Quite a sharp day. I was alone the greater part of it. Walked into the city to Church, and dropped into St Andrew’s, Holborn, a large interior in the old middle style which I like much best. The service as usual with better than average singing. The sermon so badly delivered that I could hear little, and that gave me little sense of loss of the rest. I then walked home by a new route which opened parts of London I had not seen before. This might happen to me every day in the year. Mr Moran came in for the Steamer’s news which I finally received. There has been rather a singular transposition in the arrival of the Vessels on the other side—but the general tendency seems favorable. I dined alone. Read a little Christmas story of Dickens, “Tom Tiddler’s ground” which seemed flat in comparison with his earlier ones—and a little of Malmesbury afterwards. It seems we are not to have the Africa, the regular Steamer until the middle of the week.