In a crooked corner a half-dozen blocks from Wall Street and a similar distance from Battery Park and the water, there is an an ancient, ancient place. It has been on this corner since the days when its clients were Dutch farmers and tinkers, before there was a State to call itself part of, nor any Union. Its age shows in many ways -- the exposed beams, the odd style of layup of the large stones that make upo the foundation, the sturdiness, the oddly shaped entrance and windows -- all these speak of construction in a different age, when the things you had to build against were gales, and maybe leprechauns. The old place has the look of endless, determined, quiet, unpretentious survival to it. It is smaller than the many newer buildings that surround it, but somehow it seems deeper-built, more strongly made, as though it expected to be standing there offering drink and song to passers by long after the skyscrapers had been replaced.

Tonight, as you approach it, you notice the sidewalk is coated with odd lots of paper -- memos from disjointed offices, parts of contracts, shards of white dusty residue which has piled high along the curve. Although it is dusk, just now, and the evening windis coming forth from the broad back of the nearby river, you can still make out the prints of many, many feet in the pale white dust sprinkled everywhere along the sidewalks and curbs -- little round stilleto prints, treaded Nike waffle marks, the elipse of hand-made Italian dress shoues, and oddly, the large square, tire-treaded marks of hundreds of people wearing firemen's boots.

The stout and somewhat short oaken door is several hundred years standing, but it wings smoothly open on ancient, oiled iron hiinges as push it. Inside there is a fire in a huge hearth, a large stack of seasoned firewood nearby, wide benches along windows of leaded glass that look out on the street, large soft chairs here and there. Along one wall there is a pit of strange dimensions, brimming with a phosphorescent green gelatinous substance. Along one end of the bar, a row of potatoes neatly lined up, and above them, a series of silken thongs hung on pegs.

There are a few people sitting here and there in the tavern, each nursing his chosen drink. Several of them are weeping. Some of them are singing quietly to themselves. At one small table, several of them are striking up a beautiful barbershop rendition of "Roll On, Columbia, Roll On."

At the center of the bar, a large slate stands with chalked letters on it:

Welcome to the Mudcat East River Bar and Grille

In the Spirit of Friendship For All Mankind,
All Libations are Offered Without Charge Tonight

The fire crackles, and in another corner an ancient Silvertone banjo is plucking along an accompaniment. Behind the bar a well-muscled, generous wasted gentlemen in pristine white shirtsleeves with wrist-garters and a long handlebar moustache, rubs glasses patiently with an ancient dishtowel, and waits for you order.