Philosophy cannot be taught, unless you can meet with a teacher:
I am the teacher of this the nineteenth century of being.
Philosophy I can expound in a way hitherto undream’d of;
Witness my book of Proverbial Platitudes, and its Editions;
Book beloved by women—women of intellect feeble;
Book that is lauded by old maids, and Evangelical parsons;
Book that by school-girls is worshipped, and ranked with The Pilgrim’s Progress;
That is read by bachelor curates, to maidens at Dorcas meetings;
Designing curates, who choose the chapters on “Love” and “Marriage,”
And read the soft nothings therein, with smirks and murderous gusto.