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.
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