lives. These things are what necessarily decide his conduct. Thus, when
his temperament renders him susceptible of strong passions, he is
violent in his desires, whatever may be his speculations.

_Remorse_ is the painful sentiment excited in him by grief, caused
either by the immediate or probable future effect of his indulged
passions: if these effects were always useful to him, he would not
experience remorse; but, as soon as he is assured that his actions
render him hateful, that his passions make him contemptible; or, as soon
as he fears he shall be punished in some mode or other, he becomes
restless, discontented with himself--he reproaches himself with his own
conduct--he feels ashamed--he fears the judgement of those beings whose
affection he has learned to esteem--in whose good-will he finds his own
comfort deeply interested. His experience proves to him that the wicked
man is odious to all those upon whom his actions have any influence: if
these actions are concealed at the moment of commission, he knows it
very rarely happens they remain so for ever. The smallest reflection
convinces him that there is no wicked man who is not ashamed of his own
conduct--who is truly contented with himself--who does not envy the
condition of the good man--who is not obliged to acknowledge that he
has paid very dearly for those advantages he is never able to enjoy,
without experiencing the most troublesome sensations, without making the
most bitter reproaches against himself; then he feels ashamed, despises
himself, hates himself, his conscience becomes alarmed, remorse follows
in it train. To be convinced of the truth of this principle it is only
requisite to cast our eyes on the extreme precautions that tyrants and
villains, who are otherwise sufficiently powerful not to dread the
punishment of man, take to prevent exposure;--to what lengths they push
their cruelties against some, to what meannesses they stoop to others of
those who are able to hold them up to public scorn. Have they not, then,