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, that's the idea,"
with increased inflection at each repetition. And who is without a friend
who at some time or another has not sprung "meticulous" upon him? Another
example is afforded by the endemic use of "of sorts" which struck London
while the writer was in that city a few years ago. Whence it came no one
knew, but it was heard on every side. "She was a woman of sorts;" "he is a
Tory of sorts;" "he had a religion of sorts;" "he was a critic of sorts."