to comfort 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 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 dead-wall
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 "Priestley 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 allwise 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