O.O. McIntyre

Dayton Daily News/July 10, 1914

NEW YORK. July 10.—Lord Byron and all the other famous heartbreakers would have swooned with jealousy in the men’s night court had they lamped one Morris Dunn when arraigned for the gentle art of mashing. A rough-necked policeman saw Morris pull a handkerchief out of his cuff and wave it at three young girls on the street. The policeman swooped down on Morris and gathered him up, wristwatch and all. He was blue-eyed, fair-haired and oh! so handsome. When he was brought into court there were 30 beauties present to appear for him. The three girls who ran when he was arrested notified the other girl and Dunn left the court entirely surrounded by his adorers.

The thousands of people who suffer from obsessions of dread and indecision, making their whole existence one of misery, will be glad to know that New York doctors, studying the question, have decided that their state of mind arises from no physical cause. Most people suffering from disease of fear have no organic trouble, they say. The physicians declare that those who suffer from various fears rarely talk of their fears—for they sound so foolish—and as a result are constantly brooding over the fear of going insane. As a matter of fact, the verdict is that people who think they are going insane never do. The diseases of fear have been classed as claustrophobia, the fear of shut-in places; agoraphobia, the fear of the open; thanatophobia, the fear of death; phobophobia, the fear of fear, which is said to be the most torturing of all.

Chauncey M. Depew has his office in the Grand Central Terminal building and often steps out of his office into the big depot to “stretch a leg.” The other day he heard a group of porters arguing in their quarter and stopped to listen. Finally two of them became heated in discussing the question of which one worked for the better road. Their claim, figure and arguments came fast and furious. At last the tall, thin porter settled the dispute with these classic word. “Go on niggah! We kills mo’ people than you fellahs tote.”

Here is a little cheer-up dope for the man who started off today with a grouch. It was written by Count Okuma, the Japanese premier, to a close friend of his In New York. Count Okuma is in his seventy-seventh year. He writes: “Failures? Why, I have plenty of them. They have been crushing, too, but I have refused to succumb to them entirely. The failures have been and are my lessons. I have seen failure which eventually turned out to be the outer-posts of success.”

Mayor Mitchell, New York’s youthful chief executive, seems to have been trailed by a jinx since his inauguration into office. Before he had been at his desk three days he was attacked by headaches resultant from tropic fevers. He collapsed another day at his desk and had to he assisted to his auto and he whizzed to his home. Shortly after recuperating, a rum-soaked Bowery derelict tried to assassinate him and succeeded in wounding Corporation Counsel Polk. This unnerved Mitchell for several weeks and just as he was rounding into shape again a revolver fell out of his pocket in front of his apartment house and the bullet struck his close friend, ex-Assemblyman Reynolds. The wound was serious but not fatal. The mayor, however, keeps up his spirit, and despite his ill health is a glutton for work. He refuses to talk about his health and declares that work will cure almost any disorder. His chief relaxation is dancing, and, as “Tad” says, he is a bear at maxixing.