Never mind Autograph people, they are never worth the scratch of a pen. Ever affectionately yours, J. R. 46. _August 26th, 1881._ I'm in furious bad humour with the weather, and cannot receive just now at all, having had infinitely too much of indoors, and yet unable to draw for darkness, or write for temper. But I will see Mr. ---- if he has any other reason than curiosity for wishing to see me--what does he want with me? 47. _21st October._ I am fairly well, but have twenty times the work in hand that I am able for; and read--Virgil, Plato, and Hesoid, when I have time! But assuredly no modern books; least of all my friends', lest I should have either to flatter or offend. Still less will I have to say to young men proposing to become clergymen. I have distinctly told them their business is at present--to dig, not preach. Let your young friend read his Fors. All that he needs of me is in that. 48. ANNECY, SAVOY, _November 15th, 1882._ I have got your kind little note of the 11th yesterday, and am entirely glad to hear of your papers on the Duddon. I shall be very happy indeed if you find any pleasure in remembering our walk to the tarn.[38] I hope I know now better how to manage myself in all ways, and we may still have some pleasant talks, my health not failing me. [38] Goat's Water, under the Old Man of Coniston. 49. TALLOIRE, SWITZERLAND, _November 20th, 1882._ MY DEAR MALLESON,--I am sincerely grieved that you begin to feel the effect of overwork; but as this is the first warning you have had, and as you are wise enough to obey it, I trust that the three months' rest will restore you all your usual powers on the conditions of using them with discretion, and not rising to write at two in the morning. I am very thankful to find in my own case that a quiet spring of energy filters back into the old well-heads--if one does not bucket it out as fast as it comes in. But my last illnesses seriously impaired my walking powers, and I'm afraid if you came to Switzerland I should be very jealous of you. Certainly it is not in this season a country for an invalid, and I believe you cannot be safer than by English firesides with no books to work at nor parishioners to visit. Ever affectionately yours, J. RUSKIN. 50.