There is something spectacular about Laurence Stern and how he takes the notion, no...the cult, of sensibility, the parade and carnival it had (has?) become, and then makes it into something some people continue to take seriously, but he wholeheartedly takes the mick with, for an entire movement, one, in my opinion, at least five centuries in the making. From the the medieval ages, depicting women's intelligence based on their swooning, beating of the breast, pulling out of the hair, looking on with utter heart shattering pity, and then doing absolutely nothing...there is one passage that has had a profound imprint/impact upon my viewpoint of literature of sensibility, and beyond.
It is hilarious:
The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and
thrusting his head through the trellis pressed 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; nor 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 walked upstairs, 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 though 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
in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will 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 me 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!
And then he leaves then he leaves the bird carrying on with his day. There are so many instances of absolute genius, including the innocent encounter of the purse.
Hahaha, thank you Mr. Stern.