More self-contradicting words:
Zing is appeal, but zinging is criticism.
spoffle
v. to make oneself very busy over a matter of very little consequence
“An Eastern Counties word.” — Charles Mackay, Lost Beauties of the English Language
On the night of Sept. 2, 1859, an enormous solar flare produced brilliant auroras around the world. Newspapers and ships’ logs reported striking displays throughout the United States, Europe, Japan, and Australia; Bostonians could read by their light at 1 a.m.
At the height of the storm, a curious conversation took place between two New England telegraph operators:
Boston: Please cut off your battery, and let us see if we cannot work with the auroral current alone.
Portland, Maine: I have done so. Will you do the same?
Boston: I have cut my battery off and connected the line with the earth. We are working with the current from the Aurora Borealis alone. How do you receive my writing?
Portland: Very well indeed. Much better than with the batteries on. There is much less variation in the current, and the magnets work steadier. Suppose we continue to work so until the Aurora subsides?
Boston: Agreed. Are you ready for business?
Portland: Yes; go ahead.
They carried on in this way for two hours, the storm inducing enough current in the lines to support their transmissions. It marked the first conclusive link between auroral activity and electricity.
(Thanks, Michael.)
A humourous Countryman having bought a Barn in Partnership with a Neighbour of his, neglected to make the least Use of it, whilst the other had plentifully stored his Part with Corn and Hay. In a little Time the latter came to him, and conscientiously expostulated with him about laying out his Money so fruitlessly. Pray Neighbour, says he, ne’er trouble your Head; you may do what you will with your Part of the Barn, but I will set mine on Fire.
— The Jester’s Magazine, September 1766
For Alexander Aitken (1895-1967), a prodigious memory was both a blessing and a curse. He memorized the Aeneid, knew π to a thousand places, and could quote long passages from Milton. But he was plagued by vivid memories of World War I, which haunted him until the end of his life:
I slid the rifle-sight to ‘450’, aimed and fired. … The Turk plunged into the trench in a swirl of dust. … This, of course, was what I was there for, but it seemed no light matter, and kept me awake for some time. I would come to no conclusion except that individual guilt in an act of this kind is not absolved by collective duty nor lessened when pooled in collective responsibility.
Unable to escape these visions, he suffered a chronic depression and had a complete breakdown in 1967, the last year of his life. “Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory,” wrote Montaigne, “as the wish to forget it.”
“I confess that, in 1901, I said to my brother Orville that men would not fly for 50 years. Two years later, we ourselves were making flights. This demonstration of my inability as a prophet gave me such a shock that I have ever since distrusted myself and have refrained from all prediction.” — Wilbur Wright
On April 6, 1823, HMS Leven was surveying East Africa when she spied her consort, the Barracouta, about two miles to leeward. This was surprising, as the brig’s sailing orders should have placed her far from that location, but Leven‘s crew recognized her peculiar rig and the faces of her men. Strangely, she stood away when Captain Owen attempted to close with her, and near sunset she lowered a boat, apparently to pick up a man overboard.
The next morning the Leven anchored at Simon’s Bay, and a full week passed before the Barracouta joined her there. Her log showed she had been 300 miles away when the Leven thought she saw her.
So what had the Leven seen? No other vessel of the Barracouta‘s class had been seen about the Cape at that time. The sighting has never been explained.
This Morse code square reads the same across as down:
As it contains no spaces, each line can be read in two ways.
A Mr. Jonathan Jackson, of Columbus, Ohio, died some thirty years ago, leaving orders to his executors to erect a cats’ home, the plans and elevation of which he had drawn out with great care and thought. The building was to contain dormitories, a refectory, areas for conversation, grounds for exercise, and gently sloping roofs for climbing, with rat-holes for sport, an ‘auditorium’ within which the inmates were to be assembled daily to listen to an accordion, which was to be played for an hour each day by an attendant, that instrument being the nearest approach to their natural voices. An infirmary, to which were to be attached a surgeon and three or four professed nurses, was to adjoin the establishment.
— Virgil McClure Harris, Ancient, Curious and Famous Wills, 1911
From Henry Dudeney:
Here is a little military puzzle that may not give you a moment’s difficulty. It is such a simple question that a child can understand it and no knowledge of artillery is required. Yet some of my readers may find themselves perplexed for quite five minutes.
An inventor offered a new large gun to the committee appointed by our government for the consideration of such things. He declared that when once loaded it would fire 60 shots at the rate of a shot a minute. The War Office put it to the test and found that it fired 60 shots an hour, but declined it “as it did not fulfill the promised condition.”
“Absurd,” said the inventor, “for you have shown that it clearly does all that we undertook it should do.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said the experts. “It has failed.”
Can you explain this extraordinary mystery? Was the inventor, or were the experts, right?