of no moment to remember that these three words, at the outset of
their history, bore the older senses of "ignorant," "noted," and
"blessed." It may be granted that any attempt to return to these
older senses, regardless of later implications, is stark pedantry;
but a delicate writer will play shyly with the primitive
significance in passing, approaching it and circling it, taking it
as a point of reference or departure. The early faith of
Christianity, its beautiful cult of childhood, and its appeal to
unlearned simplicity, have left their mark on the meaning of
"silly"; the history of the word is contained in that cry of St.
Augustine, Indocti surgunt et rapiunt coelum, or in the fervent
sentence of the author of the Imitation, Oportet fieri stultum.
And if there is a later silliness, altogether unblest, the skilful
artificer of words, while accepting this last extension, will show
himself conscious of his paradox. So also he will shun the
grossness that employs the epithet "quaint" to put upon subtlety
and the devices of a studied workmanship an imputation of
eccentricity; or, if he falls in with the populace in this regard,
he will be careful to justify his innuendo. The slipshod use of
"nice" to connote any sort of pleasurable emotion he will take
care, in his writings at least, utterly to abhor. From the
daintiness of elegance to the arrogant disgust of folly the word
carries meanings numerous and diverse enough; it must not be
cruelly burdened with all the laudatory occasions of an
undiscriminating egotism.

It would be easy to cite a hundred other words like these, saved
only by their nobler uses in literature from ultimate defacement.
The higher standard imposed upon the written word tends to raise
and purify speech also, and since talkers owe the same debt to