While on his Easter vacation, your correspondent visited the Columbia gymnasium to ascertain some facts about the crews. Accompanied by a friend who acted as guide, he entered the gymnasium, which is pleasantly located in a cellar in the Grammar School. But-I hear you say-we thought all Columbia was a grammar school. No, you are mistaken; there is a nice little college, without any dormitories, around the corner, a nice little athletic field at Mott Haven, and a nice little boat-house on the Harlem; and to end up comfortably, here we are in a real nice little gymnasium. "Quite a good room," says my guide, complacently; "got as good a one at Hahvahrd?" I admit that we have not, to his great delight; for he exclaims, "Gawd, Charlie, this gentleman says we've got a better gymnasium than Hahvahrd; and how we ah going to lick her this year at everything dont'ch knaw?" I smile, (inwardly) and complete my observations.

We are in a small box underground, hardly any larger than our rowing room; apparatus of every kind is strewn around in graceful confusion; and amid a litter of clubs, dumb bells, and c., sits the famous crew. There is a pair of parallel pars at the end of the boat, and the stroke is always in great danger of being kicked in the head and having his eye-glass disarranged. The chest-weights take up one side of the room, and when in use, the men on the flying rings have to stand aside. In fact, there is so very little room anywhere that pneumatic machines have to be used by the oarsmen, instead of hydraulic. The air is noisome and damp, and the room is unpleasantly dark. Having jotted these things down mentally, we turned to go; and the last thing that sang in our ears was the voice of the stroke saying,-"Ready deah boys, eye-glasses in place, row her fahst now, there's a Hahvahrd man looking on."

AQUATICUS.

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