My chambers were up stairs, at No. ---- Wall street. At one end, they
looked upon the white wall of the interior of a spacious skylight shaft,
penetrating the building from top to bottom.

This view might have been considered rather tame than otherwise,
deficient in what landscape painters call "life." But, if so, the view
from the other end of my chambers offered, at least, a contrast, if
nothing more. In that direction, my windows commanded an unobstructed
view of a lofty brick wall, black by age and everlasting shade; which
wall required no spy-glass to bring out its lurking beauties, but, for
the benefit of all near-sighted spectators, was pushed up to within ten
feet of my window panes. Owing to the great height of the surrounding
buildings, and my chambers being on the second floor, the interval
between this wall and mine not a little resembled a huge square cistern.

At the period just preceding the advent of Bartleby, I had two persons
as copyists in my employment, and a promising lad as an office-boy.
First, Turkey; second, Nippers; third, Ginger Nut. These may seem names,
the like of which are not usually found in the Directory. In truth, they
were nicknames, mutually conferred upon each other by my three clerks,
and were deemed expressive of their respective persons or characters.
Turkey was a short, pursy Englishman, of about my own age--that is,
somewhere not far from sixty. In the morning, one might say, his face
was of a fine florid hue, but after twelve o'clock, meridian--his dinner
hour--it blazed like a grate full of Christmas coals; and continued
blazing--but, as it were, with a gradual wane--till six 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