my learning easy, who put finish to my
style, and has been my companion on many
a pleasant country ride since my obstinate
liver yielded at discretion. It is only a few
months since I sat upon a bicycle for the
first time, and I already manage it with
tolerable ease and quickness, and I enjoy
it keenly. And now, for the sake of other
middle-aged men who are troubled with a
liver, I shall mention exactly what I can
and cannot do. I don't, for obvious reasons,
vault upon the machine, run it in races, or
attempt giant feats. But my iron steed
renders me the greatest service without
these extravagances, and indeed does for
me all that my doctor exacts. I can run a
mile on a level country road in a few
seconds under six minutes; I can travel
twenty miles on a moderately hilly turnpike
road—say the highway to Dorking—in
about three hours; and I can always ensure
myself a healthy glow or a free perspiration
on the shortest notice and in the
pleasantest way. My iron horse is never ill,
is satisfied with a little oil occasionally in
place of the multitudinous balls and washes,
and does not eat. It is always ready for
its work, and never obtrudes itself
unnecessarily. If I let it alone for a few days or
weeks, I am not haunted by fears of its
being too fresh the next time I go out on
it; and I am never worried into riding
against my will out of consideration for its
imaginary claims. It is docile, spirited,
agile, and strong. In other hands than
mine it can, I believe, be backed for money
to beat any flesh-and-blood horse for a day's
journey; and it has never failed yet to meet
every demand I have been able to prefer
to it.

"But," I hear some horse-loving reader
remark, "surely you don't compare an
inanimate compound of wood and iron with
the intelligent friend of man, or the act of
mechanically propelling yourself on the one
with the glorious inspiration to be derived
from the other? The joyous animal
excitement in which man and beast share,
until they seem to have but one being
between them, where the faithful creature
understands his rider's lightest word, and
where the rider so sympathises with and
loves the trusty friend below him as to
spare his necessities and anticipate his
wants—surely this is not to be gained from
a bicycle, let you be ever so deft and
strong?"

Not so fast, kind, courteous sir, or gentle
madam. Is it quite certain that the feelings
you describe so beautifully are enjoyed
by all who get upon horseback?
May there not be a few who, like your
servant, only ride upon compulsion, and in
a state of misery which is very real? Are
there not more valetudinarians than I?
Besides, if you will have it, is there not a
romantic side even to the iron horse? It is
no magnified go-cart, remember, which will
stand alone, or can be propelled without
skill. It is worse than useless until
animated by the guiding intelligence of which
it becomes the servant and a part. Without
its rider it consists merely of a couple
of wheels and a crank or two, and looks
like a section of broken cab as it lies
helplessly on the ground. But it increases your
sense of personal volition the instant you
are on its back. It is not so much an
instrument you use, as an auxiliary you
employ. It becomes part of yourself, and
though men of my bulk—let me be on the
safe side, and say all men weighing more
than fourteen stone—should have a spring
of double strength, and should learn to
mount and start off without vaulting and
without assistance—an easy matter—none
requiring exercise need fear that they are
too old or too awkward for the bicycle.
The four hundred miles ridden consecutively,
the hundred miles against time, the
jaunts from London to Brighton, the madcap
flights down the cone of the Schneekoppe,
the sitting in fantastic attitudes, the standing
upright on the little saddle while the
velocipede is at full speed, are feats which
may be fairly left to gymnasts, professional
or amateur. They are not for us, friends
Rotundus, Greybeard, and Sedentarius. I
don't know that we could acquire the
power of performing them even if we were
to try, and I am quite sure we shall not
try, for our purpose is answered when
our livers are taught their duty. The
pleasures incidental to bicycle practice are
so much clear gain, and the primary object,
health, being secured, it is intensely gratifying
to reflect how much one has learnt
and enjoyed in the process. You know
every village, every hamlet, every hill,
every level highway, every pretty lane,
around you for miles. You could re-edit
Paterson's Roads. Moreover, you are the
cause of wit in others.

"I wish to Blank he'd smash hisself,
blank him!" was the pious and audible
prayer of a gentleman of the brickmaking
persuasion only yesterday, as I glided
inoffensively past the Merton tavern, whose
open doorway he adorned. "Very like an
elephant on castors!" was, I learnt, the