A clear and lovely morning. I left the place with regret to go up to London. Most of the way I was alone in the carriage, so I beguiled the way with a newspaper. At home, found enough to do. The Court of Exchequer is now hearing the motion for a new trial, on the ground of misdirection of the Judge, who insists upon it that he made no such direction as that imputed to him. That the public and the Jury equally went astray is indisputable. The chief Judge is over eighty years old. Which party is likely to be correct is not likely to be disputed long. But that will not alter the absurdity of the legal position. I wait to see what the issue will be, with some curiosity. After the bag was off I read the American newspapers which encouraged me. A walk and quiet evening, all alone. Read a chapter of Phillimore, and wrote arrears of Diary.