Chapter LXXIV · Chapter 74

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading It is just 15 minutes after 12.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading CHARLES LAMB TO BERNARD BARTON [January 9, 1824.]

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading CHARLES LAMB TO BERNARD BARTON [January 9, 1824.]

used before a singular noun to mean one of a group, when it is not a particular one

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

on the subject of; concerning

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

feel physical pain

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

declare to be true or admit the existence or reality or truth of

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “actor” — a theatrical performer

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

later than; following

From this reading It is just 15 minutes after 12.

anew

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

in mentally perceptive and responsive way

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

(quantifier) used with either mass or count nouns to indicate the whole number or amount of or every one of a class

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the form of “be” used with “I”

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the act of amending or correcting

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the form of “a” used before a word that begins with a vowel sound

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to join words or parts of a sentence that go together

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

one more of the same kind, or a different one

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

one or some or every or all without specification

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

an absence of emotion or enthusiasm

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the form of “be” used with you, we, they, or a plural noun

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

at the same time that; because; in the way that

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

in or near a particular place or position

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

floor consisting of open space at the top of a house just below roof; often used for storage

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

of or relating to the process of hearing

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

aerobic rod-shaped spore-producing bacterium; often occurring in chainlike formations; found primarily in soil

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

in or to or toward a former location

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

having undesirable or negative qualities

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

harassment especially of a tethered animal

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

the negotiation of the terms of a transaction or agreement

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading CHARLES LAMB TO BERNARD BARTON [January 9, 1824.]

used with a past participle to form the passive, or with -ing for continuous tenses

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the past participle of “be”

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a long seat for more than one person

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

French physiologist noted for research on secretions of the alimentary canal and the glycogenic function of the liver (1813-1878)

From this reading CHARLES LAMB TO BERNARD BARTON [January 9, 1824.]

(comparative of “good”) superior to another (of the same class or set or kind) in excellence or quality or desirability or suitability; more highly skilled than another

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the entire physical structure of an organism (an animal, plant, or human being)

From this reading Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?

plural of “brain” — that part of the central nervous system that includes all the higher nervous centers; enclosed within the skull; continuous with the spinal cord

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

(of a person) possessing physical strength and weight; rugged and powerful

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to introduce something that contrasts with what came before

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

showing who or what does the action

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a degree on the centigrade scale of temperature

From this reading C.L.

plural of “call” — a telephone connection

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

to be able to, or to be allowed to

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “candle” — stick of wax with a wick in the middle

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

put or send forth

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

King of France from 1560 to 1574 whose reign was dominated by his mother Catherine de Medicis (1550-1574)

From this reading CHARLES LAMB TO BERNARD BARTON [January 9, 1824.]

the part of the human torso between the neck and the diaphragm or the corresponding part in other vertebrates

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “chicken” — the flesh of a chicken used for food

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

coldness due to a cold environment

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “close” — the temporal end; the concluding time

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

an outer garment that has sleeves and covers the body from shoulder down; worn outdoors

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

having a low or inadequate temperature or feeling a sensation of coldness or having been made cold by e.g. ice or refrigeration

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

straighten with a comb

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

move toward, travel toward something or somebody or approach something or somebody

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the act of drawing spatially closer to something

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

belonging to or participated in by a community as a whole; public

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

motivation deriving logically from ethical or moral principles that govern a person's thoughts and actions

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the process of giving careful thought to something

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

exhale abruptly, as when one has a chest cold or congestion

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a politically organized body of people under a single government

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a quality of spirit that enables you to face danger or pain without showing fear

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “crown” — the Crown (or the reigning monarch) as the symbol of the power and authority of a monarchy

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

provide a cure for, make healthy again

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a mathematical element that when added to another number yields the same number

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

slightly wet

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

time for Earth to make a complete rotation on its axis

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the quality of being unresponsive; not reacting; as a quality of people, it is marked by a failure to respond quickly or with emotion to people or events

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

dearly loved

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the event of dying or departure from life

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

intentionally contemptuous behavior or attitude

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

deliver (a speech, oration, or idea)

From this reading Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “demur” — (law) a formal objection to an opponent's pleadings

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

the act of refusing to comply (as with a request)

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the past form of “do”, used in questions and negatives

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a feeling of intense dislike

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

mark as different

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to form questions and negatives, and to give emphasis

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the form of “do” used with he, she, it, or a singular noun

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a very small circular shape

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

pull, as against a resistance

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

let fall to the ground

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

comparative of “dull” — lacking in liveliness or animation

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

any of numerous insects of the order Dermaptera having elongate bodies and slender many-jointed antennae and a pair of large pincers at the rear of the abdomen

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

call forth (emotions, feelings, and responses)

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a quad with a square body

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

comparative of “empty” — holding or containing nothing

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

either extremity of something that has length

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

an adequate quantity; a quantity that is large enough to achieve a purpose

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “event” — something that happens at a given place and time

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

at any time

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

all the members of a group, with none left out

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

your basis for belief or disbelief; knowledge on which to base belief

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

accept an excuse for

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “eyebrow” — the arch of hair above each eye

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

opinion or judgment

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a dissolute character in Shakespeare's plays

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

be afraid or feel anxious or apprehensive about a possible or probable situation or event

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

after an unspecified period of time or an especially long delay

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

come upon, as if by accident; meet with

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “finger” — any of the terminal members of the hand (sometimes excepting the thumb)

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

preceding all others in time or space or degree

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

be agreeable or acceptable to

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

praise somewhat dishonestly

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

travel through the air; be airborne

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

intended to be given to, or used by, somebody

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

showing where something starts, or who sent it

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

come into the possession of something concrete or abstract

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

possessive form of “gill” — a British imperial capacity unit (liquid or dry) equal to 5 fluid ounces or 142.066 cubic centimeters

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

destroyed or killed

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

having desirable or positive qualities especially those suitable for a thing specified

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a painful inflammation of the big toe and foot caused by defects in uric acid metabolism resulting in deposits of the acid and its salts in the blood and joints

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

containing an unusual amount of grease or oil

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

an utterance expressing pain or disapproval

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

informal terms for a meal

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a thin porridge (usually oatmeal or cornmeal)

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

an established custom

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

consisting of one of two equivalent parts in value or quantity

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

the (prehensile) extremity of the superior limb

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the form of “have” used with he, she, it, or a singular noun

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

an old form of “has”

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used with a past participle to form the perfect tenses

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a man, boy, or male animal already mentioned, as the subject

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

the upper part of the human body or the front part of the body in animals; contains the face and brains

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “head” — the upper part of the human body or the front part of the body in animals; contains the face and brains

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

to a considerable degree

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

in or at this place; where the speaker or writer is

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a local and well-defined elevation of the land

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

belonging to a man, boy, or male animal already mentioned

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

where you live at a particular time

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a specific instance of feeling hopeful

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the person speaking or writing, as the subject of the verb

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

possessive form of “i” — a nonmetallic element belonging to the halogens; used especially in medicine and photography and in dyes; occurs naturally only in combination in small quantities (as in sea water or rocks)

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

on condition that; in the event that

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the quality of being important and worthy of note

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

inside something, or within a place, period, or state

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

unbiased impartial unconcern

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a slight illness

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

draw deep into the lungs in by breathing

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a hotel providing overnight lodging for travelers

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

a lack of sensibility

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

in place of, or as an alternative to

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

not capable of being surmounted or overcome

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “interest” — a sense of concern with and curiosity about someone or something

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

moving to the inside of something

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

doubt concerning two or more possible alternatives or courses of action

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the form of “be” used with he, she, it, or a singular noun

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a thing, animal, or idea already mentioned

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a small worthless amount

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a Stuart king of Scotland who married a daughter of Henry VII; when England and France went to war in 1513 he invaded England and died in defeat at Flodden (1473-1513)

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

the first month of the year; begins 10 days after the winter solstice

From this reading CHARLES LAMB TO BERNARD BARTON [January 9, 1824.]

a person belonging to the worldwide group claiming descent from Jacob (or converted to it) and connected by cultural or religious ties

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

(anatomy) the point of connection between two bones or elements of a skeleton (especially if it allows motion)

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a river in Palestine that empties into the Dead Sea; John the Baptist baptized Jesus in the Jordan

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

undertake a journey or trip

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

determine the result of (a competition)

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

and nothing more

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a sailing vessel with two masts; the mizzen is forward of the rudderpost

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

be cognizant or aware of a fact or a specific piece of information; possess knowledge or information about

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a metric unit of capacity, formerly defined as the volume of one kilogram of pure water under standard conditions; now equal to 1,000 cubic centimeters (or approximately 1.75 pints)

From this reading C.L.

young sheep

From this reading CHARLES LAMB TO BERNARD BARTON [January 9, 1824.]

a narrow way or road

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

immediately past

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

being or occurring at an advanced period of time or after a usual or expected time

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

location near or direction toward the left side; i.e. the side to the north when a person or object faces east

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to form the comparative of some adjectives and adverbs

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to make a suggestion or a command including the speaker

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a state of comatose torpor (as found in sleeping sickness)

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a characteristic state or mode of living

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

limited or below average in number or quantity or magnitude or extent

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a surrounding or nearby region

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

(often followed by “of”) a large number or amount or extent

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

possessive form of “lyon” — a city in east-central France on the Rhone River; a principal producer of silk and rayon

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

engage in

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a quantifier that can be used with count nouns and is often preceded by “as” or “too” or “so” or “that”; amounting to a large but indefinite number

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

female equine animal

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to say something is possible, or to give permission

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

the person speaking, as the object of a verb or preposition

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a written account of what transpired at a meeting

From this reading It is just 15 minutes after 12.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

concerned with principles of right and wrong or conforming to standards of behavior and character based on those principles

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

(comparative of “much” used with mass nouns) a quantifier meaning greater in size or amount or extent or degree

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the quality or state of being mortal

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a form of address for a man

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

to a great degree or extent

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a criminal who commits homicide (who performs the unlawful premeditated killing of another human being)

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

gather or bring together

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

meat from a mature domestic sheep

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

belonging to the person speaking

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “needle” — the leaf of a conifer

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

not of long duration; having just (or relatively recently) come into being or been made or acquired or discovered

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Periods of darkness between sunset and sunrise.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

not any; not one

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to make a word, phrase, or sentence negative

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

not one thing; not anything

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

in the historical present; at this point in the narration of a series of past events

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

lacking sensation

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a nonmetallic bivalent element that is normally a colorless odorless tasteless nonflammable diatomic gas; constitutes 21 percent of the atmosphere by volume; the most abundant element in the earth's crust

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

according to the clock

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

tenaciously unwilling or marked by tenacious unwillingness to yield

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

occurring from time to time

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the month following September and preceding November

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

belonging to, or connected with, somebody or something

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

from a particular thing or place or position (“forth” is obsolete)

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

place of business where professional or clerical duties are performed

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

touching and supported by a surface

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

and nothing more

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to join alternatives or possibilities

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

edible viscera of a butchered animal

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the developmental process of bone formation

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

not allowed to continue to bat or run

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

above and across; more than

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a symptom of some physical hurt or disorder

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a flat cake of thin batter fried on both sides on a griddle

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a material made of cellulose pulp derived mainly from wood or rags or certain grasses

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a large area of land preserved in its natural state as public property

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

possessive form of “park” — a large area of land preserved in its natural state as public property

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

(American football) a play that involves one player throwing the ball to a teammate

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

by chance

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

continuing or enduring without marked change in status or condition or place

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

showing little emotion

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “plea” — a humble request for help from someone in authority

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

deserving or inciting pity

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “process” — a particular course of action intended to achieve a result

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “quantity” — how much there is or how many there are of something that you can quantify

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

a calm, lengthy, intent consideration

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

an abstraction belonging to or characteristic of two entities or parts together

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

an area within a building enclosed by walls and floor and ceiling

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

move fast by using one's feet, with one foot off the ground at any given time

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

express in words

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

(astrology) a person who is born while the sun is in Scorpio

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

a long oar that is mounted at the stern of a boat and moved left and right to propel the boat forward

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

perceive by sight or have the power to perceive by sight

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

give a certain impression or have a certain outward aspect

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

put into a certain place or abstract location

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the cardinal number that is the sum of six and one

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used with I and we for the future, or to offer and suggest

From this reading Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?

a professional card player who makes a living by cheating at card games

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to say what is right, expected, or advisable

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the display of a motion picture

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

term of address for a man

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

the cardinal number that is the sum of five and one

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a natural and periodic state of rest during which consciousness of the world is suspended

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “sleeve” — the part of a garment that is attached at the armhole and that provides a cloth covering for the arm

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the act of smoking tobacco or other substances

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the charred portion of a candlewick

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

for that reason; with the result that

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

to a small degree or extent

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

an alcoholic beverage that is distilled rather than fermented

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

any distinct time period in a sequence of events

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a simple seat without a back or arms

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a thoroughfare (usually including sidewalks) that is lined with buildings

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

refer for judgment or consideration

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

consent reluctantly

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

killing by depriving of oxygen

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a mixture in which fine particles are suspended in a fluid where they are supported by buoyancy

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to introduce the second part of a comparison

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to introduce what somebody said, thought, or felt

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

used before a noun that is already known, already mentioned, or the only one of its kind

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

belonging to the people or things already mentioned

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the people, animals, or things already mentioned, as the subject

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a criminal who takes property belonging to someone else with the intention of keeping it or selling it

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a special situation

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

judge or regard; look upon; judge

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the process of using your mind to consider something carefully

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used for a person or thing that is near, or that has just been mentioned

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the cardinal number that is the sum of one and one and one

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

an instance or single occasion for some event

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

plural of “ti” — a light strong grey lustrous corrosion-resistant metallic element used in strong lightweight alloys (as for airplane parts); the main sources are rutile and ilmenite

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used before the base form of a verb to make the infinitive

From this reading CHARLES LAMB TO BERNARD BARTON [January 9, 1824.]

inflected form of “tell” — express in words

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the day after today

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

hard bonelike structures in the jaws of vertebrates; used for biting and chewing or for attack and defense

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

add up in number or quantity

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

an urban area with a fixed boundary that is smaller than a city

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

tested and proved useful or correct

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

make an effort or attempt

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

-ing form of “tuck” — fit snugly into

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the cardinal number that is the sum of nineteen and one

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the time of day immediately following sunset

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

below or beneath something; less than

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

very generous

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

being or moving higher in position or greater in some value; being above a former position or level

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a formal word for “on”

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

meat from a calf

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

precisely as stated

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

characterized by forceful and energetic action or activity

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

capable of being seen; or open to easy view

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

relating to or using sight

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

an energetic style

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the capability of conscious choice and decision and intention

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

a man's sleeveless garment worn underneath a coat

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

binary compound that occurs at room temperature as a clear colorless odorless tasteless liquid; freezes into ice below 0 degrees centigrade and boils above 100 degrees centigrade; widely used as a solvent

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

how something is done or how it happens

From this reading Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps, Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat, the Jew demurs at first at three half crowns, but on consideration that he, may get somewhat by showing 'em in the Town, finally closes.--

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

exhaust or get tired through overuse or great strain or stress

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

plural of “week” — any period of seven consecutive days

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to ask for information about something

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

at the time that

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

which person or people

From this reading Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?

the illegitimate offspring of unmarried parents

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

any piece of cord that conveys liquid by capillary action

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

hairpiece covering the head and made of real or synthetic hair

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

used to talk about the future, or about willingness

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

Dictionary entry pending editorial verification. Tap Listen to hear the word.

From this reading Sir James Alan Park, of the Bench of Common Pleas, who tried Thurtell, the murderer of Mr. William Weare of Lyon's Inn, in Gill's Hill Lane, Radlett, on October 24, 1823.]

fermented juice (of grapes especially)

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

in the company of; together with

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

everything that exists anywhere

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

(comparative of “bad”) inferior to another in quality or condition or desirability

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

an indefinite quantity of something having a specified value

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

third-person singular of “write” — produce a literary work

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

but in spite of that

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.

the person or people being spoken to

From this reading Dear B.B.--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day mare--a whoreson lethargy, Falstaff calls it--an indisposition to do any thing, or to be any thing--a total deadness and distaste--a suspension of vitality --an indifference to locality--a numb soporifical goodfornothingness--an ossification all over--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience--did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water gruel processes?--this has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse--my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three and twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet--I have not a thing to say--nothing is of more importance than another--I am flatter than a denial or a pancake--emptier than Judge Park's wig when the head is in it--duller than a country stage when the actors are off it --a cypher--an O--I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest--I am weary of the world--Life is weary of me-- My day is gone into Twilight and I don't think it worth the expence of candles--my wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it--I inhale suffocation--I can't distinguish veal from mutton--nothing interests me--'tis 12 o'clock and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop--Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection-- if you told me the world will be at end tomorrow, I should just say, "will it?"--I have not volition enough to dot my i's --much less to comb my EYEBROWS--my eyes are set in my head--my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again-- my scull is a Grub street Attic, to let--not so much as a joint stool or a crackd jordan left in it--my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off-- O for a vigorous fit of gout, cholic, tooth ache--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs--pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life--but this apathy, this death--did you ever have an obstinate cold, a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing--yet do I try all I can to cure it, I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better--I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment.