The Columbia Gymnasium.
FROM OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.
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."