reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That
afternoon I left the office without saying one further word to him.

Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a
little into "Edwards on the Will," and "Priestly on Necessity." Under
the circumstances, those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I
slid into the persuasion that these troubles of mine touching the
scrivener, had been all predestinated from eternity, and Bartleby was
billeted upon me for some mysterious purpose of an all-wise Providence,
which it was not for a mere mortal like me to fathom. Yes, Bartleby,
stay there behind your screen, thought I; I shall persecute you no more;
you are harmless and noiseless as any of these old chairs; in short, I
never feel so private as when I know you are here. At last I see it, I
feel it; I penetrate to the predestinated purpose of my life. I am
content. Others may have loftier parts to enact; but my mission in this
world, Bartleby, is to furnish you with office-room for such period as
you may see fit to remain.

I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continued
with me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks
obtruded upon me by my professional friends who visited the rooms. But
thus it often is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears
out at last the best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure,
when I reflected upon it, it was not strange that people entering my
office should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the unaccountable
Bartleby, and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observations
concerning him. Sometimes an attorney having business with me, and
calling at my office and finding no one but the scrivener there, would
undertake to obtain some sort of precise information from him touching
my whereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, Bartleby would remain