212
to hear De Cordova deliver a rhymed and
prose �entertainment,� apropos of the Central
Park, entitled �the Ball is Up.�        It proved rub-
bish Dickens-diluted, Doesticksy bosh, but
endurable withal, well spoken and not such abomi-
nable truck as the last I had listened to with-
in those walls.   Cahill went professionally.
Cordova is in Anglicized Jew, has a berth
in some wholesome tea house down town and
was once a writer for the N. Y. Times.      I re-
member him in connection with the Constella-
tion.     How he got his grand Spanish patro-
nymic heaven knows.       Looked in at 745.
A bit of chat with Mr and Mrs Edwards;
Mat poring over the �Woman in White,� Eliza
dozing.    To Ayliffe�s �Store,� where I found
Edge and Watson.    The first had been to
a nigger minstrel entertainment, by way
of relaxation from his �Star� labors; the
second down town, to ascertain that he departs
on the morrow for Washington, thence to join
the �mortar fleet� with Porter, the destination
of which is, at present, kept secret.       Watson
goes for the N. Y. Times at $15 per week sa-
lary, expenses paid.     He is decidedly appre-
hensive, not to say funky about the presumed
danger to his own safety.       Remaining till