THE BOOK:
The Sacred Diary of a Victorian Churchman is an account of the scurrilous infighting taking place in a Victorian church. The events described therein could have happened anywhere - and probably have. Certainly the prejudices demonstrated are to be found in most church communities. To protect the innocent, I have changed the name of the town where it is set, to the fictitious Stagglethorpe, a gritty place, in northern England.

All the characters are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is almost certainly purely coincidental. Only the names are genuine.

As an example of what is to be found, you will find below some edited extracts from the previously undiscovered journal of Albert Brass, a miner and Primitive Methodist (that is, he attends the Ebenezer Primitive Methodist Chapel, not that he is, himself, primitive).

If you enjoy reading them, you may care to read further. At present, I have available the diary for 1881 (about 5,500 words). I am working on the diary for 1882, and if there is sufficient demand, I will attempt to complete it. I have also started a much fuller version, in effect a novel, based around the diary. Again, if there is demand, I will find time to work on this. For your information I also show below a short extract from the novel.

HOW TO ACCESS THE FULL DIARY:
To find out how to obtain the diary for 1881, just e-mail me at reveast (at) hotmail (dot) com.


AND NOW FOR THE SAMPLES...

First, from the diary:

Tuesday 5 June. Rain. Our new minister arrives tomorrow. Obadiah Binfield tells me that his name is Rev. Zacchaeus Perkins, and that he has spent most of his ministry in the mission field.

Thursday 7 June. Snow. Rev. Perkins has indeed been serving in foreign parts. At his welcoming service last night, he spoke about his many years working in Kent. I do hope that the Trustees have made it clear to him that we will not tolerate any strange ways of doing things that he may have picked up there.

Tuesday 12 June. Light blizzards. My hand shakes with fury as I write this entry. At the Property Committee meeting last night, Rev. Perkins mentioned, apparently in passing, that he could not see everyone from the pulpit, and could it not be moved slightly to the right, to get a clear view? I am sure that his casual air was an act. This man is a dangerous radical.

I have sat in my pew for thirty years now, without having to see the minister once. I am sure that if our fathers had wanted to make the pulpit visible, they would not have built such thick pillars to support the gallery. I have been so disturbed by his ideas that I have been unable to speak to anyone about this - but I know that the majority of members feel like me.

Wednesday 13 June. Mild. The town has been alive with discussion about the Rev. Perkins ideas. He will make any changes to our wonderful chapel over my dead body.

Thursday 14 June. Rain. The members of the Ladies Bright Hour have agreed to send anonymous letters to Rev. Perkins, telling him what we think of him and his ideas. At our Class Meeting last night, we discussed the possibility of tarring and feathering the man. Harry Ferret knows where we can obtain a bulk supply of feathers at a very reasonable price.

Saturday 16 June. Snow. Great rejoicing today, at the news that Rev. Perkins has packed his bags and left. We are well rid of him.

Monday July 9. Frost. Our new minister is to be Rev. Jabez Thwaite, an ex-miner from Bradford, who is said to be a strong preacher, who will stand for no opposition. We have heard that before. I give him two weeks.

Saturday July 14. Rain. Rev. Thwaite arrived yesterday. He looks to be a fine figure of a man. We have heard a rumour that in his last circuit he was known to read books. We will ensure that he has no time for that sort of academic nonsense here.


Second, from the novel:

The rain beat against the grimy walls, loosening years of coal dust, and causing black streams to run along the narrow back streets of Stagglethorpe. It hammered against the window panes, and was forced through ill-fitting frames, where it pooled on window ledges, and dripped onto worn tiles, and curling linoleum. Although it was only two oclock in the afternoon, the gloomy sky had forced many a prudent northerner, much against their better judgement, to light a candle. In the light of one such flame, Albert Brass sat alone in the kitchen of his small terraced house, watching the curtains moving to and fro as yet another gust of wind struck the grimy, rain-streaked windows.

He looked around the room - not that there was much to look at, he thought gloomily. A plant, its leaves grimed with coal-dust, dying slowly in a pot. His bed, lying as close the range as he could get it without scorching the thick pile of blankets. Water dripping from a damp patch in the ceiling, onto the grey flagstones beneath. The wicker chair in the corner, where his mother had held court. The old kitchen table where he sat, and there, on its scarred top, THE DIARY.

He had found the old account book on a spoil heap, near the pit. Presumably it had been thrown out by the toffs in the office. But nearly half its pages were blank, and there and then Albert had decided to keep the book, and start a diary. Several weeks had passed since then, and he had been treasuring THE DIARY for today, the start of the New Year. But now the day had come, he was frightened to make a start. So, for an hour or more, he sat in the deepening gloom, staring at the blank page.