「1768」 Lawrence Sterne, “The Starling,” in A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy, by Mr. Yorick 「Google Books」 (London, 1768) 24-38.
I was interrupted in the hey-day of this soliloquy, with a voice which I took to be that of a child, which complained “it could not get out.”—I look’d up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, or child, I went out without further attention.
In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeated twice over; and looking up, I saw it was a startling hung in a little cage.—”I can’t get out—I can’t get out,” said the starling.
I stood looking at the bird: and to every person who came through the passage it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approach’d it, with the same lamentation of its captivity.—”I can’t get out,” said the starling—God help thee !said I, but I’ll let thee out, cost what it will; so I turn’d about the cage to get to the door; it was twisted and double twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces—I took both hands to it.
The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and thrusting his head through the trellis, press’ his breast against it, as if impatient—I fear, poor creature ! Said I, I cannot set thee at liberty—”No,” said the starling—”I can’t get out—I can’t get out,” said the starling.
I vow, I never had my affections more tenderly awakened; or do I remember an incident in my life, where the dissipated spirits, to which my reason had been a bubble, were so suddenly call’d home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune to nature were they chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastile; and I heavily walk’d up stairs, unsaying every word I had said in going down them.
Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still slavery! said I, still thou art a bitter draught; and thou thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account.—’Tis thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess! Addressing myself to LIBERTY, whom all in public or private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever wilt to be so, till NATURE herself shall change—no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron—with thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled—Gracious heaven ! Cried I, kneeling down upon the last step but one in my ascent grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give but this fair goddess as my companion, and shower down thy mitres, if it seems good unto thy divine providence, upon those heads which are aching for them!
The bird in his cage pursued me into my room; I sat down close to my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I begun to figure to myself the miseries of confinement.
