underneath the mat, so that I may have it in the morning. I shall not
see you again; so good-by 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-by, Bartleby, and fare you well."

But he answered not a word; like the last column of some ruined temple,
he remained standing mute and solitary in the middle of the otherwise
deserted room.

As I walked home in a pensive mood, my vanity got the better of my pity.
I could not but highly plume myself on my masterly management in getting
rid of Bartleby. Masterly I call it, and such it must appear to any
dispassionate thinker. The beauty of my procedure seemed to consist in
its perfect quietness. There was no vulgar bullying, no bravado of any
sort, no choleric hectoring, and striding to and fro across the
apartment, jerking out vehement commands for Bartleby to bundle himself
off with his beggarly traps. Nothing of the kind. Without loudly bidding
Bartleby depart--as an inferior genius might have done--I _assumed_ the
ground that depart he must; and upon that assumption built all I had to
say. The more I thought over my procedure, the more I was charmed with
it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I had my doubts--I had
somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the coolest and wisest
hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the morning. My procedure
seemed as sagacious as ever--but only in theory. How it would prove in
practice--there was the rub. It was truly a beautiful thought to have
assumed Bartleby's departure; but, after all, that assumption was
simply my own, and none of Bartleby's. The great point was, not whether
I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether he would prefer so to
do. He was more a man of preferences than assumptions.