The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-05-26
A WHISKY RING RELIC.
ae. I.ania tAr.aAyiNea.

under ms Kr0AtN 0inGk nt0uch hnt, hSN long, black coat, his shiny face and piercing eyes, make him a picturesque tl9urc on the streets or In the hotel corridors.
 A few short years ago John A. Joyce cut witie swath h life. His name was heralded all over tho coun. try, and he had friends in plenty. But fate dealt not over kindly with him. Asa conspicuous figure in tho grcat whisky ring, nc lost some prcs- tigc, and his confinement in prison, while others who were gulltier by far escaped through presidential inter- terence, rather safldencd him. In the days of his adversity he coarted tho muse, and published volume ofversc, some of 1t tender and smooth, and others rugged, eccentric, and even bar baric as the wild wanderings of Walt Whitman.
 The widely known poem beginning {, Laugh. and the world laughs with you, Weep and you weep alenei
 Fer the sAa ald earth mnat borrow It's mirt th {. II has trouble enough of its own
 occupied place in the little volume, and about the same timc it appeared In Ella Wheclers "Poems of Passion" !" A controversy as to the authorship arose and still wages In various quar- tcrs, some holding for the lady and some for Colonel Joyce.
 Speaking of this to a reporter for the Star tSayiags last evening, he said {; "I wrote that poem. have put Into rhythmic shape In those lines the bitter experiences of my life. have found that
 There is room in tl,e halls of pleasure
 For long and e lofdiy train,
 Hut ono by one MA aust Af ule on
 Through the narrow Alsles of pain.
 "The poem is one of my heart throbs, and the lady who claims It has not proven her claim. wish to say nothing harsh about her. There is no cryptogram In my poems, none what ever, am thinking that cry yptogram- matic poetry Is hardly the proper caper. am an idealist. 1 haven't touched earth in forty years, but have scared In an intellectual clyalum high as fancy may mount. l am a hand some man. l am intellect. II is \ glorious thought that when ages have passed and institutions crumbicd, my name will be sung by the great mi- nority who think for tho world and act as guard for the treasures of memory, wit and fancy.
 "l am poor; but thcn as 1 have written and said often, There Ia in pocket In \ shroud.' If there was tho poets would have no use for it. be- lieve in poetry. They say ought to have got six months for publishing my book. They gave me three years for less than that, but have braved it all and still live. Why, I've got n constitution like a pyramid. 1 love the world if 1t loves me not, what does 1t matter 10 me1"
 "Why do you love the worldp"
 "My dear fellow, sec here. Don't you know that there are only two classes of people In the world, and they are the philosophers and fools, and I'm a philosopher. You scc there Is no real difference between the two :; they arc mere arbitrary designations. The philosopher Is a fool, for hc wastes time pnilosophizing. Your fool Is the wise man, for he avails and accepts the inevitable"
 It were absolutely impossible to put the coioDei's interview un paper fully. He has rapid, sketchy way of talk ing, shrugs his shonldc throws back his head and stands As though scorn- ing tho world. He runs his hand through his hair and talks all the timc with rounded phraseoiogy, quoting copiously and well nigh interminably, i, on any thing, from tho gravcst qucs- ton of state or morals to the rank in- justice of charging ten cents for beer. He flies from one subject 10 another at such a pace that the mind is strained in following. An endeavor 10 get him to talk politics called forth the statement that the country had too much politics and too little statesmanship. "fts talk and talk and tAlk--thats what politics is. They're talking yet sbout the war. It makes me tired. I served in the war, but they keep coiopeling me right on. Pm plain mister and poet and handsome man."
 He had nothing to say about the whisky ring, hut simply, "where are they now7 Who remembers their namesl while II I am perched on . pinnacle Of fame and my songs are ringing round the globe, with the echoes going down to coming ages. The great glories of life gre not all sung yet--not all.
 Some few there are who toueh the strings,
 And ngfsy fams ts siad to wis them
 Aiasi fDF those who never slas.
 And die with ell theiy musie fn them But bah, bosh, sli bosh---all fools, philosopher and poets, and the world and lie . cheaf.1
 The colonel went of then 10 talk fo