Bartleby was not to be seen. I looked
round anxiously, peeped behind his screen; but it was very plain that he
was gone. Upon more closely examining the place, I surmised that for an
indefinite period Bartleby must have ate, dressed, and slept in my
office, and that too without plate, mirror, or bed. The cushioned seat
of a rickety old sofa in one corner bore the faint impress of a lean,
reclining form. Rolled away under his desk, I found a blanket; under
the empty grate, a blacking box and brush; on a chair, a tin basin, with
soap and a ragged towel; in a newspaper a few crumbs of ginger-nuts and
a morsel of cheese. Yes, thought I, it is evident enough that Bartleby
has been making his home here, keeping bachelor's hall all by himself.
Immediately then the thought came sweeping across me, What miserable
friendlessness and loneliness are here revealed! His poverty is great;
but his solitude, how horrible! Think of it. Of a Sunday, Wall-street
is deserted as Petra; and every night of every day it is an emptiness.
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