the last supper

the last supper
Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with
her a tart on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of
paradise, nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been
wont to stir in me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration; and
which plate I had often petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in
order to examine it more closely, but had always hitherto been
deemed unworthy of such a privilege. This precious vessel was now
placed on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the circlet of
delicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like most other
the last supper
favours long deferred and often wished for, too late! I could not
eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tints of the flowers,
seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and tart away. Bessie asked
if I would have a book: the word book acted as a transient stimulus,
and I begged her to fetch Gulliver's Travels from the library. This
book I had again and again perused with delight. I considered it a
narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper
than what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having sought
them in vain among fox-glove leaves and bells, under mushrooms and
the last supper