[Illustration: _Old Lady_. "WILL YOU PLEASE PUT ME DOWN AT THE SAME PLACE AS YOU DID LAST FRIDAY WEEK?"] * * * * * THE PRACTICE OF THE CREWS. (_Ballad after C.S.C._) The reporter aired his aquatic lore (_Popply water in Corney Reach_,) A thing he had yearly essayed before; And a rowing jargon obscured his speech. The coach he coached with a megaphone (_Crabtree, Craven and Chiswick Eyot_) Till the crew were prone to emit a groan, And the Cox said nothing but "Bow, you're late." The Stroke he quickened to thirty-four (_In the first half-minute struck seventeen_) Some clocks returned it a trifle more, Which wasn't so good as it might have been. The towpath critic he shook his head (_Thornycroft's, where they began to row_): "Hung over the stretcher" was what he said, And "missed the beginning," and "hands too slow." The towpath critic, whoe'er he be (_A tug and some barges blocked the way_), For thirty odd years, it seems to me, Has never found anything else to say. The towpath critic's remarks are trite (_Off Ayling's Yard in a stiffish breeze_), Yet I study religiously morn and night Whole columns consisting of words like these. * * * * * [Illustration: MANNERS AND MODES. THE COMPANY-PROMOTER'S PROBLEM--HOW TO UTILISE THE BOOM IN SPRING.] * * * * * THE GENIUS OF MR. BRADSHAW. (_By our Literary Expert._) No one will be surprised to hear that the Christian name of Mr. BRADSHAW was George. Indeed, it is difficult to think what other name a man of his calibre could have had. But many people will be surprised to hear that Mr. BRADSHAW is no longer alive. Whatever one thinks of his work one is inclined to think of him as a living personality, working laboriously at some terminus--probably at the Charing Cross Hotel. But it is not so. He died, in fact, in 1853. His first book--or rather the first edition of his book[1] was published in 1839; yet, unlike the author, it still lives. He is, in fact, the supreme example of the posthumous serial writer. I have no information about Mr. DEBRETT and Mr. BURKE, but the style and substance of their work are relatively so flimsy that one is justified, I think, in neglecting them. In any case their public is a limited one. So, of course, is Mr. BRADSHAW'S; but it is better than theirs. Mr. DEBRETT'S book we read idly in an idle hour; when we read Mr. BRADSHAW'S it is because we feel that we simply must; and that perhaps is the surest test of genius.