narrator, the focalizer, and the actual author, this was not the convention in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. To quote Maurice on this point: “there is a man who writes; and when you get acquainted with that man you get acquainted with the book.”9 Barbara Hochman explains that such an approach to reading made use of “an interpretive convention that involved taking for granted the imaginative unity of author and text.… [S]ince the words of a book were presumed to express the ideas and the character of a particular person, the sense of authorial presence was felt to be a natural and benign pleasure of reading.”10 This is apparent in a letter written by Elizabeth Dwight in 1846 in which she claimed that reading Thomas Arnold (a British educator and historian) “puts you so in mind of him at every sentence.”11 Lydia Maria Child expressed something similar in an 1862 letter in which she stated that in reading the novel John Brent, “a portion of [the author’s] vivacious and beautiful mind has been transmitted to me through the pages of his book.”12
How should we understand this intimate, conversational orientation toward reading? Contemporary critics have argued that such a stance suggests the metaphor of companionship: the book as friend. This notion is confirmed by the titles of several nineteenth-century books and periodicals—Friends in Council, The Friendship of Books, The Friend: A Religious and Literary Journal, The Young Lady’s Friend, The Token of Friendship, The Mother’s Friend, The Friend, or Advocate of Truth, The Sailors’ Magazine and Seaman’s Friend, The Home Friend, The Youth’s Friend, and so forth. The comments of nineteenth-century readers echo this companionate understanding of reading. For Harriet Beecher Stowe, “a book once read was read daily, becoming ever dearer, as an old friend.”13 In a journal entry of 1837, Julia A. Parker describes spending a very pleasant winter “with my books … what very kind friends they are.”14 Lydia Maria Child writes her confidant Sarah Shaw that while she initially took an interest in the author Theodore Winthrop “because he was a dear friend of yours,” after reading his book, “I feel as if he were my friend,—as if I had known and loved him.”15 Given these comments, it is hardly surprising that contemporary critics have characterized the book-as-friend metaphor as the preeminent trope of nineteenth-century reading practices.16 Ronald Zboray has added that while nineteenth-century subjects consistently talked about books in intimate terms, the reality of their existence indicates otherwise: “While the book-as-friend metaphor alluded to flesh-and-blood companionship, it could never represent true human bonding—with all its joys but also its trials, responsibilities, burdens and restraints.… Books as friends were compliant, undemanding, unintrusive, and good for making resolutions, but they were also lifeless and cold unless animated by social intervention.”17
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