Final
Why, my dear old Tom, I never was serious with you, even when you were among us. Indeed, I killed you quite, as who should say, without seriousness, “A rat! A rat!” you know, rather cursorily.
Chaff, Tom, as in your present state you are beginning to perceive, was your fate here, and doubtless will be throughout the eternity The World, Jan. 15, 1879 before you. With ages at your disposal, this truth will dimly dawn upon you; and as you look back upon this life, perchance many situations that you took au sérieux (art-critic, who knows? expounder of Velasquez, and what not) will explain themselves sadly—chaff! Go back!
Butterfly The White House,
Jan. 10, 1879.