the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved
to gather all my faculties together, and forever rid me of this
intolerable incubus.

Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I
first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent
departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commanded the idea to his
careful and mature 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 preferred to abide with me.

What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last
button. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I
_should_ do with this man, or, rather, ghost. Rid myself of him, I must;
go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive
mortal--you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door?
you will not dishonor yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot
do that. Rather would I let him 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 own paper-weight on your
table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you.

Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you
will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent
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
refuses to budge? It is because he will _not_ be a vagrant, then, that
you seek to count him _as_ a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible
means of support: there I have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he
_does_ support himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any