Fifteen Thousand Useful Phrases | Page 3

are
continually mistreated. We flirt with and pirouette around them constantly. If it were not
so, English would be found full of beauty and harmony of sound. Familiar with the
maxim, "Take care of the vowels and the consonants will take care of themselves,"--a
maxim that when put into practise has frequently led to the breaking-down of vowel
values--the writer feels that the common custom of allowing "the consonants to take care
of themselves" is pernicious. It leads to suppression or to imperfect utterance, and thus
produces indistinct articulation.
The English language is so complex in character that it can scarcely be learned by rule,
and can best be mastered by the study of such idioms and phrases as are provided in this
book; but just as care must be taken to place every accent or stress on the proper syllable
in the pronouncing of every word it contains, so must the stress or emphasis be placed on
the proper word in every sentence spoken. To read or speak pleasingly one should resort
to constant practise by doing so aloud in private, or preferably, in the presence of such
persons as know good reading when they hear it and are masters of the melody of sounds.
It was Dean Swift's belief that the common fluency of speech in many men and most
women was due to scarcity of matter and scarcity of words. He claimed that a master of
language possessed a mind full of ideas, and that before speaking, such a mind paused to
select the choice word--the phrase best suited to the occasion. "Common speakers," he
said, "have only one set of ideas, and one set of words to clothe them in," and these are
always ready on the lips. Because he holds the Dean's view sound to-day, the writer will
venture to warn the readers of this book against a habit that, growing far too common
among us, should be checked, and this is the iteration and reiteration in conversation of
"the battered, stale, and trite" phrases, the like of which were credited by the worthy Dean
to the women of his time.

Human thought elaborates itself with the progress of intelligence. Speech is the harvest of
thought, 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, that's the idea,"
with increased inflection at each repetition. And who is without a friend