and destroy
what it has said. Education does not make so much noise; it does not
talk; it reigns. Look, in that little class, without witness, control,
or contradiction, a man is speaking; he is master, an absolute master,
invested with the most ample power to punish and chastise. His voice,
not his hand, has the power of a rod; the little, trembling, and
believing creature, who has just left her mother's apron, receives his
weighty words, which enter the soft tablet of her memory, and stick
into it, like so many nails of iron.

This is true in speaking of the school, but how much more so as regards
the church! especially in the case of the daughter, who is more docile
and timid, and certainly retains more faithfully her early impressions.
What she heard the first time in that grand church, under those
resounding roofs, and the words, pronounced with a solemn voice by that
man in black, which then frightened her so, being addressed to
_herself_;--ah! be not afraid of her ever forgetting them. But even if
she could forget them, she would be reminded of them every week: woman
is all her life at school, finding in the confessional her
school-bench, her schoolmaster, the only man she fears, and the only
one, as we have said, who, in the present state of our manners, can
threaten a woman.

What an advantage has he in being able to take her quite young, in the
convent where they have placed her, to be the first to take in hand her
young soul, and to be the first to exercise upon her the earliest
severity, and also the earliest indulgence which is so akin to
affectionate tenderness,[3] to be the father and friend of a child
taken so soon from her mother's arms. The confidant of her first
thoughts will long be associated with her private reveries. He has had
an especial and singular privilege which the husband may envy:
what?--why, the virginity of the soul and the first-fruits of the will.

This is the man of whom, young bachelors, you must ask the girl in
marriage, before you speak to her parents. Do not deceive yourselves,
or you will lose all chance. You shake your heads, proud children of
the age; you think you can never be induced to humble yourselves so
far. All I hope then is, that you may be able to live single, and wed
philosophy; otherwise, I can see you, even now, in spite of all your
fine speeches, gliding stealthily, sneaking by twilight into the
church, and kneeling down before the priest. There the