A Story of
Wall-Street
I am a rather
elderly man. The nature of my activities for the last thirty years has
brought me into more than ordinary contact with what would seem an interesting
and somewhat singular set of men, of whom as yet nothing that I know of has
ever been written:—I mean the law-copyists or scriveners. I have known very
many of them, professionally and privately, and if I pleased, could relate several
histories, at which good-natured gentlemen might smile, and sentimental souls
might weep. But I ignore the biographies of all other scriveners for a
few passages in the life of Bartleby, who was a scrivener of the strangest I
ever saw or heard of. While of other law-copyists I might write the complete
life, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done. I believe that no materials
exist for a full and satisfactory biography of this man. It is an irreparable
loss to literature. Bartleby was one of those beings of whom nothing is
ascertainable, except from the original sources, and in his case those are very
small. What my own astonished eyes saw of Bartleby, that is all I know of him,
except, indeed, one vague report which will appear in the sequel.