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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
Believe
Sinless
Toleration
Adorable
Pious
Indulgence
Believing
Lovely
Heart

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Piety softens all that courage bears.
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There are but two future verbs which man may appropriate confidently and without pride: I shall suffer, and I shall die.
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Travel is the frivolous part of serious lives, and the serious part of frivolous ones.
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We are often prophets to others only because we are our own historians.
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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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The mind wears the colors of the soul, as a valet those of his master.
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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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In retirement, the passage of time seems accelerated. Nothing warns us of its flight. It is a wave which never murmurs, because there is no obstacle to its flow.
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Friendship is like those ancient altars where the unhappy, and even the guilty, found a sure asylum.
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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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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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Happiness and Virtue clasp hands and walk together.
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When any one tells you that he belongs to no party, you may at any rate be sure that he does not belong to yours.
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He who has ceased to enjoy his friend's superiority has ceased to love him.
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Life grows darker as we go on, till only one pure light is left shining on it and that is faith. Old age, like solitude and sorrow, has its revelations.
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All the joys of earth will not assuage our thirst for happiness while a single grief suffices to shroud life in a sombre veil, and smite it with nothingness at all points.
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If we look closely at this earth, where God seems so utterly forgotten, we shall find that it is He, after all, who commands the most fidelity and the most love.
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We deceive ourselves when we fancy that only weakness needs support. Strength needs it far more.
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True poets, like great artists, have scarcely any childhood, and no old age.
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