hought, and the relation which exists between words and
the mouths that speak them must be carefully observed. Just as nothing is
more beautiful than a word fitly spoken, so nothing is rarer than the use
of a word in its exact meaning. There is a tendency to overwork both words
and phrases that is not restricted to any particular class. The learned
sin in this respect even as do the ignorant, and the practise spreads
until it becomes an epidemic. The epidemic word with us yesterday was
unquestionably "conscription"; several months ago it was "preparedness."
Before then "efficiency" was heard on every side and succeeded in
superseding "vocational teaching," only to be displaced in turn by "life
extension" activities. "Safety-first" had a long run which was brought
almost to abrupt end by "strict accountability," but these are mere
reflections of our cosmopolitan life and activities. There are others that
stand out as indicators of brain-weariness. These are most frequently met
in the work of our novelists.

English authors and journalists are abusing and overworking the word
intrigue to-day. Sir Arthur Quillercouch on page 81 of his book "On the
Art of Writing" uses it: "We are intrigued by the process of manufacture
instead of being wearied by a description of the ready-made article." Mrs.
Sidgwick in "Salt and Savour," page 232, wrote: "But what intrigued her
was Little Mamma's remark at breakfast," From the Parliamentary news, one
learns that "Mr. Harcourt intrigued the House of Commons by his sustained
silence for two years" and that "London is interested in, and not a little
intrigued, by the statement." This use of intrigue in the sense of
"perplex, puzzle, trick, or deceive" dates from 1600. Then it fell into a
state of somnolence, and after an existence of innocuous desuetude lasting
till 1794 it was revived, only to hibernate again until 1894. It owes its
new lease of life to a writer on The Westminster Gazette, a London journal
famous for its competitions in aid of the restoring of the dead meanings
of words.

One is almost exasperated by the repeated use and abuse of the word
"intimate" in a recently published work of fiction, by an author who
aspires to the first rank in his profession. He writes of "the intimate
dimness of the room;" "a fierce intimate whispering;" "a look that was
intimate;" "the noise of the city was intimate," etc. Who has not heard,
"The idea!" "What's the idea?" "Is that the idea?" "Yes