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             <h3 align="center ">Study Webtext</h3>

             <h2 align="center "><span face="Lucida Handwriting " color="Maroon
        ">"Bartleby the Scrivener: A Story of Wall-Street " </span>(1853)&nbsp;<br>
          Herman Melville</h2>

             <h2 align="center "><a href="http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/webtexts/bartleby.html
        " target="_blank "><img src="http://fakehost/test/hmhome.gif " alt="To the story text without notes
        " height="38 " width="38 " align="absmiddle "></a> 
        </h2>

             <h3 align="center ">Prepared by <a href="http://www.vcu.edu/engweb ">Ann 
          Woodlief,</a> Virginia Commonwealth University</h3>

             <h5 align="center ">Click on text in red for hypertext notes and questions</h5>
I am a rather elderly man. The nature of my avocations for the last thirty
            years has brought me into more than ordinary contact with what would seem
            an interesting and somewhat singular set of men of whom as yet nothing
            that I know of has ever been written:-- I mean the law-copyists or scriveners.
            I have known very many of them, professionally and privately, and if I
            pleased, could relate divers histories, at which good-natured gentlemen
            might smile, and sentimental souls might weep. But I waive the biographies
            of all other scriveners for a few passages in the life of Bartleby, who
            was a scrivener the strangest I ever saw or heard of. While of other law-copyists
            I might write the complete life, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be
            done. I believe that no materials exist for a full and satisfactory biography
            of this man. It is an irreparable loss to literature. Bartleby was one
            of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, except from the original
            sources, and in his case those are very small. What my own astonished eyes
            saw of Bartleby, that is all I know of him, except, indeed, one vague report
            which will appear in the sequel.
            <p>Ere introducing the scrivener, as he first appeared to me, it is fit I
                make some mention of myself, my employees, my business, my chambers, and
                general surroundings; because some such description is indispensable to
                an adequate understanding of the chief character about to be presented.</p>
            <p> <i>Imprimis</i>: I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled
                with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the best.. Hence,
                though I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and nervous, even
                to turbulence, at times, yet nothing of that sort have I ever suffered
                to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never addresses
                a jury, or in any way draws down public applause; but in the cool tranquillity
                of a snug retreat, do a snug business among rich men's bonds and mortgages
                and title-deeds. The late John Jacob Astor, a personage little given to
                poetic enthusiasm, had no hesitation in pronouncing my first grand point
                to be prudence; my next, method. I do not speak it in vanity, but simply
                record the fact, that I was not unemployed in my profession by the last
                John Jacob Astor; a name which, I admit, I love to repeat, for it hath
                a rounded and orbicular sound to it, and rings like unto bullion. I will
                freely add, that I was not insensible to the late John Jacob Astor's good
                opinion.</p>
            <p>Some time prior to the period at which this little history begins, my
                avocations had been largely increased. The good old office, now extinct
                in the State of New York, of a Master in Chancery, had been conferred upon
                me. It was not a very arduous office, but very pleasantly remunerative.
                I seldom lose my temper; much more seldom indulge in dangerous indignation
                at wrongs and outrages; but I must be permitted to be rash here and declare,
                that I consider the sudden and violent abrogation of the office of Master
                of Chancery, by the new Constitution, as a----premature act; inasmuch as
                I had counted upon a life-lease of the profits, whereas I only received
                those of a few short years. But this is by the way.</p>
            <p>My chambers were up stairs at No.--Wall-street. At one end they looked
                upon the white wall of the interior of a spacious sky-light shaft, penetrating
                the building from top to bottom. This view might have been considered rather
                tame than otherwise, deficient in what landscape painters call "life."
                But if so, the view from the other end of my chambers offered, at least,
                a contrast, if nothing more. In that direction my windows commanded an
                unobstructed view of a lofty brick wall,black by age and everlasting shade;
                which wall required no spy-glass to bring out its lurking beauties, but
                for the benefit of all near-sighted spectators, was pushed up to within
                ten feet of my window panes. Owing to the great height of the surrounding
                buildings, and my chambers being on the second floor, the interval between
                this wall and mine not a little resembled a huge square cistern.</p>
            <p>At the period just preceding the advent of Bartleby, I had two persons
                as copyists in my employment, and a promising lad as an office-boy. First,
                Turkey; second, Nippers; third, Ginger Nut.These may seem names, the like
                of which are not usually found in the Directory. In truth they were nicknames,
                mutually conferred upon each other by my three clerks, and were deemed
                expressive of their respective persons or characters. Turkey was a short,
                pursy Englishman of about my own age, that is, somewhere not far from sixty.
                In the morning, one might say, his face was of a fine florid hue, but after
                twelve o'clock, meridian-- his dinner hour-- it blazed like a grate full
                of Christmas coals; and continued blazing--but, as it were, with a gradual
                wane--till 6 o'clock, P.M. or thereabouts, after which I saw no more of
                the proprietor of the face, which gaining its meridian with the sun, seemed
                to set with it, to rise, culminate, and decline the following day, with
                the like regularity and undiminished glory. There are many singular coincidences
                I have known in the course of my life, not the least among which was the
                fact that exactly when Turkey displayed his fullest beams from his red
                and radiant countenance, just then, too, at the critical moment, began
                the daily period when I considered his business capacities as seriously
                disturbed for the remainder of the twenty-four hours. Not that he was absolutely
                idle, or averse to business then; far from it. The difficulty was, he was
                apt to be altogether too energetic. There was a strange, inflamed, flurried,
                flighty recklessness of activity about him. He would be incautious in dipping
                his pen into his inkstand. All his blots upon my documents, were dropped
                there after twelve o'clock, meridian. Indeed, not only would he be reckless
                and sadly given to making blots in the afternoon, but some days he went
                further, and was rather noisy. At such times, too, his face flamed with
                augmented blazonry, as if cannel coal had been heaped on anthracite. He
                made an unpleasant racket with his chair; spilled his sand-box; in mending
                his pens, impatiently split them all to pieces, and threw them on the floor
                in a sudden passion; stood up and leaned over his table, boxing his papers
                about in a most indecorous manner, very sad to behold in an elderly manlike
                him. Nevertheless, as he was in many ways a most valuable person to me,
                and all the time before twelve o'clock, meridian, was the quickest, steadiest
                creature too, accomplishing a great deal of work in a style not easy to
                be matched--for these reasons, I was willingto overlook his eccentricities,
                though indeed, occasionally, I remonstrated with him. I did this very gently,
                however, because, though the civilest, nay, the blandest and most reverential
                of men in the morning, yet in the afternoon he was disposed, upon provocation,
                to be slightly rash with his tongue, in fact, insolent. Now, valuing his
                morning services as I did, and resolved not to lose them; yet, at the same
                time made uncomfortable by his inflamed ways after twelve o'clock; and
                being a man of peace, unwilling by my admonitions to call forth unseemingly
                retorts from him; I took upon me, one Saturday noon (he was always worse
                on Saturdays), to hint to him, very kindly, that perhaps now that he was
                growing old, it might be well to abridge his labors; in short, he need
                not come to my chambers after twelve o'clock, but, dinner over, had best
                go home to his lodgings and rest himself till tea-time. But no; he insisted
                upon his afternoon devotions. His countenance became intolerably fervid,
                as he oratorically assured me--gesticulating with a long ruler at the other
                end of the room--that if his services in the morning were useful, how indispensible,
                then, in the afternoon?</p>
            <p>"With submission, sir," said Turkey on this occasion, "I consider myself
                your right-hand man. In the morning I but marshal and deploy my columns;
                but in the afternoon I put myself at their head, and gallantly charge the
                foe, thus!"--and he made a violent thrust with the ruler.</p>
            <p>"But the blots, Turkey," intimated I.</p>
            <p>"True,--but, with submission, sir, behold these hairs! I am getting old.
                Surely, sir, a blot or two of a warm afternoon is not the page--is honorable.
                With submission, sir, we both are getting old."</p>
            <p>This appeal to my fellow-feeling was hardly to be resisted. At all events,
                I saw that go he would not. So I made up my mind to let him stay, resolving,
                nevertheless, to see to it, that during the afternoon he had to do with
                my less important papers.</p>
            <p>Nippers, the second on my list, was a whiskered, sallow, and, upon the
                whole, rather piratical-looking young man of about five and twenty. I always
                deemed him the victim of two evil powers-- ambition and indigestion. The
                ambition was evinced by a certain impatience of the duties of a mere copyist,
                an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly profession affairs, such as the
                original drawing up of legal documents. The indigestion seemed betokened
                in an occasional nervous testiness and grinning irritability, causing the
                teeth to audibly grind together over mistakes committed in copying; unnecessary
                maledictions, hissed, rather than spoken, in the heat of business; and
                especially by a continual discontent with the height of the table where
                he worked. Though of a very ingenious mechanical turn, Nippers could never
                get this table to suit him. He put chips under it, blocks of various sorts,
                bits of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to attempt an exquisite
                adjustment by final pieces of folded blotting-paper. But no invention would
                answer. If, for the sake of easing his back, he brought the table lid at
                a sharp angle well up towards his chin, and wrote there like a man using
                the steep roof of a Dutch house for his desk:--then he declared that it
                stopped the circulation in his arms. If now he lowered the table to his
                waistbands, and stooped over it in writing, then there was a sore aching
                in his back. In short, the truth of the matter was, Nippers knew not what
                he wanted. Or, if he wanted anything, it was to be rid of a scrivener's
                table altogether. Among the manifestations of his diseased ambition was
                a fondness he had for receiving visits from certain ambiguous-looking fellows
                in seedy coats, whom he called his clients. Indeed I was aware that not
                only was he, at times, considerable of a ward-politician, but he occasionally
                did a little businessat the Justices' courts, and was not unknown on the
                steps of the Tombs. I have good reason to believe, however, that one individual
                who called upon him at my chambers, and who, with a grand air, he insisted
                was his client, was no other than a dun, and the alleged title-deed, a
                bill. But with all his failings, and the annoyances he caused me, Nippers,
                like his compatriot Turkey, was a very useful man to me; wrote a neat,
                swift hand; and, when he chose, was not deficient in a gentlemanly sort
                of deportment. Added to this, he always dressedin a gentlemanly sort of
                way; and so, incidentally, reflected credit upon my chambers. Whereas with
                respect to Turkey, I had much ado to keep him from being a reproach to
                me. His clothes were apt to look oily and smell of eating-houses. He wore
                his pantaloons very loose and baggy in summer. His coats were execrable;
                his hat not to be handled. But while the hat was a thing of indifference
                to me, inasmuch as his natural civility and deference, as a dependent Englishman,
                always led him to doff it the moment he entered the room, yet his coat
                was another matter. Concerning his coats, I reasoned with him; but with
                no effect. The truth was, I suppose, that a man with so small an income,
                could not afford to sport such a lustrous face and a lustrous coat at one
                and the same time. As Nippers once observed, Turkey's money went chiefly
                for red ink. One winter day I presented Turkey with a highly-respectable
                looking coat of my own, a padded gray coat, of a most comfortable warmth,
                and which buttoned straight up from the knee to the neck. I thought Turkey
                would appreciate the favor, and abate his rashness and obstreperousness
                of afternoons. But no. I verily believe that buttoning himself up in so
                downy and blanket-like a coat had a pernicious effect upon him; upon the
                same principle that too much oats are bad for horses. In fact, precisely
                as a rash, restive horse is said to feel his oats, so Turkey felt his coat.
                It made him insolent. He was a man whom prosperity harmed.</p>
            <p>Though concerning the self-indulgent habits of Turkey I had my own private
                surmises, yet touching Nippers I was well persuaded that whatever might
                be his faults in other respects, he was, at least, a temperate young man.
                But indeed, nature herself seemed to have been his vintner, and at his
                birth charged him so thoroughly with an irritable, brandy-like disposition,
                that all subsequent potations were needless. When I consider how, amid
                the stillness of my chambers, Nippers would sometimes impatiently rise
                from his seat, and stooping over his table, spread his arms wide apart,
                seize the whole desk, and move it, and jerk it, with a grim, grinding motion
                on the floor, as if the table were a perverse voluntary agent, intent on
                thwarting and vexing him; I plainly perceive that for Nippers, brandy and
                water were altogether superfluous.</p>
            <p>It was fortunate for me that, owing to its course--indigestion--the irritability
                and consequent nervousness of Nippers, were mainly observable in the morning,
                while in the afternoon he was comparatively mild. So that Turkey's paroxysms
                only coming on about twelve o'clock, I never had to do with their eccentricities
                at one time. Their fits relieved each other like guards. When Nippers'
                was on, Turkey's was off, and vice versa. This was a good natural arrangement
                under the circumstances.</p>
            <p>Ginger Nut, the third on my list, was a lad some twelve years old. His
                father was a carman, ambitious of seeing his son on the bench instead of
                a cart, before he died. So he sent him to my office as a student at law,
                errand boy, and cleaner and sweeper, at the rate of one dollar a week.
                He had a little desk to himself, but he did not use it much. Upon inspection,
                the drawer exhibited a great array of the shells of various sorts of nuts.
                Indeed, to this quick-witted youth the whole noble science of the law was
                contained in a nut-shell. Not the least among the employments of Ginger
                Nut, as well as one which he discharged with the most alacrity, was his
                duty as cake and apple purveyor for Turkey and Nippers. Copying law papers
                being proverbially a dry, husky sort of business, my two scriveners were
                fain to moisten their mouths very often with Spitzenbergs to be had at
                the numerous stalls nigh the Custom House and Post Office. Also, they sent
                Ginger Nut very frequently for that peculiar cake--small, flat, round,
                and very spicy--after which he had been named by them. Of a cold morning
                when business was but dull, Turkey would gobble up scores of these cakes,
                as if they were mere wafers--indeed they sell them at the rate of six or
                eight for a penny--the scrape of his pen blending with the crunching of
                the crisp particles in his mouth. Of all the fiery afternoon blunders and
                flurried rashnesses of Turkey, was his once moistening a ginger-cake between
                his lips, and clapping it on to a mortgage for a seal. I came within an
                ace of dismissing him then. But he mollified me by making an oriental bow,
                and saying--"With submission, sir, it was generous of me to find you in
                stationery on my own account."</p>
            <p>Now my original business--that of a conveyancer and title hunter, and
                drawer-up of recondite documents of all sorts--was considerably increased
                by receiving the master's office. There was now great work for scriveners.
                Not only must I push the clerks already with me, but I must have additional
                help. In answer to my advertisement, a motionless young man one morning,
                stood upon my office threshold, the door being open, for it was summer.
                I can see that figure now--pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably
                forlorn! It was Bartleby.</p>
            <p>After a few words touching his qualifications, I engaged him, glad to
                have among my corps of copyists a man of so singularly sedate an aspect,
                which I thought might operate beneficially upon the flighty temper of Turkey,
                and the fiery one of Nippers.</p>
            <p>I should have stated before that ground glass folding-doors divided my
                premises into two parts, one of which was occupied by my scriveners, the
                other by myself. According to my humor I threw open these doors, or closed
                them. I resolved to assign Bartleby a corner by the folding-doors, but
                on my side of them, so as to have this quiet man within easy call, in case
                any trifling thing was to be done. I placed his desk close up to a small
                side window in that part of the room, a window which originally had afforded
                a lateral view of certain grimy back-yards and bricks, but which, owing
                to subsequent erections, commanded at present no view at all, though it
                gave some light. Within three feet of the panes was a wall, and the light
                came down from far above, between two lofty buildings, as from a very small
                opening in a dome. Still further to a satisfactory arrangement, I procured
                a high green folding screen, which might entirely isolate Bartleby from
                my sight, though not remove him from my voice. And thus, in a manner, privacy
                and society were conjoined.</p>
            <p>At first Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if long
                famishingfor something to copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my documents.
                There was no pause for digestion. He ran a day and night line, copying
                by sun-light and by candle-light. I should have been quite delighted with
                his application, had be been cheerfully industrious. But he wrote on silently,
                palely, mechanically.</p>
            <p>It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener's business to verify
                the accuracy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or more scriveners
                in an office, they assist each other in this examination, one reading from
                the copy, the other holding the original. It is a very dull, wearisome,
                and lethargic affair. I can readily imagine that to some sanguine temperaments
                it would be altogether intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the
                mettlesome poet Byron would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to
                examine a law document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a
                crimpy hand.</p>
            <p>Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist
                in comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for
                this purpose. One object I had in placing Bartleby so handy to me behind
                the screen, was to avail myself of his services on such trivial occasions.
                It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any
                necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much
                hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to
                Bartleby. In my haste and natural expectancy of instant compliance, I sat
                with my head bent over the original on my desk, and my right hand sideways,
                and somewhat nervously extended with the copy, so that immediately upon
                emerging from his retreat, Bartleby might snatch it and proceed to business
                without the least delay.</p>
            <p>In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating
                what it was I wanted him to do--namely, to examine a small paper with me.
                Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when without moving from his
                privacy, Bartleby in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied,"I would prefer
                not to."</p>
            <p>I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately
                it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely
                misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I
                could assume. But in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, "I would
                prefer not to."</p>
            <p>"Prefer not to," echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the
                room with a stride, "What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you
                to help me compare this sheet here--take it," and I thrust it towards him.</p>
            <p>"I would prefer not to," said he.</p>
            <p>I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye
                dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the
                least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other
                words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him, doubtless I
                should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I
                should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of
                Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his
                own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk. This is very strange,
                thought I. What had one best do? But my business hurried me. I concluded
                to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for my future leisure.
                So calling Nippers from the other room, the paper was speedily examined.</p>
            <p>A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being
                quadruplicates of a week's testimony taken before me in my High Court of
                Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important suit,
                and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged I called
                Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut from the next room, meaning to place the
                four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from the
                original. Accordingly Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut had taken their seats
                in a row, each with his document in hand, when I called to Bartleby to
                join this interesting group.</p>
            <p>"Bartleby! quick, I am waiting."</p>
            <p>I heard a low scrape of his chair legs on the unscraped floor, and soon
                he appeared standing at the entrance of his hermitage.</p>
            <p>"What is wanted?" said he mildly.</p>
            <p>"The copies, the copies," said I hurriedly. "We are going to examine them.
                There"--and I held towards him the fourth quadruplicate.</p>
            <p>"I would prefer not to," he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen.</p>
            <p>For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the
                head of my seated column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced towards
                the screen, and demanded the reason for such extraordinary conduct.</p>
            <p>"<i>Why</i> do you refuse?"</p>
            <p>"I would prefer not to."</p>
            <p>With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion,
                scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from my presence.
                But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely disarmed
                me, but in a wonderful manner touched and disconcerted me. I began to reason
                with him.</p>
            <p>"These are your own copies we are about to examine. It is labor saving
                to you, because one examination will answer for your four papers. It is
                common usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his copy. Is it not
                so? Will you not speak? Answer!"</p>
            <p>"I prefer not to," he replied in a flute-like tone. It seemed to me that
                while I had been addressing him, he carefully revolved every statement
                that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could not gainsay the irresistible
                conclusion; but, at the same time, some paramount consideration prevailed
                with him to reply as he did.</p>
            <p>"You are decided, then, not to comply with my request--a request made
                according to common usage and common sense?"</p>
            <p>He briefly gave me to understand that on that point my judgment was sound.
                Yes: his decision was irreversible.</p>
            <p>It is not seldom the case that when a man is browbeaten in some unprecedented
                and violently unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in his own plainest
                faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that, wonderful as it
                may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the other side. Accordingly,
                if any disinterested persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforcement
                for his own faltering mind.</p>
            <p>"Turkey," said I, "what do you think of this? Am I not right?"</p>
            <p>"With submission, sir," said Turkey, with his blandest tone, "I think
                that you are."</p>
            <p>"Nippers," said I, "what do<i> you</i> think of it?"</p>
            <p>"I think I should kick him out of the office."</p>
            <p>(The reader of nice perceptions will here perceive that, it being morning,
                Turkey's answer is couched in polite and tranquil terms, but Nippers replies
                in ill-tempered ones. Or, to repeat a previous sentence, Nipper's ugly
                mood was on duty, and Turkey's off.)</p>
            <p>"Ginger Nut," said I, willing to enlist the smallest suffrage in my behalf,
                "what do<i> you</i> think of it?"</p>
            <p>"I think, sir, he's a little<i> luny</i>," replied Ginger Nut, with a
                grin.</p>
            <p>"You hear what they say," said I, turning towards the screen, "come forth
                and do your duty."</p>
            <p>But he vouchsafed no reply. I pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But
                once more business hurried me. I determined again to postpone the consideration
                of this dilemma to my future leisure. With a little trouble we made out
                to examine the papers without Bartleby, though at every page or two, Turkey
                deferentially dropped his opinion that this proceeding was quite out of
                the common; while Nippers, twitching in his chair with a dyspeptic nervousness,
                ground out between his set teeth occasional hissing maledictions against
                the stubborn oaf behind the screen. And for his (Nipper's) part, this was
                the first and the last time he would do another man's business without
                pay.</p>
            <p>Meanwhile Bartleby sat in his hermitage, oblivious to every thing but
                his own peculiar business there.</p>
            <p>Some days passed, the scrivener being employed upon another lengthy work.
                His late remarkable conduct led me to regard his way narrowly. I observed
                that he never went to dinner; indeed that he never went any where. As yet
                I had never of my personal knowledge known him to be outside of my office.
                He was a perpetual sentry in the corner. At about eleven o'clock though,
                in the morning, I noticed that Ginger Nut would advance toward the opening
                in Bartleby's screen, as if silently beckoned thither by a gesture invisible
                to me where I sat. That boy would then leave the office jingling a few
                pence, and reappear with a handful of ginger-nuts which he delivered in
                the hermitage, receiving two of the cakes for his trouble.</p>
            <p>He lives, then, on ginger-nuts, thought I; never eats a dinner, properly
                speaking; he must be a vegetarian then, but no; he never eats even vegetables,
                he eats nothing but ginger-nuts. My mind then ran on in reveries concerning
                the probable effects upon the human constitution of living entirely on
                ginger-nuts. Ginger-nuts are so called because they contain ginger as one
                of their peculiar constituents, and the final flavoring one. Now what was
                ginger? A hot, spicy thing. Was Bartleby hot and spicy? Not at all. Ginger,
                then, had no effect upon Bartleby. Probably he preferred it should have
                none.</p>
            <p>Nothing so aggravates an earnest person as a passive resistance. If the
                individual so resisted be of a not inhumane temper, and the resisting one
                perfectly harmless in his passivity; then, in the better moods of the former,
                he will endeavor charitably to construe to his imagination what proves
                impossible to be solved by his judgment. Even so, for the most part, I
                regarded Bartleby and his ways. Poor fellow! thought I, he means no mischief;
                it is plain he intends no insolence; his aspect sufficiently evinces that
                his eccentricities are involuntary. He is useful to me. I can get along
                with him. If I turn him away, the chances are he will fall in with some
                less indulgent employer, and then he will be rudely treated, and perhaps
                driven forth miserably to starve. Yes. Here I can cheaply purchase a delicious
                self-approval. To befriend Bartleby; to humor him in his strange willfulness,
                will cost me little or nothing, while I lay up in my soul what will eventually
                prove a sweet morsel for my conscience. But this mood was not invariable
                with me. The passiveness of Bartleby sometimes irritated me. I felt strangely
                goaded on to encounter him in new opposition, to elicit some angry spark
                from him answerable to my own. But indeed I might as well have essayed
                to strike fire with my knuckles against a bit of Windsor soap. But one
                afternoon the evil impulse in me mastered me, and the following little
                scene ensued:</p>
            <p>"Bartleby," said I, "when those papers are all copied, I will compare
                them with you."</p>
            <p>"I would prefer not to."</p>
            <p>"How? Surely you do not mean to persist in that mulish vagary?"</p>
            <p>No answer.</p>
            <p>I threw open the folding-doors near by, and turning upon Turkey and Nippers,
                exclaimed in an excited manner--</p>
            <p>"He says, a second time, he won't examine his papers. What do you think
                of it, Turkey?"</p>
            <p>It was afternoon, be it remembered. Turkey sat glowing like a brass boiler,
                his bald head steaming, his hands reeling among his blotted papers.</p>
            <p>"Think of it?" roared Turkey; "I think I'll just step behind his screen,
                and black his eyes for him!"</p>
            <p>So saying, Turkey rose to his feet and threw his arms into a pugilistic
                position. He was hurrying away to make good his promise, when I detained
                him, alarmed at the effect of incautiously rousing Turkey's combativeness
                after dinner.</p>
            <p>"Sit down, Turkey," said I, "and hear what Nippers has to say. What do
                you think of it, Nippers? Would I not be justified in immediately dismissing
                Bartleby?"</p>
            <p>"Excuse me, that is for you to decide, sir. I think his conduct quite
                unusual, and indeed unjust, as regards Turkey and myself. But it may only
                be a passing whim."</p>
            <p>"Ah," exclaimed I, "you have strangely changed your mind then--you speak
                very gently of him now."</p>
            <p>"All beer," cried Turkey; "gentleness is effects of beer--Nippers and
                I dined together to-day. You see how gentle I am, sir. Shall I go and black
                his eyes?"</p>
            <p>"You refer to Bartleby, I suppose. No, not to-day, Turkey," I replied;
                "pray, put up your fists."</p>
            <p>I closed the doors, and again advanced towards Bartleby. I felt additional
                incentives tempting me to my fate. I burned to be rebelled against again.
                I remembered that Bartleby never left the office.</p>
            <p>"Bartleby," said I, "Ginger Nut is away; just step round to the Post Office,
                won't you? (it was but a three minutes walk,) and see if there is any thing
                for me."</p>
            <p>"I would prefer not to."</p>
            <p>"You<i> will</i> not?"</p>
            <p>"I <i>prefer</i> not."</p>
            <p>I staggered to my desk, and sat there in a deep study. My blind inveteracy
                returned. Was there any other thing in which I could procure myself to
                be ignominiously repulsed by this lean, penniless with?--my hired clerk?
                What added thing is there, perfectly reasonable, that he will be sure to
                refuse to do?</p>
            <p>"Bartleby!"</p>
            <p>No answer.</p>
            <p>"Bartleby," in a louder tone.</p>
            <p>No answer.</p>
            <p>"Bartleby," I roared.</p>
            <p>Like a very ghost, agreeably to the laws of magical invocation, at the
                third summons, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.</p>
            <p>"Go to the next room, and tell Nippers to come to me."</p>
            <p>"I prefer not to," he respectfully and slowly said, and mildly disappeared.</p>
            <p>"Very good, Bartleby," said I, in a quiet sort of serenely severe self-possessed
                tone, intimating the unalterable purpose of some terrible retribution very
                close at hand. At the moment I half intended something of the kind. But
                upon the whole, as it was drawing towards my dinner-hour, I thought it
                best to put on my hat and walk home for the day, suffering much from perplexity
                and distress of mind.</p>
            <p>Shall I acknowledge it? The conclusion of this whole business was that
                it soon became a fixed fact of my chambers, that a pale young scrivener,
                by the name of Bartleby, had a desk there; that he copied for me at the
                usual rate of four cents a folio (one hundred words); but he was permanently
                exempt from examining the work done by him, that duty being transferred
                to Turkey and Nippers, one of compliment doubtless to their superior acuteness;
                moreover, said Bartleby was never on any account to be dispatched on the
                most trivial errand of any sort; and that even if entreated to take upon
                him such a matter, it was generally understood that he would prefer not
                to--in other words, that he would refuse point-blank.</p>
            <p>32 As days passed on, I became considerably reconciled to Bartleby. His
                steadiness, his freedom from all dissipation, his incessant industry (except
                when he chose to throw himself into a standing revery behind his screen),
                his great stillness, his unalterableness of demeanor under all circumstances,
                made him a valuable acquisition. One prime thing was this,--he was always
                there;--first in the morning, continually through the day, and the last
                at night. I had a singular confidence in his honesty. I felt my most precious
                papers perfectly safe in his hands. Sometimes to be sure I could not, for
                the very soul of me, avoid falling into sudden spasmodic passions with
                him. For it was exceeding difficult to bear in mind all the time those
                strange peculiarities, privileges, and unheard of exemptions, forming the
                tacit stipulations on Bartleby's part under which he remained in my office.
                Now and then, in the eagerness of dispatching pressing business, I would
                inadvertently summon Bartleby, in a short, rapid tone, to put his finger,
                say, on the incipient tie of a bit of red tape with which I was about compressing
                some papers. Of course, from behind the screen the usual answer, "I prefer
                not to," was sure to come; and then, how could a human creature with the
                common infirmities of our nature, refrain from bitterly exclaiming upon
                such perverseness--such unreasonableness. However, every added repulse
                of this sort which I received only tended to lessen the probability of
                my repeating the inadvertence.</p>
            <p>Here is must be said, that according to the custom of most legal gentlemen
                occupying chambers in densely-populated law buildings, there were several
                keys to my door. One was kept by a woman residing in the attic, which person
                weekly scrubbed and daily swept and dusted my apartments. Another was kept
                by Turkey for convenience sake. The third I sometimes carried in my own
                pocket. The fourth I knew not who had.</p>
            <p>Now, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church, to hear a
                celebrated preacher, and finding myself rather early on the ground, I thought
                I would walk round to my chambers for a while. Luckily I had my key with
                me; but upon applying it to the lock, I found it resisted by something
                inserted from the inside. Quite surprised, I called out; when to my consternation
                a key was turned from within; and thrusting his lean visage at me, and
                holding the door ajar, the apparition of Bartleby appeared, in his shirt
                sleeves, and otherwise in a strangely tattered dishabille, saying quietly
                that he was sorry, but he was deeply engaged just then, and--preferred
                not admitting me at present. In a brief word or two, he moreover added,
                that perhaps I had better walk round the block two or three times, and
                by that time he would probably have concluded his affairs. Now, the utterly
                unsurmised appearance of Bartleby, tenanting my law-chambers of a Sunday
                morning, with his cadaverously gentlemanly nonchalance, yet withal firm
                and self-possessed, had such a strange effect upon me, that incontinently
                I slunk away from my own door, and did as desired. But not without sundry
                twinges of impotent rebellion against the mild effrontery of this unaccountable
                scrivener. Indeed, it was his wonderful mildness chiefly, which not only
                disarmed me, but unmanned me, as it were. For I consider that one, for
                the time, is a sort of unmanned when he tranquilly permits his hired clerk
                to dictate to him, and order him away from his own premises. Furthermore,
                I was full of uneasiness as to what Bartleby could possibly be doing in
                my office in his shirt sleeves, and in an otherwise dismantled condition
                of a Sunday morning. Was any thing amiss going on? Nay, that was out of
                the question. It was not to be thought of for a moment that Bartleby was
                an immoral person. But what could he be doing there?--copying? Nay again,
                whatever might be his eccentricities, Bartleby was an eminently decorous
                person. He would be the last man to sit down to his desk in any state approaching
                to nudity. Besides, it was Sunday; and there was something about Bartleby
                that forbade the supposition that we would by any secular occupation violate
                the proprieties of the day.</p>
            <p>Nevertheless, my mind was not pacified; and full of a restless curiosity,
                at last I returned to the door. Without hindrance I inserted my key, opened
                it, and entered. Bartleby was not to be seen. I looked round anxiously,
                peeped behind his screen; but it was very plain that he was gone. Upon
                more closely examining the place, I surmised that for an indefinite period
                Bartleby must have ate, dressed, and slept in my office, and that too without
                plate, mirror, or bed. The cushioned seat of a rickety old sofa in one
                corner bore t faint impress of a lean, reclining form. Rolled away under
                his desk, I found a blanket; under the empty grate, a blacking box and
                brush; on a chair, a tin basin, with soap and a ragged towel; in a newspaper
                a few crumbs of ginger-nuts and a morsel of cheese. Yet, thought I, it
                is evident enough that Bartleby has been making his home here, keeping
                bachelor's hallall by himself. Immediately then the thought came sweeping
                across me, What miserable friendlessness and loneliness are here revealed!
                His poverty is great; but his solitude, how horrible! Think of it. Of a
                Sunday, Wall-street is deserted as Petra; and every night of every day
                it is an emptiness. This building too, which of week-days hums with industry
                and life, at nightfall echoes with sheer vacancy, and all through Sunday
                is forlorn. And here Bartleby makes his home; sole spectator of a solitude
                which he has seen all populous--a sort of innocent and transformed Marius
                brooding among the ruins of Carthage!</p>
            <p>For the first time in my life a feeling of overpowering stinging melancholy
                seized me. Before, I had never experienced aught but a not-unpleasing sadness.
                The bond of a common humanity now drew me irresistibly to gloom. A fraternal
                melancholy! For both I and Bartleby were sons of Adam. I remembered the
                bright silks and sparkling faces I had seen that day in gala trim, swan-like
                sailing down the Mississippi of Broadway; and I contrasted them with the
                pallid copyist, and thought to myself, Ah, happiness courts the light,
                so we deem the world is gay; but misery hides aloof, so we deem that misery
                there is none. These sad fancyings-- chimeras, doubtless, of a sick and
                silly brain--led on to other and more special thoughts, concerning the
                eccentricities of Bartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered
                round me. The scrivener's pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring
                strangers, in its shivering winding sheet.</p>
            <p>Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby's closed desk, the key in open sight
                left in the lock.</p>
            <p>I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity,
                thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too, so I will make
                bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged, the papers
                smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the files of
                documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt something there,
                and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna handkerchief, heavy and knotted.
                I opened it, and saw it was a savings' bank.</p>
            <p>I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I
                remembered that he never spoke but to answer; that though at intervals
                he had considerable time to himself, yet I had never seen him reading--no,
                not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand looking out,
                at his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick wall; I was quite
                sure he never visited any refectory or eating house; while his pale face
                clearly indicated that he never drank beer like Turkey, or tea and coffee
                even, like other men; that he never went any where in particular that I
                could learn; never went out for a walk, unless indeed that was the case
                at present; that he had declined telling who he was, or whence he came,
                or whether he had any relatives in the world; that though so thin and pale,
                he never complained of ill health. And more than all, I remembered a certain
                unconscious air of pallid--how shall I call it?--of pallid haughtiness,
                say, or rather an austere reserve about him, which had positively awed
                me into my tame compliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to
                ask him to do the slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might
                know, from his long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he
                must be standing in one of those dead-wall reveries of his.</p>
            <p>Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered
                fact that he made my office his constant abiding place and home, and not
                forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these things, a prudential
                feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions had been those of pure
                melancholy and sincerest pity; but just in proportion as the forlornness
                of Bartleby grew and grew to my imagination, did that same melancholy merge
                into fear, that pity into repulsion. So true it is, and so terrible too,
                that up to a certain point the thought or sight of misery enlists our best
                affections; but, in certain special cases, beyond that point it does not.
                They err who would assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent
                selfishness of the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness
                of remedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not
                seldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot lead
                to effectual succor, common sense bids the soul be rid of it. What I saw
                that morning persuaded me that the scrivener was the victim of innate and
                incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body; but his body did not
                pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I could not reach.</p>
            <p>I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that morning.
                Somehow, the things I had seen disqualified me for the time from church-going.
                I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with Bartleby. Finally, I resolvedupon
                this;--I would put certain calm questions to him the next morning, touching
                his history, &amp;c., and if he declined to answer then openly and reservedly
                (and I supposed he would prefer not), then to give him a twenty dollar
                bill over and above whatever I might owe him, and tell him his services
                were no longer required; but that if in any other way I could assist him,
                I would be happy to do so, especially if he desired to return to his native
                place, wherever that might be, I would willingly help to defray the expenses.
                Moreover, if after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want
                of aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply.</p>
            <p>The next morning came.</p>
            <p>"Bartleby," said I, gently calling to him behind the screen.</p>
            <p>No reply.</p>
            <p>"Bartleby," said I, in a still gentler tone, "come here; I am not going
                to ask you to do any thing you would prefer not to do--I simply wish to
                speak to you."</p>
            <p>Upon this he noiselessly slid into view.</p>
            <p>"Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?"</p>
            <p>"I would prefer not to."</p>
            <p>"Will you tell me <i>anything </i>about yourself?"</p>
            <p>"I would prefer not to."</p>
            <p>"But what reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I feel friendly
                towards you."</p>
            <p>He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance fixed upon my
                bust of Cicero, which as I then sat, was directly behind me, some six inches
                above my head. "What is your answer, Bartleby?" said I, after waiting a
                considerable time for a reply, during which his countenance remained immovable,
                only there was the faintest conceivable tremor of the white attenuated
                mouth.</p>
            <p>"At present I prefer to give no answer," he said, and retired into his
                hermitage.</p>
            <p>It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion nettled
                me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain disdain, but his perverseness
                seemed ungrateful, considering the undeniable good usage and indulgence
                he had received from me.</p>
            <p>Again I sat ruminating what I should do.Mortified as I was at his behavior,
                and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my office, nevertheless
                I strangely felt something superstitious knocking at my heart, and forbidding
                me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing me for a villain if I dared
                to breathe one bitter word against this forlornest of mankind. At last,
                familiarly drawing my chair behind his screen, I sat down and said: "Bartleby,
                never mind then about revealing your history; but let me entreat you, as
                a friend, to comply as far as may be with the usages of this office. Say
                now you will help to examine papers tomorrow or next day: in short, say
                now that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:--say
                so, Bartleby."</p>
            <p>"At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable was his idly
                cadaverous reply.,"</p>
            <p>Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed
                suffering from an unusually bad night's rest, induced by severer indigestion
                than common. He overheard those final words of Bartleby.</p>
            <p><i>"Prefer</i> not, eh?" gritted Nippers--"I'd<i> prefer</i> him, if I were
                you, sir," addressing me--"I'd <i>prefer</i> him; I'd give him preferences,
                the stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he <i>prefers</i> not to do
                now?"</p>
            <p>Bartleby moved not a limb.</p>
            <p>"Mr. Nippers," said I, "I'd prefer that you would withdraw for the present."</p>
            <p>Somehow, of late I had got into the way of involuntary using this word
                "prefer" upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. And I trembled
                to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and seriously affected
                me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might it not
                yet produce? This apprehension had not been without efficacy in determining
                me to summary means.</p>
            <p>As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly
                and deferentially approached.</p>
            <p>"With submission, sir," said he, "yesterday I was thinking about Bartleby
                here, and I think that if he would but prefer to take a quart of good ale
                every day, it would do much towards mending him, and enabling him to assist
                in examining his papers."</p>
            <p>"So you have got the word too," said I, slightly excited.</p>
            <p>"With submission, what word, sir," asked Turkey, respectfully crowding
                himself into the contracted space behind the screen, and by so doing, making
                me jostle the scrivener. "What word, sir?"</p>
            <p>"I would prefer to be left alone here," said Bartleby, as if offended
                at being mobbed in his privacy.</p>
            <p>"<i>That's</i> the word, Turkey," said I--<i>"that's</i> it."</p>
            <p>"Oh,<i> prefer</i> oh yes--queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir
                as I was saying, if he would but prefer--"</p>
            <p>"Turkey," interrupted I, "you will please withdraw."</p>
            <p>"Oh, certainly, sir, if you prefer that I should."</p>
            <p>As he opened the folding-door to retire, Nippers at his desk caught a
                glimpse of me, and asked whether I would prefer to have a certain paper
                copied on blue paper or white. He did not in the least roguishly accent
                the word prefer. It was plain that it involuntarily rolled from his tongue.
                I thought to myself, surely I must get rid of a demented man, who already
                has in some degree turned the tongues, if not the heads of myself and clerks.
                But I thought it prudent not to break the dismission at once.</p>
            <p>The next day I noticed that Bartleby did nothing but stand at his window
                in his dead-wall revery. Upon asking him why he did not write, he said
                that he had decided upon doing no more writing.</p>
            <p>"Why, how now? what next?" exclaimed I, "do no more writing?"</p>
            <p>"No more."</p>
            <p>"And what is the reason?"</p>
            <p>"Do you not see the reason for yourself," he indifferently replied.</p>
            <p>I looked steadfastly at him, and perceived that his eyes looked dull and
                glazed. Instantly it occurred to me, that his unexampled diligence in copying
                by his dim window for the first few weeks of his stay with me might have
                temporarily impaired his vision.</p>
            <p>I was touched. I said something in condolence with him. I hinted that
                of course he did wisely in abstaining from writing for a while; and urged
                him to embrace that opportunity of taking wholesome exercise in the open
                air. This, however, he did not do. A few days after this, my other clerks
                being absent, and being in a great hurry to dispatch certain letters by
                the mail, I thought that, having nothing else earthly to do, Bartleby would
                surely be less inflexible than usual, and carry these letters to the post-office.
                But he blankly declined. So, much to my inconvenience, I went myself.</p>
            <p>Still added days went by. Whether Bartleby's eyes improved or not, I could
                not say. To all appearance, I thought they did. But when I asked him if
                they did, he vouchsafed no answer. At all events, he would do no copying.
                At last, in reply to my urgings, he informed me that he had permanently
                given up copying.</p>
            <p>"What!" exclaimed I; "suppose your eyes should get entirely well- better
                than ever before--would you not copy then?"</p>
            <p>"I have given up copying," he answered, and slid aside.</p>
            <p>He remained as ever, a fixture in my chamber. Nay--if that were possible--he
                became still more of a fixture than before. What was to be done? He would
                do nothing in the office: why should he stay there? In plain fact, he had
                now become a millstone to me, not only useless as a necklace, but afflictive
                to bear. Yet I was sorry for him. I speak less than truth when I say that,
                on his own account, he occasioned me uneasiness. If he would but have named
                a single relative or friend, I would instantly have written, and urged
                their taking the poor fellow away to some convenient retreat. But he seemed
                alone, absolutely alone in the universe. A bit of wreck&lt;/font&gt; in
                the mid Atlantic. At length, necessities connected with my business tyrannized
                over all other considerations. Decently as I could, I told Bartleby that
                in six days' time he must unconditionally leave the office. I warned him
                to take measures, in the interval, for procuring some other abode. I offered
                to assist him in this endeavor, if he himself would but take the first
                step towards a removal. "And when you finally quit me, Bartleby," added
                I, "I shall see that you go not away entirely unprovided. Six days from
                this hour, remember."</p>
            <p>At the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo!
                Bartleby was there.</p>
            <p>I buttoned up my coat, balanced myself; advanced slowly towards him, touched
                his shoulder, and said, "The time has come; you must quit this place; I
                am sorry for you; here is money; but you must go."</p>
            <p>"I would prefer not," he replied, with his back still towards me.</p>
            <p>"You<i> must</i>."</p>
            <p>He remained silent.</p>
            <p>Now I had an unbounded confidence in this man's common honesty. He had
                frequently restored to me six pences and shillings carelessly dropped upon
                the floor, for I am apt to be very reckless in such shirt-button affairs.
                The proceeding then which followed will not be deemed extraordinary. "Bartleby,"
                said I, "I owe you twelve dollars on account; here are thirty-two; the
                odd twenty are yours.--Will you take it? and I handed the bills towards
                him.</p>
            <p>But he made no motion.</p>
            <p>"I will leave them here then," putting them under a weight on the table.
                Then taking my hat and cane and going to the door I tranquilly turned and
                added--"After you have removed your things from these offices, Bartleby,
                you will of course lock the door--since every one is now gone for the day
                but you--and if you please, slip your key underneath the mat, so that I
                may have it in the morning. I shall not see you again; so good-bye to you.
                If hereafter in your new place of abode I can be of any service to you,
                do not fail to advise me by letter. Good-bye, Bartleby, and fare you well."</p>
            <p>But he answered not a word; like the last column of some ruined temple,
                he remained standing mute and solitary in the middle of the otherwise deserted
                room.</p>
            <p>As I walked home in a pensive mood, my vanity got the better of my pity.
                I could not but highly plume myself on my masterly management in getting
                rid of Bartleby. Masterly I call it, and such it must appear to any dispassionate
                thinker. The beauty of my procedure seemed to consist in its perfect quietness.
                There was no vulgar bullying, no bravado of any sort, no choleric hectoring
                and striding to and fro across the apartment, jerking out vehement commands
                for Bartleby to bundle himself off with his beggarly traps. Nothing of
                the kind. Without loudly bidding Bartleby depart--as an inferior genius
                might have done--I assumed the ground that depart he must; and upon the
                assumption built all I had to say. The more I thought over my procedure,
                the more I was charmed with it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening,
                I had my doubts,--I had somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the
                coolest and wisest hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the morning.
                My procedure seemed as sagacious as ever,--but only in theory. How it would
                prove in practice--there was the rub. It was truly a beautiful thought
                to have assumed Bartleby's departure; but, after all, that assumption was
                simply my own, and none of Bartleby's. The great point was, not whether
                I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether he would prefer so to
                do. He was more a man of preferences than assumptions.</p>
            <p>After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities pro and
                con. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and Bartleby
                would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next moment it seemed
                certain that I should see his chair empty. And so I kept veering about.
                At the corner of Broadway and Canal- street, I saw quite an excited group
                of people standing in earnest conversation.</p>
            <p>"I'll take odds he doesn't," said a voice as I passed.</p>
            <p>"Doesn't go?--done!" said I, "put up your money."</p>
            <p>I was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own, when
                I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had overheard bore
                no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or non-success of some candidate
                for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of mind, I had, as it were, imagined
                that all Broadway shared in my excitement, and were debating the same question
                with me. I passed on, very thankful that the uproar of the street screened
                my momentary absent-mindedness.</p>
            <p>As I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood
                listening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the knob.
                The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he indeed
                must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I was almost
                sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the door mat for the
                key, which Bartleby was to have left there for me, when accidentally my
                knee knocked against a panel, producing a summoning sound, and in response
                a voice came to me from within--"Not yet; I am occupied."</p>
            <p>It was Bartleby.</p>
            <p>I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in
                mouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by summer
                lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and remained leaning
                out there upon the dreamy afternoon, till some one touched him, when he
                fell. "Not gone!" I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrous ascendancy
                which the inscrutable scrivener had over me, and from which ascendancy,
                for all my chafing, I could not completely escape, I slowly went down stairs
                and out into the street, and while walking round the block, considered
                what I should next do in this unheard-of-perplexity. Turn the man out by
                an actual thrusting I could not; to drive him away by calling him hard
                names would not do; calling in the police was an unpleasant idea; and yet,
                permit him to enjoy his cadaverous triumph over me,--this too I could not
                think of. What was to be done? or, if nothing could be done, was there
                any thing further that I could assume in the matter? Yes, as before I had
                prospectively assumed that Bartleby would depart, so now I might retrospectively
                assume that departed he was. In the legitimate carrying out of this assumption,
                I might enter my office in a great hurry, and pretending not to see Bartleby
                at all, walk straight against him as if he were air. Such a proceeding
                would in a singular degree have the appearance of a home-thrust. It was
                hardly possible that Bartleby could withstand such an application of the
                doctrine of assumptions. But upon second thoughts the success of the plan
                seemed rather dubious. I resolved to argue the matter over with him again.</p>
            <p>Bartleby," said I, entering the office, with a quietly severe expression.
                "I am seriously displeased. I am pained, Bartleby. I had thought better
                of you. I had imagined you of such a gentlemanly organization, that in
                any delicate dilemma a slight hint would suffice--in short, an assumption.
                But it appears I am deceived. Why," I added, unaffectedly starting, "you
                have not even touched the money yet," pointing to it, just where I had
                left it the evening previous.</p>
            <p>He answered nothing.</p>
            <p>"Will you, or will you not, quit me?" I now demanded in a sudden passion,
                advancing close to him.</p>
            <p>"I would prefer <i>not</i> to quit you," he replied, gently emphasizing
                the<i> not</i>.</p>
            <p>"What earthly right have you to stay here? do you pay any rent? Do you
                pay my taxes? Or is this property yours?"</p>
            <p>He answered nothing.</p>
            <p>"Are you ready to go on and write now? Are your eyes recovered? Could
                you copy a small paper for me this morning? or help examine a few lines?
                or step round to the post-office? In a word, will you do any thing at all,
                to give a coloring to your refusal to depart the premises?"</p>
            <p>He silently retired into his hermitage.</p>
            <p>I was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought it but
                prudentto check myself at present from further demonstrations. Bartleby
                and I were alone. I remembered the tragedy of the unfortunate Adams and
                the still more unfortunate Colt in the solitary office of the latter; and
                how poor Colt, being dreadfully incensed by Adams, and imprudently permitting
                himself to get wildly excited, was at unawares hurried into his fatal act--an
                act which certainly no man could possibly deplore more than the actor himself.
                Often it had occurred to me in my ponderings upon the subject, that had
                that altercation taken place in the public street, or at a private residence,
                it would not have terminated as it did. It was the circumstance of being
                alone in a solitary office, up stairs, of a building entirely unhallowed
                by humanizing domestic associations--an uncarpeted office, doubtless of
                a dusty, haggard sort of appearance;--this it must have been, which greatly
                helped to enhance the irritable desperation of the hapless Colt.</p>
            <p>But when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me concerning
                Bartleby, I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by recalling the
                divine injunction: "A new commandment give I unto you, that ye love one
                another." Yes, this it was that saved me. Aside from higher considerations,
                charity often operates as a vastly wise and prudent principle--a great
                safeguard to its possessor. Men have committed murder for jealousy's sake,
                and anger's sake, and hatred's sake, and selfishness' sake, and spiritual
                pride's sake; but no man that ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical
                murder for sweet charity's sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better
                motive can be enlisted, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt
                all beings to charity and philanthropy. At any rate, upon the occasion
                in question, I strove to drown my exasperated feelings towards the scrivener
                by benevolently construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought
                I, he don't mean any thing; and besides, he has seen hard times, and ought
                to be indulged.</p>
            <p>I endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time to
                comfort my despondency.I tried to fancy that in the course of the morning,
                at such time as might prove agreeable to him, Bartleby, of his own free
                accord, would emerge from his hermitage, and take up some decided line
                of march in the direction of the door. But no. Half-past twelve o'clock
                came; Turkey began to glow in the face, overturn his inkstand, and become
                generally obstreperous; Nippers abated down into quietude and courtesy;
                Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Bartleby remained standing at his
                window in one of his profoundest deadwall reveries. Will it be credited?
                Ought I to acknowledge it? That afternoon I left the office without saying
                one further word to him.</p>
            <p>Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a little
                into Edwards on the Will," and "Priestly on Necessity." Under the circumstances,
                those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I slid into the persuasion
                that these troubles of mine touching the scrivener, had been all predestinated
                from eternity, and Bartleby was billeted upon me for some mysterious purpose
                of an all-wise Providence, which it was not for a mere mortal like me to
                fathom. Yes, Bartleby, stay there behind your screen, thought I; I shall
                persecute you no more; you are harmless and noiseless as any of these old
                chairs; in short, I never feel so private as when I know you are here.
                At least I see it, I feel it; I penetrate to the predestinated purpose
                of my life. I am content. Others may have loftier parts to enact; but my
                mission in this world, Bartleby, is to furnish you with office-room for
                such period as you may see fit to remain.</p>
            <p>I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continued
                with me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks obtruded
                upon me by my professional friends who visited the rooms. But thus it often
                is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears out at last the
                best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure, when I reflected
                upon it, it was not strange that people entering my office should be struck
                by the peculiar aspect of the unaccountable Bartleby, and so be tempted
                to throw out some sinister observations concerning him. Sometimes an attorney
                having business with me, and calling at my office, and finding no one but
                the scrivener there, would undertake to obtain some sort of precise information
                from him touching my whereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, Bartleby
                would remain standing immovable in the middle of the room. So after contemplating
                him in that position for a time, the attorney would depart, no wiser than
                he came.</p>
            <p>Also, when a Reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers and
                witnesses and business was driving fast; some deeply occupied legal gentleman
                present, seeing Bartleby wholly unemployed, would request him to run round
                to his (the legal gentleman's) office and fetch some papers for him. Thereupon,
                Bartleby would tranquilly decline, and remain idle as before. Then the
                lawyer would give a great stare, and turn to me. And what could I say?
                At last I was made aware that all through the circle of my professional
                acquaintance, a whisper of wonder was running round, having reference to
                the strange creature I kept at my office. This worried me very much. And
                as the idea came upon me of his possibly turning out a long-lived man,
                and keep occupying my chambers, and denying my authority; and perplexing
                my visitors; and scandalizing my professional reputation; and casting a
                general gloom over the premises; keeping soul and body together to the
                last upon his savings (for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and
                in the end perhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right
                of his perpetual occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon
                me more and more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless
                remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me.
                I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of
                this intolerable incubus.</p>
            <p>Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I
                first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent departure.
                In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and mature
                consideration. But having taken three days to meditate upon it, he apprised
                me that his original determination remained the same; in short, that he
                still preferred to abide with me.</p>
            <p>What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last
                button. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I
                should do with this man, or rather ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go,
                he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive mortal,--you
                will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door? you will not
                dishonor yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that. Rather
                would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the
                wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes
                he leaves under your own paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite
                plain that he prefers to cling to you.</p>
            <p>Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you
                will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor
                to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing
                to be done?--a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who refuses
                to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant, then, that you seek to
                count him as a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible means of support:
                there I have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he does support himself,
                and that is the only unanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing
                the means so to do. No more then. Since he will not quit me, I must quit
                him. I will change my offices; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair
                notice, that if I find him on my new premises I will then proceed against
                him as a common trespasser.</p>
            <p>Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: "I find these chambers
                too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word, I propose
                to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require your services.
                I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another place."</p>
            <p>He made no reply, and nothing more was said.</p>
            <p>On the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my chambers,
                and having but little furniture, every thing was removed in a few hours.
                Throughout, the scrivener remained standing behind the screen, which I
                directed to be removed the last thing. It was withdrawn; and being folded
                up like a huge folio, left him the motionless occupant of a naked room.
                I stood in the entry watching him a moment, while something from within
                me upbraided me.</p>
            <p>I re-entered, with my hand in my pocket--and--and my heart in my mouth.</p>
            <p>"Good-bye, Bartleby; I am going--good-bye, and God some way bless you;
                and take that," slipping something in his hand. But it dropped to the floor,
                and then,--strange to say--I tore myself from him whom I had so longed
                to be rid of.</p>
            <p>Established in my new quarters, for a day or two I kept the door locked,
                and started at every footfall in the passages. When I returned to my rooms
                after any little absence, I would pause at the threshold for an instant,
                and attentively listen, ere applying my key. But these fears were needless.
                Bartleby never came nigh me.</p>
            <p>I thought all was going well, when a perturbed looking stranger visited
                me, inquiring whether I was the person who had recently occupied rooms
                at No.--Wall-street.</p>
            <p>Full of forebodings, I replied that I was.</p>
            <p>"Then, sir," said the stranger, who proved a lawyer, "you are responsible
                for the man you left there. He refuses to do any copying; he refuses to
                do any thing; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses to quit the premises."</p>
            <p>"I am very sorry, sir," said I, with assumed tranquillity, but an inward
                tremor, "but, really, the man you allude to is nothing to me --he is no
                relation or apprentice of mine, that you should hold me responsible for
                him."</p>
            <p>"In mercy's name, who is he?"</p>
            <p>"I certainly cannot inform you. I know nothing about him. Formerly I employed
                him as a copyist; but he has done nothing for me now for some time past."</p>
            <p>"I shall settle him then,--good morning, sir."</p>
            <p>Several days passed, and I heard nothing more; and though I often felt
                a charitable prompting to call at the place and see poor Bartleby, yet
                a certain squeamishness of I know not what withheld me.</p>
            <p>All is over with him, by this time, thought I at last, when through another
                week no further intelligence reached me. But coming to my room the day
                after, I found several persons waiting at my door in a high state of nervous
                excitement.</p>
            <p>"That's the man--here he comes," cried the foremost one, whom recognized
                as the lawyer who had previously called upon me alone.</p>
            <p>"You must take him away, sir, at once," cried a portly person among them,
                advancing upon me, and whom I knew to be the landlord of No.--Wall-street.
                "These gentlemen, my tenants, cannot stand it any longer; Mr. B--" pointing
                to the lawyer, "has turned him out of his room, and he now persists in
                haunting the buildinggenerally, sitting upon the banisters of the stairs
                by day, and sleeping in the entry by night. Every body is concerned; clients
                are leaving the offices; some fears are entertained of a mob; something
                you must do, and that without delay."</p>
            <p>Aghast at this torment, I fell back before it, and would fain have locked
                myselfin my new quarters. In vain I persisted that Bartleby was nothing
                to me--no more than to any one else. In vain:--I was the last person known
                to have any thing to do with him, and they held me to the terrible account.
                Fearful then of being exposed in the papers (as one person present obscurely
                threatened) I considered the matter, and at length said, that if the lawyer
                would give me a confidential interview with the scrivener, in his (the
                lawyer's) own room, I would that afternoon strive my best to rid them of
                the nuisance they complained of.</p>
            <p>Going up stairs to my old haunt, there was Bartleby silently sitting upon
                the banister at the landing.</p>
            <p>"What are you doing here, Bartleby?" said I.</p>
            <p>"Sitting upon the banister," he mildly replied.</p>
            <p>I motioned him into the lawyer's room, who then left us.</p>
            <p>"Bartleby," said I, "are you aware that you are the cause of great tribulation
                to me, by persisting in occupying the entry after being dismissed from
                the office?"</p>
            <p>No answer.</p>
            <p>"Now one of two things must take place. Either you must do something or
                something must be done to you. Now what sort of business would you like
                to engage in? Would you like to re-engage in copying for some one?"</p>
            <p>"No; I would prefer not to make any change."</p>
            <p>"Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?"</p>
            <p>"There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like a clerkship;
                but I am not particular."</p>
            <p>"Too much confinement," I cried, "why you keep yourself confined all the
                time!"</p>
            <p>"I would prefer not to take a clerkship," he rejoined, as if to settle
                that little item at once.</p>
            <p>"How would a bar-tender's business suit you? There is no trying of the
                eyesight in that."</p>
            <p>"I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not particular."</p>
            <p>His unwonted wordiness inspirited me. I returned to the charge.</p>
            <p>"Well then, would you like to travel through the country collecting bills
                for the merchants? That would improve your health."</p>
            <p>"No, I would prefer to be doing something else."</p>
            <p>"How then would going as a companion to Europe, to entertain some young
                gentleman with your conversation,--how would that suit you?"</p>
            <p>"Not at all. It does not strike me that there is any thing definite about
                that. I like to be stationary. But I am not particular.</p>
            <p>"Stationary you shall be then," I cried, now losing all patience, and
                for the first time in all my exasperating connection with him fairly flying
                into a passion. "If you do not go away from these premises before night,
                I shall feel bound--indeed I am bound--to-- to--to quit the premises myself!"
                I rather absurdly concluded, knowing not with what possible threat to try
                to frighten his immobility into compliance. Despairing of all further efforts,
                I was precipitately leaving him, when a final thought occurred to me--one
                which had not been wholly unindulged before.</p>
            <p>"Bartleby," said I, in the kindest tone I could assume under such exciting
                circumstances, "will you go home with me now--not to my office, but my
                dwelling--and remain there till we can conclude upon some convenient arrangement
                for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now, right away."</p>
            <p>"No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all."</p>
            <p>I answered nothing; but effectualy dodging every one by the suddenness
                and rapidity of my flight, rushed from the building, ran up Wall-street
                towards Broadway, and jumping into the first omnibus was soon removed from
                pursuit. As soon as tranquility returned I distinctly perceived that I
                had now done all that I possibly could, both in respect to the demands
                of the landlord and his tenants, and with regard to my own desire and sense
                of duty, to benefit Bartleby, and shield him from rude persecution. I now
                strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; and my conscience justified
                me in the attempt; though indeed it was not so successful as I could have
                wished. So fearful was I of being again hunted out by the incensed landlord
                and his exasperated tenants, that, surrendering my business to Nippers,
                for a few days I drove about the upper part of the town and through the
                suburbs, in my rockaway; crossed over to Jersey City and Hoboken, and paid
                fugitive visits to Manhattanville and Astoria. In fact I almost lived in
                my rockaway for the time.</p>
            <p>When again I entered my office, lo, a note from the landlord lay upon
                desk. opened it with trembling hands. informed me that writer had sent
                to police, and Bartleby removed the Tombs as a vagrant. Moreover, since
                I knew more about him than any one else, he wished me to appear at that
                place, and make a suitable statement of the facts. These tidings had a
                conflicting effect upon me. At first I was indignant; but at last almost
                approved. The landlord's energetic, summary disposition, had led him to
                adopt a procedure which I do not think I would have decided upon myself;
                and yet as a last resort, under such peculiar circumstances, it seemed
                the only plan.</p>
            <p>As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be
                conducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but in his
                pale unmoving way, silently acquiesced.</p>
            <p>Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and
                headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the silent procession
                filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of the roaring thoroughfares
                at noon.</p>
            <p>The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more
                properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the
                purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described was
                indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a perfectly
                honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however unaccountably eccentric.
                I narrated all I knew,and closed by suggesting the idea of letting him
                remain in as indulgent confinement as possible till something less harsh
                might be done--though indeed I hardly knew what. At all events, if nothing
                else could be decided upon, the alms-house must receive him. I then begged
                to have an interview.</p>
            <p>Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all
                his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and
                especially in the inclosed grass-platted yards thereof. And so I found
                him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face towards
                a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jail windows,
                I thought I saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers and thieves.</p>
            <p>"Bartleby!"</p>
            <p>"I know you," he said, without looking round,--"and I want nothing to
                say to you."</p>
            <p>"It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby," said I, keenly pained
                at his implied suspicion. "And to you, this should not be so vile a place.
                Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being here. And see, it is not so
                sad a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and here is the
                grass."</p>
            <p>"I know where I am," he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I
                left him.</p>
            <p>As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man in an apron, accosted
                me, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder said--"Is that your friend?"</p>
            <p>"Yes."</p>
            <p>"Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare,
                that's all.</p>
            <p>"Who are you?" asked I, not knowing what to make of such an unofficially
                speaking person in such a place.</p>
            <p>"I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to provide
                them with something good to eat."</p>
            <p>"Is this so?" said I, turning to the turnkey.</p>
            <p>He said it was.</p>
            <p>"Well then," said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man's hands (for
                so they called him). "I want you to give particular attention to my friend
                there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must be as polite
                to him as possible."</p>
            <p>"Introduce me, will you?" said the grub-man, looking at me with an expression
                which seemed to say he was all impatience for an opportunity to give a
                specimen of his breeding.</p>
            <p>Thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and
                asking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby.</p>
            <p>"Bartleby, this is a friend; you will find him very useful to you."</p>
            <p>"Your sarvant, sir, your sarvant," said the grub-man, making a low salutation
                behind his apron. "Hope you find it pleasant here, sir;--spacious grounds--cool
                apartments, sir--hope you'll stay with us some time--try to make it agreeable.
                What will you have for dinner today?"</p>
            <p>"I prefer not to dine to-day," said Bartleby, turning away. "It would
                disagree with me; I am unused to dinners." So saying he slowly moved to
                the other side of the inclosure, and took up a position fronting the dead-wall.</p>
            <p>"How's this?" said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare of astonishment.
                "He's odd, aint he?"</p>
            <p>"I think he is a little deranged," said I, sadly.</p>
            <p>"Deranged? deranged is it? Well now, upon my word, I thought that friend
                of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale and genteel-like,
                them forgers. I can't help pity 'em--can't help it, sir. Did you know Monroe
                Edwards?" he added touchingly, and paused. Then, laying his hand pityingly
                on my shoulder, sighed, "he died of consumption at Sing-Sing. so you weren't
                acquainted with Monroe?"</p>
            <p>"No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. But I cannot stop
                longer. Look to my friend yonder. You will not lose by it. I will see you
                again."</p>
            <p>Some few days after this, I again obtained admission to the Tombs, and
                went through the corridors in quest of Bartleby; but without finding him.</p>
            <p>"I saw him coming from his cell not long ago," said a turnkey, "may be
                he's gone to loiter in the yards."</p>
            <p>So I went in that direction.</p>
            <p>"Are you looking for the silent man?" said another turnkey passing me.
                "Yonder he lies--sleeping in the yard there. 'Tis not twenty minutes since
                I saw him lie down."</p>
            <p>The yard was entirely quiet. It was not accessible to the common prisoners.
                The surrounding walls, of amazing thickness, kept off all sound behind
                them. The Egyptian character of the masonry weighed upon me with its gloom.
                But a soft imprisoned turf grew under foot. The heart of the eternal pyramids,
                it seemed, wherein, by some strange magic, through the clefts, grass-seed,
                dropped by birds, had sprung.</p>
            <p>Strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and lying
                on his side, his head touching the cold stones, I saw the wasted Bartleby.
                But nothing stirred. I paused; then went close up to him; stooped over,
                and saw that his dim eyes were open; otherwise he seemed profoundly sleeping.
                Something prompted me to touch him. I felt his hand, when a tingling shiver
                ran up my arm and down my spine to my feet.</p>
            <p>The round face of the grub-man peered upon me now. "His dinner is ready.
                Won't he dine to-day, either? Or does he live without dining?"</p>
            <p>"Lives without dining," said I, and closed the eyes.</p>
            <p>"Eh!--He's asleep, aint he?"</p>
            <p>"With kings and counsellors," murmured I.</p>
            <p>* * * * * * * *</p>
            <p>There would seem little need for proceeding further in this history. Imagination
                will readily supply the meagre recital of poor Bartleby's interment. But
                ere parting with the reader, let me say, that if this little narrative
                has sufficiently interested him, to awaken curiosity as to who Bartleby
                was, and what manner of life he led prior to the present narrator's making
                his acquaintance, I can only reply, that in such curiosity I fully share,
                but am wholly unable to gratify it. Yet here I hardly know whether I should
                divulge one little item of rumor, which came to my ear a few months after
                the scrivener's decease. Upon what basis it rested, I could never ascertain;
                and hence how true it is I cannot now tell. But inasmuch as this vague
                report has not been without a certain strange suggestive interest to me,
                however said, it may prove the same with some others; and so I will briefly
                mention it. The report was this: that Bartleby had been a subordinate clerk
                in the Dead Letter Office at <a href="http://raven.cc.ukans.edu/%7Ezeke/bartleby/parker.html"
                target="_blank">Washington</a>, from which he had been suddenly removed
                by a change in the administration. When I think over this rumor, I cannot
                adequately express the emotions which seize me. Dead letters! does it not
                sound like dead men? Conceive a man by nature and misfortune prone to a
                pallid hopelessness, can any business seem more fitted to heighten it than
                that of continually handling these dead letters and assorting them for
                the flames? For by the cart-load they are annually burned. Sometimes from
                out the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring:--the bank-note sent in
                swiftest charity:--he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor hungers any more;
                pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping;
                good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved calamities. On errands
                of life, these letters speed to death.</p>
            <p>Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!</p>
        </td>
    </div>
</div>