Its want of adaptability to the roughly paved road-ways of our cities, is already, in a great measure, overcome, and experience has proved its facility _in rure_. We have seen the bicycle run with ease on country roads, and dashing with full speed through city streets, totally regardless of curbstones or crossings. In New York, no matter where you go, a velocipede is sure to whiz past you. The school-boy rides up Fifth Avenue in the morning, with his books strapped before him. In Broadway, where stages, wagons, carts, trucks, and carriages, clog the street from morning till night, the iron steed may be seen gracefully cutting its way among the larger vehicles. The exercise is not tiresome, except to the beginner. We have found twelve miles on a country road no more fatiguing than a brisk walk of two. We believe a man may ride and drive one at the rate of ten miles an hour, with less fatigue than he could walk one quarter of that distance. Some people ride easier than others, as some skate easier. Some people make hard work of anything. Lazy people will never fall in love with the bicycle, because to ride one requires all the faculties to be alive and in action. To keep one’s balance, however, does not require that constant labor and exertion which novices suppose. “Familiarity breeds contempt,” the old adage says. Familiarity with the bicycle becomes a sort of second nature, and a velocipedean, after a fair amount of experience, finds himself almost as perfectly at home astride his two-wheeler, as he does on his feet. When John Brent rode his horse across the plains in search of adventure, the era of the two-wheeled velocipede had not come upon us. We think the bicycle an animal, which will, in a great measure, supersede the horse. It does not cost as much; it will not eat, kick, bite, get sick, or die. It requires no stabling, no feed, no water, no curry-comb. It never “balks,” or “rares up.” It never needs a halter or a harness. It is light, and little, and leans lovingly against you for support. Its gait is uniform and easy, beautiful and exhilarating to see, and simple to analyze. It glides along with smooth grace, as though it were alive. Young America is pictured coming in on a velocipede. Henry Ward Beecher thinks the coming man will ride one, and we shall not be surprised to see his prediction fulfilled, and devout worshippers propelling themselves to church on Sunday with all due gravity and decorum. Velocipeding is a hopeful sign of progress. If that man is a benefactor who makes two blades of grass grow where but one grew before, he should come in for a share of praise, who teaches a man to go ten miles as easily and as quickly as he previously went one. “Time is money;” and whatever of it is saved is often so much cash. As the velocipede serves its purpose in this direction, it may be regarded as a good savings institution.