In praise of Charles Dickens

But the peer was defiant. In a pamphlet he not only reiterated his arguments against the reform but pointed out that the new law, though requiring inspection of the mines, did not oblige the owner to provide any means for an inspector to go down the pit or, more importantly, return back up. The implication was that the Marquess would not co-operate.

Step forward Charles Dickens. In an article in the Morning Chronicle he heaped scorn upon the noble lord. His weapon was extravagant praise. He began by recalling that the Marquess had “recently distinguished himself by the production of a Book of Travels which, for its exquisite good taste, surpassing modesty, high gentlemanly feeling, extensive information and numerous beauties of style and composition has no companion in the literature of any age or country.” Dickens then announced that the Marquess had now produced a work which, “in respect of all these points of excellence goes so far beyond the Book of Travels that even that panting precedent toils after it in vain.”

With exaggerated flattery, Dickens proceeded to tear apart the pamphlet. He concluded by characterising Lord Londonderry as a latter-day Don Quixote “stemming the tide of public indignation and compassionate remembrance of the wronged and suffering many with his gray goose-quill.”

This thorough demolition job against one of the most powerful men of his age is a fine example of Charles Dickens’ journalism. In the burst of celebrations marking the bicentenary of his birth, which falls next Tuesday, this aspect of his career seems in danger of being overlooked. But Dickens was a journalist before he was a novelist. He remained a journalist throughout his life, not only writing articles but editing and even owning some of the magazines in which his novels first appeared.

A few years ago my wife bought me the complete collection of Dickens’ journalism – four fat volumes. It’s extraordinary how little qualifies for the words transient or ephemeral, which describes most journalism.

The heart is the social campaigning that often pitted him against the likes of Lord Londonderry. He visited, and reported on, prisons, workhouses, hospitals. Outside Whitechapel workhouse, in pouring rain, he stumbled upon “five bundles of rags... motionless...

no resemblance to the human form.” They were women, for whom there was no room. Dickens wrote movingly of this “shocking and shameful sight.”

But he was often lightly entertaining as well. Perhaps for the first time in print, one essay celebrates “the distinct individuality and character” possessed by every railway locomotive.

Another picks up on a craze for community singing, spread as Singing for Millions. Dickens suggests Snoring for Millions, with the lead taken by Government ministers, “from whose harmless repose the country can scarcely fail to derive inestimable benefit.” Written within a year of his death Dickens’ final piece of journalism was a panegyric to an actor friend, designed to introduce him to American audiences. A rare transient piece, obviously written as a favour, it perhaps symbolises the overwork that took Dickens to his grave at just 58. Of course he was, and is, our greatest novelist. Perhaps our greatest journalist, too.