I don't know whether it be the essential identity of soul that expresses itself in English things, and makes them seem known by heart already and intellectually dead and unexciting, or whether it is the singular lack of visible sentiment in England, and absence of "charm," or the oppressive ponderosity and superfluity and prominence of the unnecessary, or what it is, but I'm blest if I ever wish to be in England again.
"The Letters of William James, Vol. II"
William James
His attitude towards the world was indeed one of conscious ponderosity.
"Roden's Corner"
Henry Seton Merriman
The earth, because of his ponderosity, Avoideth equally the movings great Of all extremities and spheres that be, And tendeth to the place that is most quiet; So in the midst of all the spheres is set Foremost object from all manner moving, Where naturally he resteth and moveth nothing.
"A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Volume I."
R. Dodsley