Tommy,1 your letter come to hand this evening, & I will just scratch off a few lines to answer at once—for I am ever so glad to know you have not forgot me, as I have not you, Tommy boy. I heard by some London boy I met quite a while ago that you was married & I supposed since you had your hands full of business, new associations &c.
Tom, I will just tell you about things—I still live in the same quarters in Camden, but shall soon break up permanently from here. I keep pretty well—feel as well as when I last saw you, & I suppose look ab't the same—(perhaps grayer & redder)—though young enough in spirit & now in my 65th year, I could easily pass for 75 or so—Ups and downs of course, but I thank God I have had two pretty good years—& especially this past summer (which has been a remarkably fine one here.) My two books bring me in a moderate income2—I am satisfied with very plain living—& bless the Lord I am likely to have enough for that as long as I need—
Tom, give my best regards to your wife, for all I have no acquaintance with her yet—I wish to be remembered to any of the Asylum boys I knew there who yet remain—I remember well the kindness of them all, & the gay old rides around—Tom, do you recollect that Sunday evening you drove the women in town to church, & we had a sociable drive all around?—that was the time we first got acquainted—I have been thinking a good while of coming on to visit Dr Bucke again, & then I will come & see you3—God bless you, Tommy boy—
Your old friend, Walt Whitman