack’s name does appear occasionally in academic works when it suits to quote a source from a century before, despite that source being somewhat coy to disclose any of his own sources. Apart from that, he seems to be best remembered for his ‘An Historical Account of St Monance...” and, within that, the Maggie Morgan tale. That aside, he has been mocked and vilified. Yet I believe the more his work is explored the more it demands reassessment.
After my personal deconstruction of the Morgan tale, an entirely new dimension into Jack’s place in St Monans history opened up.
His chronicles during this period of the town’s social history provide an insight into a way of life that bears absolutely no resemblance to the genteel, picturesque, tranquil, sleepy burgh it now is.
And then there is Mathers who looked at life lyrically, literally. In its day his poetry was well received and there are those who are qualified to analyse, criticise or praise his efforts and how they have endured, be they classed as naive, romanticism or Victorian experimentation. But regardless of the academic worth subjectively placed on them, there is a value that surpasses any such verdict. Here was the “fisherman poet”, published and lauded in his day, and he was a St Monans man. Surely this one volume from the minstrel is worth cherishing?
So, after a year spent in both men’s company, I am making the case to have Jack reassessed and doing so by publishing an introduction to his works. My compilation of William Easton photographs was a steep learning curve and there is no doubt my promotion of Jack will meet with even less enthusiasm.
What I’ve learned about Thomas Mathers merits little more than a pamphlet but his ‘Musings...’ have been out of print of 175 years, and they tell you more about the man than any researcher could. The fact that his hometown was never inclined to celebrate that volume of verse or commemorate its author led me to suspect, and ultimately prove, my sharing of it would arouse little interest.
Having bought an ISBN number and appealed for subscribers, who totalled just five and only two of those were from St Monans, the project was funded out of my own pocket. Interestingly, an approach to a well-known bookseller produced a surprise response. A copy needed to be left for its in-house poetry reader so he/she could determine whether or not Mathers merited any shelf-space (and that at a fifty per cent of the cover price commission, which would be more than the production cost!). Given that was more than five weeks ago, it would seem poor Thomas still will not be embraced by his hometown, his county or his country.
The manuscript has now been processed through a publishing company and should be available through Amazon this month. Apart from recovering a few pennies per copy, most proceeds will go into Jeff Bezos’ account. Who’d have thought the ‘Fisherman Poet’, 175 years after his death, could well be funding ‘Melania: The Sequel’?
Nevertheless, I’ll put both down to a ‘loss leader’ but, at least, I have made a start at reanimating two characters from the town I now call home. Having spent a year in their company I am convinced that is the least they deserve.
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