I arose quite cured of my head ach but suffering very severely from my cold which continues more obstinate than I ever knew one. The weather was dark and gloomy with snow falling occasionally. I finished the volumes of M. de Balzac. He has some power of description but occasionally falls into what Voltaire called galithomas.1 He has evidently read Sterne and Rabelais and is infected with the mannerism of the present French school. A straining after effect, a labour to produce pictures which is so visible as to hurt their effect. His principal merit is vivacity, in sketches of character, scenes and manners.

Office. I made my Diary and idled away the remainder of my time. My cold renders me good for nothing. Missed walk and very little Ovid. After dinner disturbed my philosophy by badly burning my hand so that I read light books to amuse the pain. Grimm. Afterwards, Lord Bacon in whose Life of Henry 7th I made great progress. He does chisel out the effigy of the monarch distinctly enough. German. But there is too great a continuity of hardness in the Physiognomical Travels for me yet to enjoy them. My German languishes.