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Indulgence is lovely in the sinless toleration, adorable in the pious and believing heart.

Sophie Swetchine

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Sophie Swetchine
Age: 74 †
Born: 1782
Born: November 22
Died: 1857
Died: September 10
Diarist
Lady-In-Waiting
Salonnière
Writer
Moscow
Russian SFSR
Sofia Petrovna Soymonova
Madame Swetchine
Swetchine
Anne Sophie Swetchine
Lovely
Heart
Believe
Sinless
Toleration
Adorable
Pious
Indulgence
Believing

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The best advice on the art of being happy is about as easy to follow as advice to be well when one is sick.
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Attention is a silent and perpetual flattery.
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Loving souls are like paupers. They live on what is given them.
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The symptoms of compassion and benevolence, in some people, are like those minute guns which warn you that you are in deadly peril.
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Old age is the night of life, as night is the old age of the day. Still, night is full of magnificence and, for many, it is more brilliant than the day.
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Youth should be a savings bank.
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Those who have suffered much are like those who know many languages they have learned to understand and be understood by all.
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Silence is like nightfall. Objects are lost in it insensibly.
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The chains which cramp us most are those which weigh on us least.
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Suspicion has its dupes, as well as credulity.
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Pride dries the tears of anger and vexation humility, those of grief. The one is indignant that we should suffer the other calms us by the reminder that we deserve nothing else.
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Kindness causes us to learn, and to forget, many things.
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The mind wears the colors of the soul, as a valet those of his master.
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To reveal imprudently the spot where we are most sensitive and vulnerable is to invite a blow. The demigod Achilles admitted no one to his confidence.
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Feeling loves a subdued light.
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We are all of us, in this world, more or less like St. January, whom the inhabitants of Naples worship one day, and pelt with baked apples the next.
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Those who make us happy are always thankful to us for being so their gratitude is the reward of their benefits.
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There are words which are worth as much as the best actions, for they contain the germ of them all.
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Happiness and Virtue clasp hands and walk together.
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Love sometimes elevates, creates new qualities, suspends the working of evil inclinations but only for a day. Love, then, is an Oriental despot, whose glance lifts a slave from the dust, and then consigns him to it again.
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