Compare "Bartleby the Scrivener" (1853): My chambers were up stairs at No. — Wall-street. At one end they looked upon the white wall of the interior of a spaci

Compare "Bartleby the Scrivener" (1853): My chambers were up stairs at No. — Wall-street. At one end they looked upon the white wall of the interior of a spacious sky-light shaft, penetrating the building from top to bottom. This view might have been considered rather tame than otherwise, deficient in what landscape painters call “life.” But if so, the view from the other end of my chambers offered, at least, a contrast, if nothing more. In that direction my windows commanded an unobstructed view of a lofty brick wall, black by age and everlasting shade; which wall required no spy-glass to bring out its lurking beauties, but for the benefit of all near-sighted spectators, was pushed up to within ten feet of my window panes. Owing to the great height of the surrounding buildings, and my chambers being on the second floor, the interval between this wall and mine not a little resembled a huge square cistern. One of the office spaces I'm in frequently is of this sort, and "I would prefer not to" is a recurring phrase in my head...