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<article><DIV id="readability-page-1"><td>
<h3>Study Webtext</h3>
<h2>
<span face="Lucida Handwriting " color="Maroon
        ">"Bartleby the Scrivener: A Story of Wall-Street " </span>(1853) <br>
          Herman Melville</h2>
<h2><a href="http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/webtexts/bartleby.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://fakehost/test/base/hmhome.gif" alt="To the story text without notes
        " height="38 " width="38 "></a></h2>
<h3>Prepared by <a href="http://www.vcu.edu/engweb" target="_blank">Ann 
          Woodlief,</a> Virginia Commonwealth University</h3>
<h5>Click on text in red for hypertext notes and questions</h5>
<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd(); " target="_blank">I</a> 
        am a <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd(); " target="_blank">rather elderly</a> man. The nature of my <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd(); " target="_blank">avocations</a> 
        for the last thirty years has brought me into more than ordinary contact 
        with what <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd(); " target="_blank">would seem</a> an interesting and somewhat singular set of men of whom as yet 
        nothing that I know of has ever been written:-- I mean the <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd(); " target="_blank">law-copyists</a> 
        or <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">scriveners</a>. 
        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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd(); " target="_blank">passages</a> 
        in the life of Bartleby, who was a scrivener the <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd(); " target="_blank">strangest</a> 
        I ever saw or heard of. While of other law-copyists I might write the 
        <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd(); " target="_blank">complete life</a>, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done. I believe that 
        no materials exist for a full and <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd(); " target="_blank">satisfactory biography </a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">sequel</a>. 
        <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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">the easiest way of life is the best.</a>. 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">invade</a> 
          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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">snug business</a> among rich men's bonds and mortgages and title-deeds. The late <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">John Jacob Astor</a>, a personage little given to poetic enthusiasm, had
        no hesitation in pronouncing my <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">first 
          grand point</a> to be prudence; my next, method. I do not <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">speak 
          it in vanity</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">rings 
          like unto bullion.</a> I will freely add, that I was <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">not 
          insensible to</a> 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">now 
          extinct</a> 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. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I 
          seldom lose my temper</a>; 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----<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">premature 
          act</a>; 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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">by the way</a>.</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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">deficient 
          in what landscape painters call "life."</a> 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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">lofty brick wall,</a>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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">cistern</a>.</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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">nicknames</a>, 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--
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">his dinner hour</a>-- 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">too 
          energetic</a>. 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">noisy</a>. At such times, too, his face
                flamed with augmented blazonry, as if <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">cannel 
          coal</a> 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
                <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">indecorous manner, very sad to behold in an elderly man</a>like 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,
                    <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I was willing</a>to 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">man 
          of peace</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">devotions</a>. 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>"<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">With 
          submission, sir,</a>" 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I 
          put myself at their head</a>, and gallantly charge the foe,
            thus!"--and he made a <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">violent 
          thrust</a> 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><a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">This 
          appeal to my fellow-feeling</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">piratical-looking</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">mere 
          copyist,</a> an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly profession
            affairs, such as the <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">original 
          drawing up</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">continual 
          discontent</a> 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">if 
          he wanted anything</a>, 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 href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">a little business</a>at 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">useful 
          man </a>to me; wrote a neat, swift hand; and, when he chose,
                was not deficient in a gentlemanly sort of deportment. Added to this, he
                <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">always dressed</a>in 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">hat</a> 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<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank"> 
          I presented Turkey</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">horse 
          is said to feel his oats</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">vintner</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">perverse 
          voluntary agent</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">good 
          natural arrangement</a> 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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">contained in a nut-shell</a>. 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">dry, 
          husky </a>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. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I 
          came within an ace </a>of dismissing him then. But he mollified
                me by making an oriental bow, and saying--"With submission, sir, it was
                generous of me <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">to 
          find you</a> in stationery on my own account."</p>
<p>Now my original business--that of a <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">conveyancer 
          and title hunter</a>, 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--<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">pallidly 
          neat</a>, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn! It was Bartleby.</p>
<p>After a few words touching his qualifications, I engaged him, glad to
            have among <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">my 
          corps</a> of copyists a man of so <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">singularly 
          sedate</a> 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. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">According 
          to my humor</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">trifling 
          thing</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">subsequent 
          erections,</a> 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 href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">a high green folding screen</a>, which might entirely isolate Bartleby
                from my sight, though not remove him from <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">my 
          voice</a>. And thus, in a manner, privacy and society were
                <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">conjoined.</a></p>
<p>At first Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if long
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">famishing</a>for something to copy, he seemed to <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">gorge</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">cheerfully 
          industrious</a>. But he wrote on silently, palely, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">mechanically.</a></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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">very 
          dull, wearisome, and lethargic</a> affair. I can readily imagine
            that to some <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">sanguine</a> temperaments it would be altogether
            intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">mettlesome 
          poet Byron</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">trivial 
          occasions</a>. 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">natural 
          expectancy of instant compliance</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">snatch</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">mild, 
          firm voice</a>, replied,<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">"I 
          would prefer not to."</a></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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">moon-struck</a>? 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">ordinarily 
          human</a> about him, doubtless <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I 
          should have violently dismissed</a> him from the premises. But
            as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">plaster-of-paris 
          bust of Cicero</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">one</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">interesting 
          group</a>.</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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">hermitage.</a></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 href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">a 
          pillar of salt,</a> standing at the head of my seated column
            of clerks. Recovering myself, I <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">advanced</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">flown 
          outright into a dreadful passion,</a> 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. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">It 
          is common usage.</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">my 
          judgment was sound.</a> Yes: his decision was irreversible.</p>
<p>It is not seldom the case that when a man is <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">browbeaten</a> in some unprecedented and
            violently unreasonable way, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">he 
          begins to stagger</a> 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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">faltering mind.</a></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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">do 
          your duty</a>."</p>
<p>But he vouchsafed no reply. I pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But
            once more business hurried me. I determined <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">again</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">perpetual 
          sentry</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">eats 
          nothing but ginger-nuts</a>. 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<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank"> 
          he preferred it should have none.</a></p>
<p>Nothing so aggravates an earnest person as a <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">passive 
          resistance.</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">construe 
          to his imagination</a> 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. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">He 
          is useful to me</a>. 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I 
          can cheaply purchase</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">sweet 
          morsel</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Windsor 
          soap</a>. 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">mulish 
          vagary?</a>"</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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">pugilistic 
          position</a>. 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. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I 
          burned to be rebelled against again.</a> I remembered that Bartleby
            never left the office.</p>
<p>"Bartleby," said I, "Ginger Nut is away; just step round to the <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Post 
          Office</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">staggered</a> to my desk, and sat there
            in a deep study. My <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">blind 
          inveteracy</a> returned. Was there any other thing in which I
            could procure myself to be <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">ignominiously</a> repulsed by this lean,
            penniless with?--<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">my 
          hired clerk</a>? 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 href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">a 
          very ghost</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">respectfully 
          </a>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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">terrible 
          retribution</a> 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,
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">suffering much from perplexity and distress of mind</a>.</p>
<p><a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Shall 
          I acknowledge it?</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">four 
          cents a folio </a>(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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">point-blank.</a></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 href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">a 
          valuable acquisition</a>. 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">for 
          the very soul of me</a>, 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">how 
          could a human creature</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">tended 
          to lessen</a> 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">to 
          hear a celebrated preacher</a>, 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">the 
          apparition</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">unsurmised 
          appearance</a> of Bartleby, tenanting my law-chambers of a Sunday
            morning, with his <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">cadaverously</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">unmanned</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">order 
          him</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">the 
          proprieties</a> 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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">bachelor's hall</a>all 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">how 
          horrible!</a> Think of it. Of a Sunday, Wall-street is deserted
                as <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Petra</a>; 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Marius 
          brooding among the ruins of Carthage!</a></p>
<p>For the <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">first 
          time in my life</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">sons 
          of Adam</a>. 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-- <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">chimeras</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">laid 
          out</a>, 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><a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I 
          mean no mischief, </a>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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">pallid 
          haughtiness</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">dead-wall 
          reveries</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">prudential 
          feeling</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">fear</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">of 
          innate and incurable disorder.</a> I might give alms to his body;
            but his body did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">his 
          soul I could not reach.</a></p>
<p>I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that morning.
            Somehow, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">the 
          things I had seen disqualified me</a> for the time from church-going.
            I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with Bartleby. Finally, I
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">resolved</a>upon 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">where 
          you were born?"</a></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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">reasonable 
          objection</a> 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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">bust of Cicero</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">faintest 
          conceivable tremor</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">his 
          perverseness seemed ungrateful</a>, considering the undeniable
            good usage and indulgence he had received from me.</p>
<p>Again I sat ruminating what I should do.<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Mortified</a> 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,
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">as a friend</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">reasonable 
          was his idly cadaverous reply.</a>,"</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>"<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Prefer</a></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><a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">"Mr. 
          Nippers," said I, "I'd prefer that you would withdraw for the present."</a></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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">aberration</a> might it not yet produce?
            This apprehension had not been without <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">efficacy</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">jostle 
          the scrivener.</a> "What word, sir?"</p>
<p>"I would prefer to be left alone here," said Bartleby, as if offended
            at being <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">mobbed 
          in his privacy.</a></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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">if 
          you prefer that I should</a>."</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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">demented</a> man, who already has in some
            degree turned the tongues, if not the heads of myself and clerks. But I
            thought it <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">prudent</a> not to break the dismission
            at once.</p>
<p>The next day I noticed that <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Bartleby 
          did nothing </a>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>"<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Do 
          you not see the reason</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">impaired 
          his vision</a>.</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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">he 
          did not do</a>. 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">to 
          the post-office</a>. But he blankly declined. So, much to my
            inconvenience, I went myself.</p>
<p>Still <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">added 
          days went by.</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">slid 
          aside.</a></p>
<p>He remained as ever, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">a 
          fixture</a> 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 href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">A 
          bit of wreck&lt;</a>/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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">lo! 
          Bartleby was there.</a></p>
<p>I <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">buttoned 
          up my coat</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">shirt-button 
          affairs</a>. The proceeding then which followed will not be
            deemed extraordinary. "<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Bartleby," 
          said I, "I owe you twelve dollars on account; here are thirty-two; the 
          odd twenty are yours.--Will you take it?</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">the 
          last column of some ruined temple</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">vanity 
          got the better of my pity</a>. 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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">no vulgar bullying</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">an 
          inferior genius</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">man 
          of preferences than assumptions</a>.</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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">imagined 
          that all Broadway shared in my excitement</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">almost 
          sorry for my brilliant success</a>. 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">like 
          the man who, pipe in mouth, was killed</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">wondrous 
          ascendancy</a> 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">permit 
          him</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">assume</a> 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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">home-thrust</a>. 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">gentlemanly 
          organization</a>, that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint
            would suffice--in short, an assumption. But it appears I am deceived. Why,"
            I added, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">unaffectedly 
          starting</a>, "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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">sudden 
          passion</a>, advancing close to him.</p>
<p>"I would prefer <i>not</i> to quit you," he replied, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">gently 
          emphasizing</a> the<i> not</i>.</p>
<p>"What <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">earthly 
          right</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">silently 
          retired into his hermitage</a>.</p>
<p>I was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought it but
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">prudent</a>to check myself at present from further demonstrations. Bartleby
                and I were alone. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I 
          remembered</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">fatal 
          act</a>--an act which certainly <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">no 
          man could possibly deplore</a> more than the actor himself. Often
                it had occurred to me in my <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">ponderings</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">uncarpeted 
          office</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">old 
          Adam of resentment</a> rose in me and tempted me concerning Bartleby,
            I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by recalling the <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">divine 
          injunction</a>: "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 href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">a 
          vastly wise and prudent</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">committed 
          a diabolical murder</a> for sweet charity's sake. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Mere 
          self-interest</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">drown 
          my exasperated feelings</a> 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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">to comfort my despondency.</a>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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">deadwall</a> reveries. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Will 
          it be credited?</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Edwards 
          on the Will,</a>" and "Priestly on Necessity." Under the circumstances,
            those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">slid 
          into the persuasion</a> that these troubles of mine touching
            the scrivener, had been all <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">predestinated 
          from eternity</a>, and Bartleby was <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">billeted</a> 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">thought 
          I</a>; 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">my 
          mission</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">my 
          professional friends</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">generous</a>. 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">idle 
          talk,</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">worried 
          me very much</a>. And as the idea came upon me of his possibly
            turning out a long-lived man, and keep occupying my chambers, and <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">denying 
          my authority</a>; 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">outlive 
          me</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">intolerable 
          incubus</a>.</p>
<p>Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I
            first simply suggested to Bartleby the <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">propriety</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">abide 
          with me</a>.</p>
<p>What shall I do? I now said to myself, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">buttoning 
          up my coat</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">dishonor 
          yourself</a> by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that.
            Rather would I let him live and die here, and then <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">mason 
          up his remains</a> in the wall. What then will you do? For all
            your coaxing, he will not budge. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Bribes</a> he leaves under your own paperweight
            on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank"> 
          to cling to you</a>.</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? <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">What!</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">the 
          screen,</a> which I directed to be removed the last thing. It
            was withdrawn; and being folded up like a huge folio, left him the <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">motionless 
          occupant of a naked room.</a> I stood in the entry watching him
            a moment, while something from within me upbraided me.</p>
<p>I re-entered, with my <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">hand 
          in my pocket--and--and my heart in my mouth.</a></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,<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">--strange 
          to say</a>--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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">stranger, 
          who proved a lawyer</a>, "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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">the 
          man you allude to is nothing to me</a> --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>"<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I 
          shall settle him</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">squeamishness</a> 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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">haunting the building</a>generally, 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; <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">some 
          fears are entertained of a mob</a>; something you must do, and
                that without delay."</p>
<p><a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Aghast 
          at this torment</a>, I fell back before it, and would fain have
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">locked myself</a>in 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. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Fearful 
          then of being exposed</a> 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>"<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Bartleby," 
          said I</a>, "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,
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I shall feel bound</a>--indeed I am bound--to-- to--to quit the premises
                myself!" I rather absurdly concluded, knowing not with what <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">possible 
          threat to try to frighten</a> his immobility into compliance.
                Despairing of all further efforts, I was precipitately leaving him, when
                a final thought occurred to me--<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">one 
          which had not been wholly unindulged before.</a></p>
<p>"Bartleby," said I, in the kindest <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">tone 
          I could assume</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">suddenness 
          and rapidity of my flight,</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">rockaway</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">the 
          Tombs</a> as a <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">vagrant</a>. 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">silently 
          acquiesced.</a></p>
<p>Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and
            headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">the 
          silent procession</a> 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.
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I narrated all I knew,</a>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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">towards a high wall</a>, while all around, from the narrow slits of the
                jail windows, I thought <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I 
          saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers and thieves.</a></p>
<p>"Bartleby!"</p>
<p>"<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I 
          know you</a>," 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">keenly 
          pained</a> 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">it 
          is not so sad</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">meat-like 
          </a>man in an apron, accosted me, and jerking his thumb over
            his shoulder said--"Is that <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">your 
          friend</a>?"</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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">unofficially 
          speaking person</a> 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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">asking the grub-man his name</a>, went up with him to Bartleby.</p>
<p>"Bartleby, this is <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">a 
          friend; </a>you will find him very useful to you."</p>
<p>"<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Your 
          sarvant</a>, sir, your sarvant," said the grub-man, making a
            low salutation behind his apron. "Hope you find it <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">pleasant 
          here</a>, 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 href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">a 
          position</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">gentleman 
          forger</a>; they are always pale and genteel-like, them forgers.
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">I can't help pity 'em</a>--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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">kept 
          off all sound</a> behind them. The <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Egyptian 
          character</a> of the masonry weighed upon me with its gloom.
            But a soft <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">imprisoned 
          turf</a> 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, <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">his 
          knees drawn up</a>, 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
            <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">to touch him</a>. 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>"<a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">With 
          kings and counsellors</a>," 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">one 
          little item of rumor</a>, 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">suggestive 
          interest</a> 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 <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Dead 
          Letter Office</a> 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. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Dead 
          letters!</a> 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. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Sometimes</a> 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. <a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">On 
          errands of life, these letters speed to death.</a></p>
<p><a href="javascript:void(0);" onmouseout="nd();" target="_blank">Ah 
          Bartleby! Ah humanity</a>!</p>
</td></DIV></article>