I didn't eat as much as was good for me.

I took lonely walks.

I brooded in solitude.

I not only committed to memory the more turgid poems of the late Lord Byron--"Fare thee well, and if forever," &c .-- but I became a despondent poet on my own account, and composed a string of "Stanzas to One who will understand them." I think I was a trifle too hopeful on that point; for I came across the verses several years afterwards, and was quite unable to understand them myself.
It was a great comfort to be so perfectly miserable and yet not suffer any.

I used to look in the glass and gloat over the amount and variety of mournful expression I could throw into my features.