and untroubled by the misgivings and melancholy that assail a temperament less serene, he faced the world with a manner of gentle understanding and a philosophy of almost universal toleration. His only child—a boy—died within a few hours of birth; Teixeira was troubled for years by ill-health; he was never rich and seldom even assured of a comfortable income. Nevertheless his temper or faith gave him power to extract more amusement from his sufferings than most men derive from the plentitude of health and fortune. Of a malady new even to his experience he writes: "Is death imminent? Why do I always have the rarer disorders?" He loved life to the end—the world was always "God's dear world" to him—; to the end, he, who had known so many of the world's waifs, continued forbearing to all but the censorious. "I was taught very early in life," he writes, "to make every allowance for men of any genius, whereas you look for a public-school attitude towards all and sundry. . . . You see, if one cared to take the pains, one could make you detest pretty well everybody you know and like. For everybody has a mean,
