He had been through trouble himself in his far back youth, and knew most things.

Even to this day I read of "Uncle Henry's" advice, and, though I say it who should not, it still seems to me good, sound advice.

I often think that had I followed "Uncle Henry's" counsel closer I would have been wiser, made fewer mistakes, felt better satisfied with myself than is now the case.
A quiet, weary little woman, who lived in a bed-sitting room off the Tottenham Court Road, and who had a husband in a lunatic asylum, did our "Cooking Column," "Hints on Education"-- we were full of hints,--and a page and a half of "Fashionable Intelligence," written in the pertly personal style which even yet has not altogether disappeared, so I am informed, from modern journalism: "I must tell you about the _divine_ frock I wore at 'Glorious Goodwood' last week.

Prince C .-- but there, I really must not repeat all the things the silly fellow says; he is _too_ foolish--and the _dear_ Countess, I fancy, was just the _weeish_ bit jealous"-- and so on.
Poor little woman! I see her now in the shabby grey alpaca, with the inkstains on it.

Perhaps a day at "Glorious Goodwood," or anywhere else in the fresh air, might have put some colour into her cheeks.
Our proprietor--one of the most unashamedly ignorant men I ever met--I remember his gravely informing a correspondent once that Ben Jonson had written _Rabelais_ to pay for his mother's funeral, and only laughing good-naturedly when his mistakes were pointed out to him--wrote with the aid of a cheap encyclopedia the pages devoted to "General Information," and did them on the whole remarkably well; while our office boy, with an excellent pair of scissors for his assistant, was responsible for our supply of "Wit and Humour." It was hard work, and the pay was poor, what sustained us was the consciousness that we were instructing and improving our fellow men and women.