From the Knicker­bocker New-​​York Monthly Mag­a­zine vol 22, no 2 (1843)

One of the hob­bies cher­ished in the most espe­cial man­ner by the good cit­i­zen of Paris, is Phi­los­o­phy; not that he takes delight in the cul­ti­va­tion of wis­dom, or makes the study of nature his pur­suit: but when things go well with him in the world; when his for­tune has reached the limit of his desires; when age has abated the ardor of his pas­sions, and in the bosom of his fam­ily he finds him­self sur­rounded with every com­fort and lux­ury that heart could wish; he fan­cies him­self beyond the com­mon acci­dents of life; he becomes a philoso­pher. His phi­los­o­phy is his pet, his play-​​thing, his hobby-​​horse upon which he gets astride, and gam­bols like a frol­ic­some child. Should his wife scold, should his roast-​​beef be burnt, should a sud­den shower break up a party of plea­sure, he alone pre­serves his equa­nim­ity; is smil­ing, sooth­ing, and con­so­la­tory; he is a philoso­pher. Phi­los­o­phy is his sov­er­eign panacea; with the under­stand­ing that no pre­cau­tions have been neglected to secure him as far as pos­si­ble against the weight­ier mishaps of life.