away by frivolities and prettinesses when he ought to be grappling with his work in fierce earnest.  Balzac, whose unappeasable longing was to see his books the breviary, so to speak, of the people, would have laughed and cried with Silas, lived with him, loved with him, and come to grief with him, and forced his readers to do likewise.  Mr. Howells is not so easily carried away by his creations, and is too apt to laugh at them instead of with them.  But his mature work shows, nevertheless, a boldness and facility which ought to put the best results within its compass; and we confidently look for better novels from his pen than he has so far written, full of wit, humor, and cleverness, yet expanding outside of these gracful limitations into the fullest nature and freedom.

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“A Canterbury Pilgrimage.  Ridden, Written,
and Illustrated by Joseph and Elizabeth
Robins Pennell.”  New York:  Charles Scribner’s
Sons.
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It may be confessed that in certain respects bicycles and tricycles answer admirably to the requirements of travellers in search of the picturesque.  They are swift or slow at need, may be halted without want or waste, and have no vicious instincts to be combated by whip or spur.  But they are nevertheless hideous inventions, and it is impossible for lookers-on to feel for wheelmen the cordial good will given so freely to Mr. Stevenson on his donkey, for instance.  The rider on wheels is an object that exasperates the nerves of horses, dogs, and men.  Mrs. Pennell in this little book describes a collision on the old Kent Road with the driver of a hansom cab, who sat watching their extrication scowling.  If he had his way, he said, he would burn all them things." And, little affiliation as most human beings have with cabmen, we yet believe that he gave utterance to the sentiments of all non-wheelmen.  However, the modern world is likely to belong to bicycles and tricycles, and this attractive brochure, signed with the names of one of our cleverest draughtsmen and his wife, with their silhouettes on the cover, is likely to set more wheels in motion than there were before it was printed.  The two evidently enjoyed their expedition, and the lady tells the story easily and pleasantly; and if it is relieved by little incident it is yet sustained by intelligent observation and discriminating enthusiasm, while the illustrations are, like all Mr. Pennell’s work, clever in the extreme.  The two left London on their tricycle late in August, and had the finest weather in which to cross historic Blackheath and look up the picturesque wharves in Gravesend.  Hop-pickers filled the roads and offered many a subject for the artist’s pencil.  “We rode on with light hearts,” recounts the fair wheelwoman.  “An eternity of wheeling through such perfect country and in such soft sunshine would, we thought, be the true earthly paradise.  We were at peace with ourselves and with all mankind, and J——­ even went so far as to tell me I had never ridden so well,” And thus on to the inn at Sittingbourne, which has this quaint notice hung over the door: