16. It is a well-known fact that soldiers, sailors, and even civilians, will recover from illness much sooner in a public hospital than in their own homes—although attended by the same physician or surgeon. The same applies to infirmities of mind as well as of body. The individual who becomes insane, has infinitely less chance of recovery at home amongst his friends, than among strangers in an asylum. A great valetudinarium, like the spas, comes under the same rule. How is this to be accounted for? I have heard the aphorism of Rochefaucault quoted in explanation, viz. “that we derive pleasure from the sight of misery and suffering in others, even when they are our dearest friends.” From long acquaintance with human nature, I venture to say that, in this celebrated aphorism—or rather sophism—the author of it only stated _half_ a fact, and drew from that half fact a _false_ inference. The emotion which we involuntarily experience at the sight or the intelligence of misfortune or affliction in others, whether strangers or friends, is not unmixed—but a compound of _commiseration_ for the afflicted, and a feeling of _secret satisfaction_ (magnified by Rochefaucault into _pleasure_) at our own immunity from the evil. Two sailors are on the lee yard-arm furling the mainsail in a tempest. The ship lurches—the yard-arm is swept by a wave—and one of the sailors is torn from his hold, and plunged into the deep. Will the French philosopher persuade us that the seaman, who clings to the yard and escapes death, feels _pleasure_, unmixed with sorrow, at the sight of his drowning mess-mate? The poet, who saw and described a catastrophe identical with the above, but on a larger scale, was far from entertaining the sentiment of the philosopher. “Bereft of power to help, their comrades see Their late companions die beneath their lee, With fruitless _sorrow_ their lost state _bemoan_.” 17. But there are other and adequate causes assignable for the more rapid recovery of health in public places of resort for invalids, than in private life. Man is the creature of habit; and habit results chiefly from imitation. In a great watering-place, we acquire, or at least comply with, habits which we would not attempt at home. How many delicate and fashionable invalids would start from their couches at sun-rise every morning, in London, and drink repeated draughts of nauseous compounds before breakfast? How many would dine at one, instead of seven o’clock? How many would retire to bed at nine o’clock, instead of midnight or later? How many gourmands and Bacchanalians, in England, would comply with the rigid rules of abstemiousness enjoined by the spa doctors, and which they dare not infringe, lest the disobedience might render the waters useless, or even injurious?