Returned to town with Mr. Brooks. Office, morning occupied in reading Reeves. Felt melancholy again creeping upon me and spent a doleful afternoon. The peculiar circumstances of my situation, the painful thoughts which come across me entirely unfit me for solitary study, as this nourishes and increases them. I must consequently, since society is at present out of my power, resort to lighter and more easy reading to interest my mind. So after a walk with E. H. Derby and finishing Cicero de Officiis, I amused myself with the first volume of Cyril Thornton.1