Employ myself, however, as I might, there always remained a portion of each day which I could not get rid of, either in bed or at the table. On such occasions I was devoured by ennui, and thought that even existence was an infliction--that it was hard work to live. According to my sister's account, I was a scholar and a genius; in which case I ought to have found employment enough of an intellectual nature, either in books or the reflections of my own mind. I certainly had a very large and fine library in my house, and there was scarce a week passed by in which I did not receive a huge bundle of the newest publications from a book-seller, who had long had it in charge thus to supply me. Of these I usually read the title-pages, and then turned them over to my sister, or, which was more common, lent them to my neighbours, who, male and female together, came flocking to borrow the day after, and sometimes the day before, the arrival of each package, taking good care to rob me of those that were most interesting. The truth is, if I ever had had the power of reading, I had now lost it. Books only set me nodding. As for exercising my mind in reflections of its own, that was even more laborious than reading; and I contracted a dislike to it, particularly as my mind wore itself out every night in dreaming, that being a result of the goodly suppers I used to eat. It is true, that I one day fell into a sudden ferment, and being inspired, actually seized upon pen and paper, and wrote a poem in blank verse, forty lines long, with which I was so pleased that I read it to Tibbikens and my sister, both of whom were in raptures with it, the former carrying it off to the editor of the village paper, who printed it with such a eulogium upon its merits, as made me believe Byron was a fool to me, while all the young ladies immediately paid my sister Ann a visit, that they might tell me how they admired the beautiful piece, and lament that I wrote so seldom. I forget what the poem was about; but I remember I was so delighted with the praise bestowed on it, that I resolved to write another, which, however, I did not do, having unfortunately begun it in rhyme, which was difficult, and my fit of inspiration and energy having left me before I got through with my next dinner. It was my writing verses, I suppose, that caused me to be called a genius; but it seems I was too lazy to be inspired more than once or twice a year. I relapsed into ennui, and, truly, I became more tired of it before it was done with me, than was ever a labourer of his hod or mattock. 4. CHAPTER IV. SOME ACCOUNT OF THE INCONVENIENCES OF HAVING A DIGESTIVE APPARATUS.