The postillion delivered this with so much discretion and natural eloquence, that I could not help decyphering something in his face above his condition, and should have sifted out his history, had not poor _Maria_ taken such full possession of me.
We had got up by this time almost to the bank where _Maria_ was sitting: she was in a thin white jacket, with her hair, all but two tresses, drawn up into a silk-net, with a few olive leaves twisted a little fantastically on one side----she was beautiful; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest heart-ache, it was the moment I saw her----
----God help her! poor damsel! above a hundred masses, said the postillion, have been said in the several parish churches and convents around, for her, ----but without effect; we have still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that the Virgin at last will restore her to herself; but her parents, who know her best, are hopeless upon that score, and think her senses are lost for ever.
As the postillion spoke this, MARIA made a cadence so melancholy, so tender and querulous, that I sprung out of the chaise to help her, and found myself sitting betwixt her and her goat before I relapsed from my enthusiasm.
MARIA look'd wistfully for some time at me, and then at her goat----and then at me----and then at her goat again, and so on, alternately----
----Well, _Maria_, said I softly ----What resemblance do you find?
I do entreat the candid reader to believe me, that it was from the humblest conviction of what a _Beast_ man is, ----that I asked the question; and that I would not have let fallen an unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable presence of Misery, to be entitled to all the wit that ever _Rabelais_ scatter'd----and yet I own my heart smote me, and that I so smarted at the very idea of it, that I swore I would set up for Wisdom, and utter grave sentences the rest of my days----and never----never attempt again to commit mirth with man, woman, or child, the longest day I had to live.
As for writing nonsense to them ----I believe, there was a reserve--but that I leave to the world.

The postillion delivered this with so much eloquence, that I could not help seeing something in his face above his position, and should have sifted out his history, had not poor Maria taken such full possession of me.
We had by this time almost reached the bank where Maria was sitting: she wore her hair drawn up into a silk-net, with a few olive leaves twisted a little fantastically on one side. - She was beautiful; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest heart-ache, it was the moment I saw her-
'God help her! poor damsel!' said the postilion. 'A hundred masses have been said in the churches and convents for her - but without effect; we have still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that the Virgin will restore her to herself. But her parents, who know her best, have no hope, and think her senses are lost for ever.'
As the postillion spoke this, Maria made a cadence so melancholy, so tender, that I sprung out of the chaise to help her, and found myself sitting betwixt her and her goat.
Maria looked wistfully for some time at me, and then at her goat - and then at me - and then at her goat again.
'Well, Maria,' said I softly, 'what resemblance do you find?'
I do entreat the reader to believe that it was from the humblest conviction of what a Beast man is, that I asked the question. I would never have made a witticism in the presence of Misery - and I so smarted at the very idea of it, that I swore I would utter grave sentences the rest of my days - and never attempt again to commit mirth with man, woman, or child, in my life.
As for writing nonsense - that I leave to the world.
