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Bartleby, The Scrivener: A Story Of Wall-streetHerman Melvillefrom The Piazza Tales 1856 IA M a rather elderly man. The nature of my avocations for the last thirty years has brought me into more than ordinary contact with what woul d seem an in- teresting and somewhat singular set of men, of whom as yet not hing that I know of has ever been written:—I mean the law-copyists or scriven ers. I have known very many of them, professionally and privately, and if I ple ased, could relate divers histories, at which good-natured gentlemen might sm ile, and sentimental souls might weep. But I waive the biographies of all other scri veners for a few passages in the life of Bartleby, who was a scrivener of the str angest I ever saw or heard of. While of other law-copyists I might write the compl ete life, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done. I believe that no materials e xist for a full and satisfactory biography of this man. It is an irreparable los s to literature. Bartleby was one of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, exc ept from the orig- inal sources, and in his case those are very small. What my own astonished eyes saw of Bartleby, thatis all I know of him, except, indeed, one vague report which will appear in the sequel. Ere introducing the scrivener, as he rst appeared to me, it is t I make some mention of myself, my employées, my business, my chambers, and general sur- roundings; because some such description is indispensable to an adequate under- standing of the chief character about to be presented.

Imprimis: I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been lle d with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the best . Hence, though I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and nervous, even to turbulence, at times, yet nothing of that sort have I ever suffered to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never addresses a jury, or i n any way draws down public applause; but in the cool tranquility of a snug re treat, do a snug business among rich men’s bonds and mortgages and title-dee ds. All who know me, consider me an eminently safeman. The late John Jacob Astor, a personage little given to poetic enthusiasm, had no hesitation in pron ouncing my rst grand point to be prudence; my next, method. I do not speak it in vani ty, but simply record the fact, that I was not unemployed in my profession by the late John Jacob Astor; a name which, I admit, I love to repeat, for it hat h a rounded and orbicular sound to it, and rings like unto bullion. I will fre ely add, that I was not insensible to the late John Jacob Astor’s good opinion. Some time prior to the period at which this little history beg ins, my avoca- tions had been largely increased. The good old of ce, now ext inct in the State of New York, of a Master in Chancery, had been conferred upon me. It was not a very arduous of ce, but very pleasantly remunerative. I sel dom lose my temper; much more seldom indulge in dangerous indignation at wrongs and outrages; but I must be permitted to be rash here and declare, that I conside r the sudden and violent abrogation of the of ce of Master in Chancery, by the new Constitution, 1 Bartleby, The Scrivener 2 as a—premature act; inasmuch as I had counted upon a life-lea se of the pro ts, whereas I only received those of a few short years. But this is b y the way.

My chambers were up stairs at No. – Wall-street. At one end the y looked upon the white wall of the interior of a spacious sky-light sh aft, penetrating the building from top to bottom. This view might have been consid ered rather tame than otherwise, de cient in what landscape painters call “l ife.” But if so, the view from the other end of my chambers offered, at least, a con trast, if nothing more. In that direction my windows commanded an unobstructe d view of a lofty brick wall, black by age and everlasting shade; which wall re quired no spy-glass to bring out its lurking beauties, but for the bene t of all ne ar-sighted spectators, was pushed up to within ten feet of my window panes. Owing to th e great height of the surrounding buildings, and my chambers being on the se cond oor, the interval between this wall and mine not a little resembled a h uge square cistern.

At the period just preceding the advent of Bartleby, I had two p ersons as copyists in my employment, and a promising lad as an of ce-bo y. First, Turkey; second, Nippers; third, Ginger Nut. These may seem names, th e like of which are not usually found in the Directory. In truth they were nickna mes, mutually con- ferred upon each other by my three clerks, and were deemed exp ressive 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 morni ng, one might say, his face was of a ne orid hue, but after twelve o’clock, meridian—his din- ner hour—it blazed like a grate full of Christmas coals; and c ontinued 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 gainin g its meridian with the sun, seemed to set with it, to rise, culminate, and de cline 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 lea st among which was the fact, that exactly when Turkey displayed his fullest beams from his red and radiant countenance, just then, too, at that critical mo ment, began the daily period when I considered his business capacities as serious ly disturbed for the remainder of the twenty-four hours. Not that he was absolute ly idle, or averse to business then; far from it. The dif culty was, he was apt to be altogether too energetic. There was a strange, in amed, urried, ighty re cklessness of activity about him. He would be incautious in dipping his pen into his i nkstand. All his blots upon my documents, were dropped there after twelve o’clock, merid- ian. Indeed, not only would he be reckless and sadly given to m aking blots in the afternoon, but some days he went further, and was rather nois y. At such times, too, his face amed with augmented blazonry, as if cannel coa l had been heaped on anthracite. He made an unpleasant racket with his chair; s pilled his sand-box; in mending his pens, impatiently split them all to pieces, an d threw them on the Bartleby, The Scrivener 3 oor in a sudden passion; stood up and leaned over his table, b oxing his papers about in a most indecorous manner, very sad to behold in an eld erly man like him. Nevertheless, as he was in many ways a most valuable pers on 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 mat ched—for these reasons, I was willing to overlook his eccentricities, thou gh indeed, occasionally, I remonstrated with him. I did this very gently, however, bec ause, though the civilest, nay, the blandest and most reverential of men in th e 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 in amed ways after twelve o’clock; and being a man of peace, unwilling by my admo nitions to call forth unseemly 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 s hort, he need not come to my chambers after twelve o’clock, but, dinner over, h ad best go home to his lodgings and rest himself till teatime. But no; he insiste d upon his afternoon devotions. His countenance became intolerably fervid, as h e oratorically assured me—gesticulating with a long ruler at the other end of the roo m—that if his ser- vices in the morning were useful, how indispensable, then, i n the afternoon?

“With submission, sir,” said Turkey on this occasion, “I con sider myself your right-hand man. In the morning I but marshal and deploy my col umns; but in the afternoon I put myself at their head, and gallantly charg e the foe, thus!"—and he made a violent thrust with the ruler. “But the blots, Turkey,” intimated I.

“True,—but, with submission, sir, behold these hairs! I am g etting old. Surely, sir, a blot or two of a warm afternoon is not to be severely urge d against gray hairs. Old age—even if it blot the page—is honorable. With su bmission, sir, we both are getting old.” This appeal to my fellow-feeling was hardly to be resisted. A t all events, I saw that go he would not. So I made up my mind to let him stay, res olving, nevertheless, to see to it, that during the afternoon he had t o do with my less important papers. Nippers, the second on my list, was a whiskered, sallow, and, upon the whole, rather piratical-looking young man of about ve and twenty. I always deemed him the victim of two evil powers—ambition and indigestion. The ambition was evinced by a certain impatience of the duties of a mere copyis t, an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly professional affairs, such as the or iginal drawing up of legal documents. The indigestion seemed betokened in an occasion al nervous testi- ness and grinning irritability, causing the teeth to audibl y grind together over Bartleby, The Scrivener 4 mistakes committed in copying; unnecessary maledictions, hissed, rather than spoken, in the heat of business; and especially by a continua l discontent with the height of the table where he worked. Though of a very ingen ious mechani- cal turn, Nippers could never get this table to suit him. He pu t chips under it, blocks of various sorts, bits of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to attempt an exquisite adjustment by nal pieces of folded blotting pa per. But no invention would answer. If, for the sake of easing his back, he brought t he table lid at a sharp angle well up towards his chin, and wrote there like a ma n using the steep roof of a Dutch house for his desk:—then he declared that it st opped the circu- lation in his arms. If now he lowered the table to his waistban ds, and stooped over it in writing, then there was a sore aching in his back. In short, the truth of the matter was, Nippers knew not what he wanted. Or, if he wa nted any thing, it was to be rid of a scrivener’s table altogether. Amo ng the manifestations of his diseased ambition was a fondness he had for receiving v isits from certain ambiguous-looking fellows in seedy coats, whom he called hi s clients. Indeed I was aware that not only was he, at times, considerable of a war d-politician, but he occasionally did a little business at the Justices’ courts, and was not unknown on the steps of the Tombs. I have good reason to believe, however , that one individ- ual who called upon him at my chambers, and who, with a grand ai r, 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, l ike his compatriot Turkey, was a very useful man to me; wrote a neat, swift hand; a nd, when he chose, was not de cient in a gentlemanly sort of deportment. Added to this, he always dressed in a gentlemanly sort of way; and so, incident ally, re ected credit upon my chambers. Whereas with respect to Turkey, I had much a do to keep him from being a reproach to me. His clothes were apt to look oi ly and smell of eating-houses. He wore his pantaloons very loose and bagg y in summer. His coats were execrable; his hat not to be handled. But while the h at was a thing of indifference to me, inasmuch as his natural civility and def erence, 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 wi th him; but with no effect. The truth was, I suppose, that a man of so small an in come, 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 chie y f or red ink. One winter day I presented Turkey with a highly-respectable loo king coat of my own, a padded gray coat, of a most comfortable warmth, and which bu ttoned straight up from the knee to the neck. I thought Turkey would appreciat e the favor, and abate his rashness and obstreperousness of afternoons. But n o. 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 ar e bad for horses. Bartleby, The Scrivener 5 In fact, precisely as a rash, restive horse is said to feel his oats, so Turkey felt his coat. It made him insolent. He was a man whom prosperity harme d.

Though concerning the self-indulgent habits of Turkey I had my own private surmises, yet touching Nippers I was well persuaded that wha tever might be his faults in other respects, he was, at least, a temperate young man. But indeed, nature herself seemed to have been his vintner, and at his bir th charged him so thoroughly with an irritable, brandy-like disposition, th at all subsequent pota- tions 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 m ove it, and jerk it, with a grim, grinding motion on the oor, as if the table were a perverse vol- untary agent, intent on thwarting and vexing him; I plainly p erceive that for Nippers, brandy and water were altogether super uous. It was fortunate for me that, owing to its peculiar cause—ind igestion— the ir- ritability and consequent nervousness of Nippers, were mai nly observable in the morning, while in the afternoon he was comparatively mild. S o that Turkey’s paroxysms only coming on about twelve o’clock, I never had to do with their ec- centricities at one time. Their ts relieved each other like guards. When Nippers’ was on, Turkey’s was off; and vice versa. This was a good natural arrangement under the circumstances. Ginger Nut, the third on my list, was a lad some twelve years ol d. 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 of ce as student at law, errand boy , and cleaner and sweeper, at the rate of one dollar a week. He had a little de sk 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-wi tted youth the whole noble science of the law was contained in a nut-shell. Not the least among the employments of Ginger Nut, as well as one which he discharged with the most alacrity, was his duty as cake and apple purveyor for Turkey a nd Nippers. Copy- ing law papers being proverbially dry, husky sort of busines s, my two scriveners were fain to moisten their mouths very often with Spitzenber gs to be had at the numerous stalls nigh the Custom House and Post Of ce. Also, t hey sent Ginger Nut very frequently for that peculiar cake—small, at, roun d, and very spicy— after which he had been named by them. Of a cold morning when bu siness was but dull, Turkey would gobble up scores of these cakes, as if t hey were mere wafers—indeed they sell them at the rate of six or eight for a p enny—the scrape of his pen blending with the crunching of the crisp particles in his mouth. Of all the ery afternoon blunders and urried rashnesses of Tu rkey, was his once moistening a ginger-cake between his lips, and clapping it o n to a mortgage for a seal. I came within an ace of dismissing him then. But he molli ed me by making Bartleby, The Scrivener 6 an oriental bow, and saying—"With submission, sir, it was ge nerous of me to nd you in stationery on my own account.” Now my original business—that of a conveyancer and title hun ter, and drawer- up of recondite documents of all sorts—was considerably inc reased by receiving the master’s of ce. There was now great work for scriveners. Not only must I push the clerks already with me, but I must have additional he lp. In answer to my advertisement, a motionless young man one morning, stood upon my of ce threshold, the door being open, for it was summer. I can see th at gure now— pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn! I t was Bartleby.

After a few words touching his quali cations, I engaged him, glad to have among my corps of copyists a man of so singularly sedate an asp ect, which I thought might operate bene cially upon the ighty temper of Turkey, and the ery one of Nippers. I should have stated before that ground glass folding-doors divided my prem- ises into two parts, one of which was occupied by my scrivener s, the other by myself. According to my humor I threw open these doors, or clo sed them. I resolved to assign Bartleby a corner by the folding-doors, bu t on my side of them, so as to have this quiet man within easy call, in case any tri i ng thing was to be done. I placed his desk close up to a small side-window in that part of the room, a window which originally had afforded a lateral view of certa in grimy back-yards and bricks, but which, owing to subsequent erections, comma nded at present no view at all, though it gave some light. Within three feet of th e panes was a wall, and the light came down from far above, between two lofty buil dings, as from a very small opening in a dome. Still further to a satisfactor y arrangement, I procured a high green folding screen, which might entirely i solate Bartleby from my sight, though not remove him from my voice. And thus, in a ma nner, privacy and society were conjoined.

At rst Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if long famish- ing for something to copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my doc uments. There was no pause for digestion. He ran a day and night line, copyin g by sun-light and by candle-light. I should have been quite delighted with his application, had he been cheerfully industrious. But he wrote on silently, palel y, mechanically.

It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener’s busi ness to verify the accuracy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or more scriveners in an of ce, they assist each other in this examination, one rea ding from the copy, the other holding the original. It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily imagine that to some sanguine temperaments it wo uld be altogether intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettleso me poet Byron would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law docum ent of, say ve hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand. Bartleby, The Scrivener 7 Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to a ssist in com- paring some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nipper s for this purpose.

One object I had in placing Bartleby so handy to me behind the sc reen, was to avail myself of his services on such trivial occasions. It wa s on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had aris en for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and natural expectancy of instant compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my desk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat nervously extended wit h the copy, so that immediately upon emerging from his retreat, Bartleby mi ght snatch it and proceed to business without the least delay. In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly st ating 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 fro m his privacy, Bartleby in a singularly mild, rm voice, replied, “I would pr efer not to.” I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculti es. Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had ent irely misunder- stood 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 prefe r not to.” “Prefer not to,” echoed I, rising in high excitement, and cro ssing the room with a stride. “What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want y ou to help me compare this sheet here—take it,” and I thrust it towards h im.

“I would prefer not to,” said he.

I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; hi s gray eye dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been t he least uneasi- ness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in ot her words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him, doubtless I shoul d have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doo rs. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseat ed myself at my desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my business hurried me. I concluded to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other room, the p aper was speedily examined.

A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy docume nts, being quadruplicates of a week’s testimony taken before me in my Hi gh Court of Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an impo rtant suit, and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged I called Turkey, Nip- pers and Ginger Nut from the next room, meaning to place the fo ur copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from the origi nal. Accordingly Bartleby, The Scrivener 8 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 intere sting group.

“Bartleby! quick, I am waiting.” I heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted oor, and soon he appeared standing at the entrance of his hermitage. “What is wanted?” said he mildly.

“The copies, the copies,” said I hurriedly. “We are going to e xamine them.

There"—and I held towards him the fourth quadruplicate.

“I would prefer not to,” he said, and gently disappeared behi nd the screen.

For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing a t the head of my seated column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced to wards the screen, and demanded the reason for such extraordinary conduct.

“Why do you refuse?” “I would prefer not to.” With any other man I should have own outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously fro m my presence. But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely di sarmed me, but in a wonderful manner touched and disconcerted me. I began to re ason with him.

“These are your own copies we are about to examine. It is labor saving to you, because one examination will answer for your four paper s. It is common usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his copy. Is it no t so? Will you not speak? Answer!” “I prefer not to,” he replied in a ute-like tone. It seemed to me that while I had been addressing him, he carefully revolved every statem ent that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could not gainsay the irresistib le conclusions; but, at the same time, some paramount consideration prevailed wi th him to reply as he did.

“You are decided, then, not to comply with my request—a reque st made ac- cording to common usage and common sense?” He brie y gave me to understand that on that point my judgment was sound.

Yes: his decision was irreversible. It is not seldom the case that when a man is browbeaten in some u nprece- dented and violently unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in his own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that, wonder ful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the other side. According ly, if any disinter- ested persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforc ement for his own faltering mind. “Turkey,” said I, “what do you think of this? Am I not right?” “With submission, sir,” said Turkey, with his blandest tone , “I think that you are.” Bartleby, The Scrivener 9 “Nippers,” said I, “what do youthink of it?” “I think I should kick him out of the of ce.” (The reader of nice perceptions will here perceive that, it b eing morning, Turkey’s answer is couched in polite and tranquil terms, but Nippers replies in ill-tempered ones. Or, to repeat a previous sentence, Nippe rs’ ugly mood was on duty and Turkey’s off.) “Ginger Nut,” said I, willing to enlist the smallest suffrag e in my behalf, “what do you think of it?” “I think, sir, he’s a little luny,” replied Ginger Nut with a grin.

“You hear what they say,” said I, turning towards the screen, “come forth and do your duty.” But he vouchsafed no reply. I pondered a moment in sore perplex ity. But once more business hurried me. I determined again to postpon e the considera- tion of this dilemma to my future leisure. With a little troub le we made out to examine the papers without Bartleby, though at every page or t wo, Turkey defer- entially dropped his opinion that this proceeding was quite out of the common; while Nippers, twitching in his chair with a dyspeptic nervo usness, ground out between his set teeth occasional hissing maledictions agai nst the stubborn oaf be- hind the screen. And for his (Nippers’) part, this was the rs t and the last time he would do another man’s business without pay. Meanwhile Bartleby sat in his hermitage, oblivious to every t hing but his own peculiar business there. Some days passed, the scrivener being employed upon another lengthy work.

His late remarkable conduct led me to regard his ways narrowl y. I observed that he never went to dinner; indeed that he never went any whe re. As yet I had never of my personal knowledge known him to be outside of my of ce. He was a perpetual sentry in the corner. At about eleven o’clock thou gh, in the morning, I noticed that Ginger Nut would advance toward the opening in Ba rtleby’s screen, as if silently beckoned thither by a gesture invisible to me w here I sat. The boy would then leave the of ce 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.

He lives, then, on ginger-nuts, thought I; never eats a dinne r, properly speak- ing; he must be a vegetarian then; but no; he never eats even ve getables, he eats nothing but ginger-nuts. My mind then ran on in reveries conc erning the proba- ble effects upon the human constitution of living entirely o n ginger-nuts. Ginger- nuts are so called because they contain ginger as one of their peculiar constituents, and the nal avoring one. Now what was ginger? A hot, spicy th ing. Was Bartleby hot and spicy? Not at all. Ginger, then, had no effect upon Bartleby.

Probably he preferred it should have none. Bartleby, The Scrivener 10 Nothing so aggravates an earnest person as a passive resista nce. If the indi- vidual so resisted be of a not inhumane temper, and the resist ing one perfectly harmless in his passivity; then, in the better moods of the fo rmer, he will en- deavor charitably to construe to his imagination what prove s impossible to be solved by his judgment. Even so, for the most part, I regarded Ba rtleby and his ways. Poor fellow! thought I, he means no mischief; it is plai n he intends no insolence; his aspect suf ciently evinces that his eccentr icities are involuntary.

He is useful to me. I can get along with him. If I turn him away, t he chances are he will fall in with some less indulgent employer, and the n he will be rudely treated, and perhaps driven forth miserably to starve. Yes. Here I can cheaply purchase a delicious self-approval. To befriend Bartleby; t o humor him in his strange willfulness, will cost me little or nothing, while I lay up in my soul what will eventually prove a sweet morsel for my conscience. But th is mood was not invariable with me. The passiveness of Bartleby sometimes ir ritated me. I felt strangely goaded on to encounter him in new opposition, to el icit some angry spark from him answerable to my own. But indeed I might as well h ave essayed to strike re with my knuckles against a bit of Windsor soap. Bu t one afternoon the evil impulse in me mastered me, and the following little s cene ensued:

“Bartleby,” said I, “when those papers are all copied, I will c ompare them with you.” “I would prefer not to.” “How? Surely you do not mean to persist in that mulish vagary? ” No answer.

I threw open the folding-doors near by, and turning upon Turk ey and Nip- pers, exclaimed in an excited manner— “He says, a second time, he won’t examine his papers. What do y ou think of it, Turkey?” It was afternoon, be it remembered. Turkey sat glowing like a brass boiler, his bald head steaming, his hands reeling among his blotted p apers.

“Think of it?” roared Turkey; “I think I’ll just step behind h is screen, and black his eyes for him!” So saying, Turkey rose to his feet and threw his arms into a pug ilistic position.

He was hurrying away to make good his promise, when I detained him, alarmed at the effect of incautiously rousing Turkey’s combativene ss after dinner.

“Sit down, Turkey,” said I, “and hear what Nippers has to say. What do you think of it, Nippers? Would I not be justi ed in immediate ly dismissing Bartleby?” “Excuse me, that is for you to decide, sir. I think his conduct q uite unusual, and indeed unjust, as regards Turkey and myself. But it may onl y be a passing whim.” Bartleby, The Scrivener 11 “Ah,” exclaimed I, “you have strangely changed your mind the n—you speak very gently of him now.” “All beer,” cried Turkey; “gentleness is effects of beer—Ni ppers and I dined together to-day. You see how gentle Iam, sir. Shall I go and black his eyes?” “You refer to Bartleby, I suppose. No, not to-day, Turkey,” I r eplied; “pray, put up your sts.” I closed the doors, and again advanced towards Bartleby. I fel t additional incentives tempting me to my fate. I burned to be rebelled aga inst again. I re- membered that Bartleby never left the of ce. “Bartleby,” said I, “Ginger Nut is away; just step round to the Post Of ce, won’t you? (it was but a three minute walk,) and see if there is any thing for me.” “I would prefer not to.” “You willnot?” “I prefer not.” I staggered to my desk, and sat there in a deep study. My blind i nveteracy returned. Was there any other thing in which I could procure m yself to be igno- miniously repulsed by this lean, penniless wight?—my hired clerk? What added thing is there, perfectly reasonable, that he will be sure to refuse to do?

“Bartleby!” No answer.

“Bartleby,” in a louder tone.

No answer.

“Bartleby,” I roared.

Like a very ghost, agreeably to the laws of magical invocation , at the third summons, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.

“Go to the next room, and tell Nippers to come to me.” “I prefer not to,” he respectfully and slowly said, and mildl y disappeared.

“Very good, Bartleby,” said I, in a quiet sort of serenely seve re self-possessed tone, intimating the unalterable purpose of some terrible r etribution very close at hand. At the moment I half intended something of the kind. Bu t upon the whole, as it was drawing towards my dinner-hour, I thought it best to put on my hat and walk home for the day, suffering much from perplexity and distress of mind. Shall I acknowledge it? The conclusion of this whole busines s was, that it soon became a xed fact of my chambers, that a pale young scriv ener, by the name of Bartleby, had a desk there; that he copied for me at the usual rate of four cents a folio (one hundred words); but he was permanently exempt fr om examining the work done by him, that duty being transferred to Turkey an d Nippers, one of compliment doubtless to their superior acuteness; moreo ver, said Bartleby was never on any account to be dispatched on the most trivial erra nd of any sort; and Bartleby, The Scrivener 12 that even if entreated to take upon him such a matter, it was ge nerally understood that he would prefer not to—in other words, that he would refu se pointblank.

As days passed on, I became considerably reconciled to Bartle by. His steadi- ness, his freedom from all dissipation, his incessant indus try (except when he chose to throw himself into a standing revery behind his scre en), his great, still- ness, his unalterableness of demeanor under all circumstan ces, made him a valu- able acquisition. One prime thing was this,— he was always there;— rst in the morning, continually through the day, and the last at night. I had a singular con- dence in his honesty. I felt my most precious papers perfect ly safe in his hands.

Sometimes to be sure I could not, for the very soul of me, avoid falling into sud- den spasmodic passions with him. For it was exceeding dif cu lt to bear in mind all the time those strange peculiarities, privileges, and u nheard of exemptions, forming the tacit stipulations on Bartleby’s part under whic h he remained in my of ce. Now and then, in the eagerness of dispatching pressin g business, I would inadvertently summon Bartleby, in a short, rapid tone, to put his nger, say, on the incipient tie of a bit of red tape with which I was about com pressing some papers. Of course, from behind the screen the usual answer, “ I prefer not to,” was sure to come; and then, how could a human creature with the com mon in rmi- ties of our nature, refrain from bitterly exclaiming upon su ch perverseness—such unreasonableness. However, every added repulse of this sor t which I received only tended to lessen the probability of my repeating the ina dvertence.

Here it must be said, that according to the custom of most lega l gentlemen occupying chambers in densely-populated law buildings, th ere 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 w as kept by Turkey for convenience sake. The third I sometimes carried i n my own pocket.

The fourth I knew not who had.

Now, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church, to hear a celebrated preacher, and nding myself rather early on the g round, I thought I would walk around to my chambers for a while. Luckily I had my k ey with me; but upon applying it to the lock, I found it resisted by someth ing inserted from the inside. Quite surprised, I called out; when to my conster nation a key was turned from within; and thrusting his lean visage at me, and h olding the door ajar, the apparition of Bartleby appeared, in his shirt sleev es, and otherwise in a strangely tattered dishabille, saying quietly that he was s orry, but he was deeply engaged just then, and—preferred not admitting me at presen t. In a brief word or two, he moreover added, that perhaps I had better walk round t he block two or three times, and by that time he would probably have conclude d his affairs.

Now, the utterly unsurmised appearance of Bartleby, tenanti ng my law-cham- bers of a Sunday morning, with his cadaverously gentlemanly nonchalance, yet Bartleby, The Scrivener 13 withal rm and self-possessed, had such a strange effect upo n me, that inconti- nently I slunk away from my own door, and did as desired. But not without sundry twinges of impotent rebellion against the mild effro ntery of this unac- countable scrivener. Indeed, it was his wonderful mildness chie y, which not only disarmed me, but unmanned me, as it were. For I consider t hat one, for the time, is a sort of unmanned when he tranquilly permits his hir ed clerk to dictate to him, and order him away from his own premises. Furthermore , I was full of uneasiness as to what Bartleby could possibly be doing in my of ce in his shirt sleeves, and in an otherwise dismantled condition of a Sunda y 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 cou ld he be do- ing there?—copying? Nay again, whatever might be his eccent ricities, Bartleby was an eminently decorous person. He would be the last man to s it down to his desk in any state approaching to nudity. Besides, it was Su nday; and there was something about Bartleby that forbade the supposition th at he would by any secular occupation violate the proprieties of the day. Nevertheless, my mind was not paci ed; and full of a restless curiosity, at last I returned to the door. Without hindrance I inserted my k ey, opened it, and entered. Bartleby was not to be seen. I looked round anxiou sly, peeped behind his screen; but it was very plain that he was gone. Upon more closely examining the place, I surmised that for an inde nite period Bartleby must have ate, dressed, and slept in my of ce, and that too without plat e, mirror, or bed.

The cushioned seat of a rickety old sofa in one corner bore the faint impress of a lean, reclining form. Rolled away under his desk, I found a b lanket; under the empty grate, a blacking box and brush; on a chair, a tin bas in, with soap and a ragged towel; in a newspaper a few crumbs of ginger-nuts and a morsel of cheese. Yes, thought I, it is evident enough that Bartleby has been making his home here, keeping bachelor’s hall all by himself. Immediat ely then the thought came sweeping across me, What miserable friendlessness and loneliness are here revealed! His poverty is great; but his solitude, how horrib le! Think of it. Of a Sunday, Wall-street is deserted as Petra; and every night o f every day it is an emptiness. This building too, which of week-days hums with i ndustry and life, at nightfall echoes with sheer vacancy, and all through Sund ay is forlorn. And here Bartleby makes his home; sole spectator of a solitude whi ch he has seen all populous—a sort of innocent and transformed Marius broodin g among the ruins of Carthage!

For the rst time in my life a feeling of overpowering stingin g melancholy seized me. Before, I had never experienced aught but a not-unp leasing sadness.

The bond of a common humanity now drew me irresistibly to gloo m. A fraternal melancholy! For both I and Bartleby were sons of Adam. I rememb ered the Bartleby, The Scrivener 14 bright silks and sparkling faces I had seen that day, in gala t rim, swan-like sailing down the Mississippi of Broadway; and I contrasted them with t he pallid copyist, and thought to myself, Ah, happiness courts the light, so we d eem the world is gay; but misery hides aloof, so we deem that misery there is none. These sad fancyings—chimeras, doubtless, of a sick and silly brai n—led on to other and more special thoughts, concerning the eccentricities of Bar tleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The scrivener’s pa le form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers, in its shivering wind ing sheet.

Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby’s closed desk, the key in open sight left in the lock.

I mean no mischief, seek the grati cation of no heartless cur iosity, thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too, so I will ma ke bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged, the papers sm oothly placed.

The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the les of document s, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt something there, and dragg ed it out. It was an old bandanna handkerchief, heavy and knotted. I opened it, and s aw it was a savings’ bank.

I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I remem- bered that he never spoke but to answer; that though at interv als he had consider- able 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 w indow behind the screen, upon the dead brick wall; I was quite sure he never vis ited any refectory or eating house; while his pale face clearly indicated that h e never drank beer like Turkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never w ent any where in particular that I could learn; never went out for a walk, unle ss indeed that was the case at present; that he had declined telling who he was, or wh ence 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 ce rtain unconscious air of pallid—how shall I call it?—of pallid haughtiness, sa y, or rather an austere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame c ompliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do the slig htest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from his long-continued mot ionlessness, that behind his screen he must be standing in one of those dead-wal l reveries of his.

Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recen tly discovered fact that he made my of ce his constant abiding place and home , and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these things, a prude ntial feeling began to steal over me. My rst emotions had been those of pure melanch oly and sincerest pity; but just in proportion as the forlornness of Bartleby gr ew and grew to my imagination, did that same melancholy merge into fear, that pity into repulsion.

So true it is, and so terrible too, that up to a certain point th e thought or sight Bartleby, The Scrivener 15 of misery enlists our best affections; but, in certain speci al cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who would assert that invariably t his is owing to the inherent sel shness of the human heart. It rather procee ds from a certain hopelessness of remedying excessive and organic ill. To a se nsitive being, pity is not seldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pit y cannot lead to effectual succor, common sense bids the soul rid of it. What I saw that morning persuaded me that the scrivener was the victim of innate and i ncurable disorder.

I might give alms to his body; but his body did not pain him; it w as his soul that suffered, and his soul I could not reach. I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church th at morning.

Somehow, the things I had seen disquali ed me for the time fro m church-going.

I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with Bartleby. Fin ally, I resolved upon this;—I would put certain calm questions to him the next morning, touch- ing his history, etc., and if he declined to answer them openl y and unreservedly (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 w ere no longer required; but that if in any other way I could assist him, I wou ld be happy to do so, especially if he desired to return to his native place, wh erever that might be, I would willingly help to defray the expenses. Moreover, if, a fter reaching home, he found himself at any time in want of aid, a letter from him wo uld be sure of a reply.

The next morning came.

“Bartleby,” said I, gently calling to him behind his screen.

No reply.

“Bartleby,” said I, in a still gentler tone, “come here; I am no t going to ask you to do any thing you would prefer not to do—I simply wish to s peak to you.” Upon this he noiselessly slid into view.

“Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?” “I would prefer not to.” “Will you tell me any thingabout yourself?” “I would prefer not to.” “But what reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I fe el friendly towards you.” He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance xed upo n my bust of Cicero, which as I then sat, was directly behind me, some si x inches above my head.

“What is your answer, Bartleby?” said I, after waiting a consi derable time for a reply, during which his countenance remained immovable, o nly there was the faintest conceivable tremor of the white attenuated mouth. “At present I prefer to give no answer,” he said, and retired i nto his hermitage. Bartleby, The Scrivener 16 It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occas ion nettled me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain calm disdain , but his perverse- ness seemed ungrateful, considering the undeniable good us age and indulgence he had received from me.

Again I sat ruminating what I should do. Morti ed as I was at hi s behavior, and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my of c es, nevertheless I strangely felt something superstitious knocking at my hea rt, and forbidding me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing me for a villain if I da red 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, nev er mind then about revealing your history; but let me entreat you, as a fri end, to comply as far as may be with the usages of this of ce. Say now you will help to examine papers to-morrow or next day: in short, say now that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:—say so, Bartleby.” “At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable,” was his mildly cadav- erous reply. Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached . He seemed suffering from an unusually bad night’s rest, induce d by severer indiges- tion then common. He overheard those nal words of Bartleby.

“Prefer not , eh?” gritted Nippers—"I’d preferhim, if I were you, sir,” address- ing me—"I’d preferhim; I’d give him preferences, the stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he prefersnot to do now?” Bartleby moved not a limb.

“Mr. Nippers,” said I, “I’d prefer that you would withdraw fo r the present.” Somehow, of late I had got into the way of involuntarily using this word “prefer” upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. A nd I trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might it n ot yet produce?

This apprehension had not been without ef cacy in determini ng me to summary means. As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turk ey blandly and deferentially approached.

“With submission, sir,” said he, “yesterday I was thinking a bout Bartleby here, and I think that if he would but prefer to take a quart of g ood ale every day, it would do much towards mending him, and enabling him to assi st in examining his papers.” “So you have got the word too,” said I, slightly excited.

“With submission, what word, sir,” asked Turkey, respectfu lly crowding him- self into the contracted space behind the screen, and by so do ing, making me jostle the scrivener. “What word, sir?” Bartleby, The Scrivener 17 “I would prefer to be left alone here,” said Bartleby, as if off ended at being mobbed in his privacy.

“That’s the word, Turkey,” said I—"that’s it.” “Oh, prefer? oh yes—queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir, as I was saying, if he would but prefer—” “Turkey,” interrupted I, “you will please withdraw.” “Oh certainly, sir, if you prefer that I should.” As he opened the folding-door to retire, Nippers at his desk c aught 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 wo rd prefer. It was plain that it involuntarily rolled form his tongue. I though t to myself, surely I must get rid of a demented man, who already has in some degree turned the tongues, if not the heads of myself and clerks. But I thought it prudent not to break the dismission at once.

The next day I noticed that Bartleby did nothing but stand at hi s 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.

“Why, how now? what next?” exclaimed I, “do no more writing?” “No more.” “And what is the reason?” “Do you not see the reason for yourself,” he indifferently re plied.

I looked steadfastly at him, and perceived that his eyes look ed dull and glazed.

Instantly it occurred to me, that his unexampled diligence i n copying by his dim window for the rst few weeks of his stay with me might have tem porarily im- paired his vision.

I was touched. I said something in condolence with him. I hint ed that of course he did wisely in abstaining from writing for a while; a nd urged him to embrace that opportunity of taking wholesome exercise in th e open air. This, however, he did not do. A few days after this, my other clerks b eing absent, and being in a great hurry to dispatch certain letters by the m ail, I thought that, having nothing else earthly to do, Bartleby would surely be le ss in exible than usual, and carry these letters to the post-of ce. But he blank ly declined. So, much to my inconvenience, I went myself. Still added days went by. Whether Bartleby’s eyes improved or not, I could not say. To all appearance, I thought they did. But when I asked him if they did, he vouchsafed no answer. At all events, he would do no copying . At last, in reply to my urgings, he informed me that he had permanently given up copying.

“What!” exclaimed I; “suppose your eyes should get entirely well— better than ever before—would you not copy then?” “I have given up copying,” he answered, and slid aside. Bartleby, The Scrivener 18 He remained as ever, a xture in my chamber. Nay—if that were p ossible—he became still more of a xture than before. What was to be done? He would do nothing in the of ce: why should he stay there? In plain fact, he had now become a millstone to me, not only useless as a necklace, but af icti ve to bear. Yet I was sorry for him. I speak less than truth when I say that, on his ow n 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 po or fellow away to some convenient retreat. But he seemed alone, absolutely alo ne in the universe.

A bit of wreck in the mid Atlantic. At length, necessities con nected with my business tyrannized over all other considerations. Decent ly as I could, I told Bartleby that in six days’ time he must unconditionally leave the of ce. I warned him to take measures, in the interval, for procuring some oth er abode. I offered to assist him in this endeavor, if he himself would but take th e rst step towards a removal. “And when you nally quit me, Bartleby,” added I, “I s hall see that you go not away entirely unprovided. Six days from this hour, rem ember.” At the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo! Bartleby was there.

I buttoned up my coat,balanced myself; advanced slowly towa rds 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.” “I would prefer not,” he replied, with his back still towards me.

“You must.” He remained silent.

Now I had an unbounded con dence in this man’s common honesty . He had frequently restored to me sixpences and shillings careless ly dropped upon the oor, for I am apt to be very reckless in such shirt-button aff airs. The proceeding then which followed will not be deemed extraordinary.

“Bartleby,” said I, “I owe you twelve dollars on account; here are thirty-two; the odd twenty are yours.—Will you take it?” and I handed the b ills towards him.

But he made no motion.

“I will leave them here then,” putting them under a weight on t he table. Then taking my hat and cane and going to the door I tranquilly turne d and added— "After you have removed your things from these of ces, Bartle by, you will of course lock the door—since every one is now gone for the day bu t you—and if you please, slip your key underneath the mat, so that I may h ave it in the morning. I shall not see you again; so good-bye to you. If here after in your new place of abode I can be of any service to you, do not fail to advi se me by letter.

Good-bye, Bartleby, and fare you well.” Bartleby, The Scrivener 19 But he answered not a word; like the last column of some ruined t emple, he remained standing mute and solitary in the middle of the ot herwise deserted room. As I walked home in a pensive mood, my vanity got the better of m y pity.

I could not but highly plume myself on my masterly management in getting rid of Bartleby. Masterly I call it, and such it must appear to a ny dispassionate thinker. The beauty of my procedure seemed to consist in its p erfect quietness.

There was no vulgar bullying, no bravado of any sort, no chole ric hectoring, and striding to and fro across the apartment, jerking out veh ement commands for Bartleby to bundle himself off with his beggarly traps. No thing of the kind.

Without loudly bidding Bartleby depart—as an inferior geniu s might have done— I assumed the ground that depart he must; and upon that assumption buil t 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 m y doubts,—I had somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the coolest and w isest hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the morning. My procedure seem ed as sagacious as ever.—but only in theory. How it would prove in practice—the re was the rub.

It was truly a beautiful thought to have assumed Bartleby’s de parture; 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 wheth er he would prefer so to do. He was more a man of preferences than assumpti ons.

After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilit iespro and con.

One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and Ba rtleby would be found all alive at my of ce as usual; the next moment it seem ed certain that I should see his chair empty. And so I kept veering about. At th e corner of Broadway and Canal-street, I saw quite an excited group of peo ple standing in earnest conversation.

“I’ll take odds he doesn’t,” said a voice as I passed.

“Doesn’t go?—done!” said I, “put up your money.” 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 ove rheard bore no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or non-success of so me candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of mind, I had, as it were, imagi ned that all Broad- way shared in my excitement, and were debating the same quest ion with me. I passed on, very thankful that the uproar of the street screen ed my momentary absent-mindedness.

As I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my of ce door. I s tood listening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the knob. T he door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he indeed mus t be vanished.

Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I was almost sorry f or my brilliant suc- Bartleby, The Scrivener 20 cess. I was fumbling under the door mat for the key, which Bartl eby 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 with in—"Not yet; I am occupied.” It was Bartleby.

I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, p ipe in mouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by a summer lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and remained leanin g out there upon the dreamy afternoon, till some one touched him, when he fell.

“Not gone!” I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrou s ascen- dancy which the inscrutable scrivener had over me, and from w hich ascendancy, for all my cha ng, I could not completely escape, I slowly wen t down stairs and out into the street, and while walking round the block, consi dered what I should next do in this unheard-of perplexity. Turn the man out by an a ctual thrusting I could not; to drive him away by calling him hard names would n ot do; calling in the police was an unpleasant idea; and yet, permit him to en joy his cadaverous triumph over me,—this too I could not think of. What was to be d one? or, if nothing could be done, was there any thing further that I coul dassume in the matter? Yes, as before I had prospectively assumed that Bartl eby would depart, so now I might retrospectively assume that departed he was. I n the legitimate carrying out of this assumption, I might enter my of ce in a gr eat hurry, and pre- tending not to see Bartleby at all, walk straight against him a s if he were air. Such a proceeding would in a singular degree have the appearance o f a home-thrust. It was hardly possible that Bartleby could withstand such an app lication of the doc- trine of assumptions. But upon second thoughts the success of the plan seemed rather dubious. I resolved to argue the matter over with him a gain.

“Bartleby,” said I, entering the of ce, with a quietly severe expression, “I am seriously displeased. I am pained, Bartleby. I had thought be tter of you. I had imagined you of such a gentlemanly organization, that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint would suf ce—in short, an assumption. But it appe ars I am deceived.

Why,” I added, unaffectedly starting, “you have not even tou ched that money yet,” pointing to it, just where I had left it the evening prev ious.

He answered nothing.

“Will you, or will you not, quit me?” I now demanded in a sudden passion, advancing close to him. “I would prefer notto quit you,” he replied, gently emphasizing the not.

“What earthly right have you to stay here? Do you pay any rent? Do you pay my taxes? Or is this property yours?” He answered nothing. Bartleby, The Scrivener 21 “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 fe w lines? or step round to the post-of ce? In a word, will you do any thing a t all, to give a coloring to your refusal to depart the premises?” He silently retired into his hermitage.

I was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought i t but prudent to check myself at present from further demonstrations. Bart leby and I were alone. I remembered the tragedy of the unfortunate Adams and the still more unfortunate Colt in the solitary of ce of the latter; and how poor Colt, being dreadfully incensed by Adams, and imprudently permitting h imself to get wildly excited, was at unawares hurried into his fatal act—an act wh ich certainly no man could possibly deplore more than the actor himself. Often it had occurred to me in my ponderings upon the subject, that had that altercation taken place in the public street, or at a private residence, it would not have te rminated as it did. It was the circumstance of being alone in a solitary of ce, up st airs, of a building entirely unhallowed by humanizing domestic associations— an uncarpeted of ce, doubtless, of a dusty, haggard sort of appearance;—this it m ust have been, which greatly helped to enhance the irritable desperation of the h apless Colt.

But when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me co ncern- ing Bartleby, I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by recalling the divine injunction: “A new commandment give I unto you, th at ye love one another.” Yes, this it was that saved me. Aside from higher co nsiderations, char- ity often operates as a vastly wise and prudent principle—a g reat safeguard to its possessor. Men have committed murder for jealousy’s sak e, and anger’s sake, and hatred’s sake, and sel shness’ sake, and spiritual prid e’s sake; but no man that ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical murder for s weet charity’s sake.

Mere self-interest, then, if no better motive can be enliste d, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings to charity and phi lanthropy. At any rate, upon the occasion in question, I strove to drown my exas perated feelings towards the scrivener by benevolently construing his condu ct. Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought I, he don’t mean any thing; and besides, he ha s seen hard times, and ought to be indulged.

I endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the sa me time to com- fort my despondency. I tried to fancy that in the course of the morning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him. Bartleby, of his own free accord, would emerge from his hermitage, and take up some decided line of ma rch in the direc- tion of the door. But no. Half-past twelve o’clock came; Turke y began to glow in the face, overturn his inkstand, and become generally obs treperous; Nippers abated down into quietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched h is noon apple; and Bartleby remained standing at his window in one of his prof oundest dead- Bartleby, The Scrivener 22 wall reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it ? That afternoon I left the of ce without saying one further word to him.

Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I lo oked a little into “Edwards on the Will,” and “Priestly on Necessity.” Under the circumstances, those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I slid int o the persuasion that these troubles of mine touching the scrivener, had been all p redestinated from eternity, and Bartleby was billeted upon me for some mysterio us purpose of an all-wise Providence, which it was not for a mere mortal like m e to fathom. Yes, Bartleby, stay there behind your screen, thought i; I shall pe rsecute you no more; you are harmless and noiseless as any of these old chairs; in s hort, I never feel so private as when I know you are here. At last I see it, I feel it; I penetrate to the predestinated purpose of my life. I am content. Others may ha ve loftier parts to enact; but my mission in this world, Bartleby, is to furnish yo u with of ce-room for such period as you may see t to remain.

I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have c ontinued with me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable rema rks obtruded upon me by my professional friends who visited the rooms. But thus i t often is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears out at last th e best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure, when I re ected upon it, it w as not strange that people entering my of ce should be struck by the peculia r aspect of the un- accountable Bartleby, and so be tempted to throw out some sini ster observations concerning him. Sometimes an attorney having business with me, and calling at my of ce and nding no one but the scrivener there, would un dertake to ob- tain some sort of precise information from him touching my wh ereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, Bartleby would remain standin g immovable in the middle of the room. So after contemplating him in that positi on for a time, the attorney would depart, no wiser than he came.

Also, when a Reference was going on, and the room full of lawye rs and witnesses and business was driving fast; some deeply occupi ed legal gentleman present, seeing Bartleby wholly unemployed, would request h im to run round to his (the legal gentleman’s) of ce and fetch some papers fo r him. Thereupon, Bartleby would tranquilly decline, and yet remain idle as bef ore. Then the lawyer would give a great stare, and turn to me. And what could I say? A t last I was made aware that all through the circle of my professional acq uaintance, a whis- per of wonder was running round, having reference to the stra nge creature I kept at my of ce. This worried me very much. And as the idea came upo n me of his possibly turning out a long-lived man, and keep occupyin g my chambers, and denying my authority; and perplexing my visitors; and scand alizing my profes- sional reputation; and casting a general gloom over the prem ises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings (for doubtless he spent but half a Bartleby, The Scrivener 23 dime a day), and in the end perhaps outlive me, and claim posse ssion of my of ce by right of his perpetual occupancy: as all these dark antici pations crowded upon me more and more, and my friends continually intruded their r elentless remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in m e. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of thi s intolerable incubus.

Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to t his end, I rst simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent d eparture. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and matu re 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 pre ferred to abide with me. What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to th e last button.

What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I shoulddo with this man, or rather ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go, he sha ll. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive mortal,—you wil l not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door? you will not dishonor yo urself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let hi m live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your ow n paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cl ing to you.

Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What ! surely you will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his inno cent pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing to be done?—a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who re fuses to budge? It is because he will notbe a vagrant, then, that you seek to count him asa vagrant.

That is too absurd. No visible means of support: there I have h im. Wrong again:

for indubitably he doessupport himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No mo re then.

Since he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will change my of c es; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice, that if I nd him on my new premises I will then proceed against him as a common trespasser. Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: “I nd the se chambers too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word, I pro pose to remove my of ces next week, and shall no longer require your service s. I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another place.” He made no reply, and nothing more was said.

On the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my c hambers, and having but little furniture, every thing was removed in a few hours. Through- out, the scrivener remained standing behind the screen, whi ch I directed to be removed the last thing. It was withdrawn; and being folded up like a huge folio, Bartleby, The Scrivener 24 left him the motionless occupant of a naked room. I stood in th e entry watching him a moment, while something from within me upbraided me.

I re-entered, with my hand in my pocket—and—and my heart in my mouth.

“Good-bye, Bartleby; I am going—good-bye, and God some way bl ess you; and take that,” slipping something in his hand. But it dropped upon the oor, and then,—strange to say—I tore myself from him whom I had so l onged to be rid of. Established in my new quarters, for a day or two I kept the door l ocked, 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 ne ver came nigh me.

I thought all was going well, when a perturbed looking strang er visited me, inquiring whether I was the person who had recently occupied rooms at No. – Wall-street.

Full of forebodings, I replied that I was.

“Then sir,” said the stranger, who proved a lawyer, “you are r esponsible for the man you left there. He refuses to do any copying; he refuse s to do any thing; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses to quit the premises. ” “I am very sorry, sir,” said I, with assumed tranquility, but an inward tremor, “but, really, the man you allude to is nothing to me—he is no re lation or appren- tice of mine, that you should hold me responsible for him.” “In mercy’s name, who is he?” “I certainly cannot inform you. I know nothing about him. For merly I employed him as a copyist; but he has done nothing for me now fo r some time past.” “I shall settle him then,—good morning, sir.” Several days passed, and I heard nothing more; and though I of ten felt a chari- table prompting to call at the place and see poor Bartleby, yet a certain squeamish- ness of I know not what withheld me.

All is over with him, by this time, thought I at last, when thro ugh 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 ne rvous excitement.

“That’s the man—here he comes,” cried the foremost one, whom I recognized as the lawyer who had previously called upon me alone.

“You must take him away, sir, at once,” cried a portly person a mong them, advancing upon me, and whom I knew to be the landlord of No. – Wa ll-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 persist s in haunting the building generally, sitting upon the banisters of the stair s by day, and sleeping in Bartleby, The Scrivener 25 the entry by night. Every body is concerned; clients are leavi ng the of ces; some fears are entertained of a mob; something you must do, and tha t without delay.” Aghast at this torrent, I fell back before it, and would fain h ave locked myself in my new quarters. In vain I persisted that Bartleby was nothi ng to me—no more than to any one else. In vain:—I was the last person known to have any thing to do with him, and they held me to the terrible account. Fearful then of being exposed in the papers (as one person present obscure ly threatened) I considered the matter, and at length said, that if the lawyer would give me a con dential interview with the scrivener, in his (the lawye r’s) own room, I would that afternoon strive my best to rid them of the nuisance they complained of.

Going up stairs to my old haunt, there was Bartleby silently si tting upon the banister at the landing.

“What are you doing here, Bartleby?” said I.

“Sitting upon the banister,” he mildly replied.

I motioned him into the lawyer’s room, who then left us.

“Bartleby,” said I, “are you aware that you are the cause of gre at tribulation to me, by persisting in occupying the entry after being dismiss ed from the of ce?” No answer.

“Now one of two things must take place. Either you must do somet hing, 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 ?” “No; I would prefer not to make any change.” “Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?” “There is too much con nement about that. No, I would not like a clerkship; but I am not particular.” “Too much con nement,” I cried, “why you keep yourself con n ed all the time!” “I would prefer not to take a clerkship,” he rejoined, as if to settle that little item at once.

“How would a bar-tender’s business suit you? There is no tryi ng of the eye- sight in that.” “I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not pa rticular.” His unwonted wordiness inspirited me. I returned to the char ge.

“Well then, would you like to travel through the country coll ecting bills for the merchants? That would improve your health.” “No, I would prefer to be doing something else.” “How then would going as a companion to Europe, to entertain so me young gentleman with your conversation,—how would that suit you? ” “Not at all. It does not strike me that there is any thing de ni te about that. I like to be stationary. But I am not particular.” Bartleby, The Scrivener 26 “Stationary you shall be then,” I cried, now losing all patie nce, and for the rst time in all my exasperating connection with him fairly ying into a passion.

“If you do not go away from these premises before night, I shal l feel bound— indeed I ambound—to—to—to quit the premises myself!” I rather absurdl y con- cluded, knowing not with what possible threat to try to frigh ten his immobil- ity into compliance. Despairing of all further efforts, I wa s precipitately leaving him, when a nal thought occurred to me—one which had not been wholly unin- dulged before.

“Bartleby,” said I, in the kindest tone I could assume under su ch exciting cir- cumstances, “will you go home with me now—not to my of ce, but my dwelling— and remain there till we can conclude upon some convenient ar rangement for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now, right away.” “No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all.” I answered nothing; but effectually dodging every one by the suddenness and rapidity of my ight, rushed from the building, ran up Wall-s treet towards Broad- way, and jumping into the rst omnibus was soon removed from p ursuit. As soon as tranquility returned I distinctly perceived that I h ad now done all that I possibly could, both in respect to the demands of the landlor d and his tenants, and with regard to my own desire and sense of duty, to bene t Bar tleby, and shield him from rude persecution. I now strove to be entirely care-free and qui- escent; and my conscience justi ed 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 busi- ness to Nippers, for a few days I drove about the upper part of t he town and through the suburbs, in my rockaway; crossed over to Jersey C ity and Hoboken, and paid fugitive visits to Manhattanville and Astoria. In f act I almost lived in my rockaway for the time.

When again I entered my of ce, lo, a note from the landlord lay upon the desk. I opened it with trembling hands. It informed me that th e writer had sent to the police, and had Bartleby removed to the Tombs as a vagrant. Moreover, since I knew more about him than any one else, he wished me to appear a t that place, and make a suitable statement of the facts. These tidings had a con icting effect upon me. At rst I was indignant; but at last almost approved. The landlord’s energetic, summary disposition had led him to adopt a proced ure which I do not think I would have decided upon myself; and yet as a last re sort, under such peculiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan.

As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that h e must be con- ducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but in his pale unmoving way, silently acquiesced. Bartleby, The Scrivener 27 Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the si lent procession led its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of the roa ring thoroughfares at noon.

The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right of cer, I s tated the purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described was in deed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a perfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however unaccountably eccentric. I nar rated all I knew, and closed by suggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indu lgent con nement as possible till something less harsh might be done—though i ndeed I hardly knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, th e alms-house must receive him. I then begged to have an interview. Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harml ess in all his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the priso n, and especially in the inclosed grass-platted yard thereof. And so I found hi m there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face towards a high wal l, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jail windows, I thought I saw peer ing out upon him the eyes of murderers and thieves.

“Bartleby!” “I know you,” he said, without looking round,—"and I want not hing to say to you.” “It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby,” said I, keenly p ained at his implied suspicion. “And to you, this should not be so vile a pl ace. Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being here. And see, it is not s o sad a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and here is the grass.” “I know where I am,” he replied, but would say nothing more, an d so I left him. As I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an a pron, accosted me, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder said—"Is that you r friend?” “Yes.” “Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison f are, that’s all.” “Who are you?” asked I, not knowing what to make of such an unof cially speaking person in such a place.

“I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to provide them with something good to eat.” “Is this so?” said I, turning to the turnkey.

He said it was. Bartleby, The Scrivener 28 “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 fr iend there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must be as polite to hi m as possible.” “Introduce me, will you?” said the grub-man, looking at me wi th an expres- sion which seemed to say he was all impatience for an opportun ity to give a specimen of his breeding.

Thinking it would prove of bene t to the scrivener, I acquies ced; and asking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby.

“Bartleby, this is Mr. Cutlets; you will nd him very useful to you.” “Your sarvant, sir, your sarvant,” said the grub-man, makin g a low salutation behind his apron. “Hope you nd it pleasant here, sir;—spaci ous grounds—cool apartments, sir—hope you’ll stay with us some time—try to ma ke it agreeable.

May Mrs. Cutlets and I have the pleasure of your company to din ner, sir, in Mrs.

Cutlets’ private room?” “I prefer not to dine to-day,” said Bartleby, turning away. “I t would disagree with me; I am unused to dinners.” So saying he slowly moved to t he other side of the inclosure, and took up a position fronting the dead-wa ll.

“How’s this?” said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare o f astonishment.

“He’s odd, aint he?” “I think he is a little deranged,” said I, sadly.

“Deranged? deranged is it? Well now, upon my word, I thought t hat friend of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale and gentee l-like, them forgers.

I can’t pity’em—can’t help it, sir. Did you know Monroe Edward s?” he added touchingly, and paused. Then, laying his hand pityingly on m y shoulder, sighed, “he died of consumption at Sing-Sing. So you weren’t acquain ted with Monroe?” “No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. But I ca nnot stop longer. Look to my friend yonder. You will not lose by it. I will see you again.” Some few days after this, I again obtained admission to the To mbs, and went through the corridors in quest of Bartleby; but without ndin g him.

“I saw him coming from his cell not long ago,” said a turnkey, “ may be he’s gone to loiter in the yards.” So I went in that direction.

“Are you looking for the silent man?” said another turnkey pa ssing me. “Yon- der he lies—sleeping in the yard there. ‘Tis not twenty minut es since I saw him lie down.” The yard was entirely quiet. It was not accessible to the comm on prisoners.

The surrounding walls, of amazing thickness, kept off all so unds behind them.

The Egyptian character of the masonry weighed upon me with its gloom. But a soft imprisoned turf grew under foot. The heart of the etern al pyramids, it Bartleby, The Scrivener 29 seemed, wherein, by some strange magic, through the clefts, grass-seed, dropped by birds, had sprung.

Strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and lying on his side, his head touching the cold stones, I saw the wasted Ba rtleby. But nothing stirred. I paused; then went close up to him; stooped over, an d saw that his dim eyes were open; otherwise he seemed profoundly sleeping. So mething prompted me to touch him. I felt his hand, when a tingling shiver ran up m y arm and down my spine to my feet.

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? ” “Lives without dining,” said I, and closed his eyes.

“Eh!—He’s asleep, aint he?” “With kings and counselors,” murmured I.

* * * * * * * * There would seem little need for proceeding further in this h istory. Imagi- nation will readily supply the meager recital of poor Bartleb y’s interment. But ere parting with the reader, let me say, that if this little na rrative has suf ciently interested him, to awaken curiosity as to who Bartleby was, an d what manner of life he led prior to the present narrator’s making his acqu aintance, I can only reply, that in such curiosity I fully share, but am wholly una ble to gratify it. Yet here I hardly know whether I should divulge one little item of rumor, which came to my ear a few months after the scrivener’s decease. Upo n what basis it rested, I could never ascertain; and hence, how true it is I ca nnot now tell. But inasmuch as this vague report has not been without certain st range suggestive in- terest to me, however sad, it may prove the same with some othe rs; and so I will brie y mention it. The report was this: that Bartleby had been a subordinate clerk in the Dead Letter Of ce at Washington, from which he had been suddenly removed by a change in the administration. When I think over t his rumor, I cannot adequately express the emotions which seize me. Dead letters! does it not sound like dead men? Conceive a man by nature and misfortu ne prone to a pallid hopelessness, can any business seem more tted to hei ghten it than that of continually handling these dead letters, and assorting the m for the ames? For by the cart-load they are annually burned. Sometimes from ou t the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring:—the nger it was meant for, perha ps, moulders in the grave; a bank-note sent in swiftest charity:—he whom it woul d relieve, nor eats nor hungers any more; pardon for those who died despairing; h ope for those who died unhoping; good tidings for those who died sti ed by unre lieved calamities.

On errands of life, these letters speed to death. Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!