CHAPTER TEN.
"A FOOL'S PARADISE." Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And the same flower that blooms to-day, To-morrow may be dying! Rost nubila Phoebus; "after clouds, comes sunshine." I did not allow the coldness of Min's mother to dwell long in my mind.
What, if Mrs Clyde did not appear to like me?
Could I alter the obliquity of her mental vision by brooding over it, and worrying myself into a fit of misanthropy?
Would it not be better for me to allow matters to run their appointed course, in accordance with the inexorable law of events, and not to anticipate those evils with which the future might be pregnant?
The followers of Mahomet are wise men in their generation.

They take everything that happens to them with the philosophy of their faith.

Kismet! It is their fate, may Allah be praised! they say.
I was perfectly satisfied to accommodate myself to circumstances; and gathered flowers, according to wise old Herrick's advice, to my heart's content.

I did not seek to inquire about the future:--why should I?
Time flew by on golden pinions, and I was as happy as the day was long.
Winter made way for spring, spring gave place to summer.

The halcyon hours sped brighter and brighter for me, from the time of violets--when nature's sweetest nurslings modestly blossomed beneath the hedge-rows.
Then came "the month of roses," as the Persians appropriately style that duodecimal portion of the year.