Nicholas Kristof, a columnist for The New York Times, was in Iran a year ago. He found the people “exceptionally friendly and fulsome in their praise for the United States.” After Ronald Reagan died last summer, The Washington Post reported that “fulsome tributes continue to engulf TV.” At about the same time, a BBC reporter told us that “the Sharon plan has the fulsome endorsement of George W. Bush.”

It is a good guess that the writers used “fulsome” to mean “abundant” or “copious” or “unstinting.” Merriam-Webster’s 11th Collegiate (2003) confirms that popular usage. Its editors say the primary definition of “fulsome” today is “generous in amount” or “full and well developed.”

Aaargh! Until quite recently, “fulsome” had a very different primary meaning, e.g.:

• American Heritage, 1993: “offensively flattering or insincere; offensive to the taste or sensibilities.”

• Oxford American (1999): “disgusting by excess of flattery, servility, excessive, cloying.”

• Encarta (1999): “fawning to the point of being offensive.”

We may be witnessing in “fulsome” an unusual process of linguistic reversion. When “fulsome” appeared early in the 13th century, it meant exactly what Merriam-Webster says its primary meaning is today – abundant, generous, lavish. There were no offensive implications of insincerity. A fulsome banquet began with soup and ended 12 courses later with six desserts and indigestion.

In his “Modern American Usage,” Bryan Garner has a note on words that undergo metamorphosis in reverse: They change from butterflies to caterpillars. The process may take 10 years or a hundred, but it is constantly going on – and it provokes constant disagreement among writers, editors and lexicographers.

Garner identifies two contentious schools. The first comprises language aficionados and hard-core purists who insist upon traditional use. The other comprises linguistic liberals and those who don’t concern themselves much with language. Garner adds morosely, “As time goes by, Group One dwindles; meanwhile, Group Two swells.”

In this regard, commentators have observed a kind of Gresham’s Law at work. Inferior definitions drive superior definitions out of currency. Garner cites “hopefully” as a good case in point. Until the 1960s, the adverb almost always meant “in a hopeful manner.” Thus, Tiger Woods’ wife “watched hopefully as he putted on the tie-breaking hole.” Then the process of devaluation set in, and before long “hopefully” came to mean “it is to be hoped,” as in, “Hopefully the sun will shine tomorrow.” To which one may remark, it damn well better.

“Group One objectors were vocal,” says Garner, “and for a time the word acquired a bad odor. But with time the odor has faded, so that only a few diehards continue to condemn the word and its users.”

The necrology is depressing. Garner mentions “fulsome” in a brief citation of single words that have lost their virginity. Let us shed a tear for “data, decimate, effete, enormity, intrigue and transpire.” To his list I would add “replica,” which once meant “an exact reproduction executed by the original artist.” The nice distinction has faded under the weight of “copy” or “facsimile” or “duplicate” or even “scale model.” On the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, one may buy a replica of a Cellini salt dish. Don’t believe a word of it. They’re reproductions, no more, no less.

James Kilpatrick is a syndicated columnist.