I am writing with hesitation to-day (chiefly, indeed, through a sense of duty to you),--for I fear that you are in trouble, and that my letter is going to reach you at the worst possible time. However, I hope you have not lost any very dear friends by that terrible accident at Havana. I think you told me that you were once on that ship, nevertheless; and I fear that you must receive some bad news. My sympathies are with you in any event.
My Boston friend is lost to me, certainly. I got a letter yesterday from him--showing the serious effect upon friendship of taking to one's self a wife,--a fashionable wife. It was meant to be exactly like the old letters;--but it wasn't. Paymaster M. M. must also some day take a wife, and ... Oh! I know what you are going to say;--they all say that! They all assure you that they _both_ love you, and that their house will be always open to you, etc., etc., and then--they forget all about you--purposely or otherwise. Still, one ought to be grateful,--the dropping is so gently and softly done.
MY DEAR FRIENDS,--I am going to address you together, as that will save me from the attempt to write in two keys corresponding to the differing charm of your two letters. Certainly it gave me, as you surmised, sincere pleasure to hear from you. Mrs. Albee surprised me at the same time by a most agreeable, though I fear somewhat _generous_, reference to a forgotten letter. I think I must have penned many extravagances in those days. I _know_ it--in certain cases: anyhow I should be afraid to read my own letters to Mr. Albee over again. As for my old ambition then expressed, I don't quite know what to say. The attempt referred to led me far at one time in the wrong direction--though whatever I have learned of style has certainly been due rather to French and Spanish studies than to English ones. I have now dropped theories, nevertheless; and I simply try to do the best I can, without reference to schools.
Do you know that I had a dim notion always that Mr. Albee was a millionaire,--or at least a very wealthy dilettante?--which would be the best of reasons for never sending him a book, notwithstanding my grateful remembrance of his first generous encouragement. (_Here_ I use "generous" in the strongest meaning possible.) I am, _selfishly_, rather pleased to hear that the price of a book is sometimes for him, as for me, a question worth thinking over--because the fact permits me to offer him a volume occasionally. Otherwise indeed I wish he were rich as my fancy painted him.