He is an old
frippery-philosopher, that has so strange a natural affection to
worm-eaten speculation that it is apparent he has a worm in his skull.
He honours his forefathers and foremothers, but condemns his parents as
too modern and no better than upstarts. He neglects himself because he
was born in his own time and so far off antiquity, which he so much
admires, and repines, like a younger brother, because he came so late
into the world. He spends the one-half of his time in collecting old
insignificant trifles, and the other in showing them, which he takes
singular delight in, because the oftener he does it the farther they are
from being new to him. All his curiosities take place of one another
according to their seniority, and he values them not by their abilities,
but their standing. He has a great veneration for words that are
stricken in years, and are grown so aged that they have outlived their
employments. These he uses with a respect agreeable to their antiquity
and the good services they have done. He throws away his time in
inquiring after that which is past and gone so many ages since, like one
that shoots away an arrow to find out another that was lost before. He
fetches things out of dust and ruins, like the fable of the chemical
plant raised out of its own ashes. He values one old invention, that is
lost and never to be recovered, before all the new ones in the world,
though never so useful. The whole business of his life is the same with
his that shows the tombs at Westminster, only the one does it for his
pleasure, and the other for money.
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