No newspapers were allowed in the Death-Chamber, therefore the longing for them among its inmates may be imagined. But the law that supply always follows demand, was operative even within the walls of the “dead house,” and properly so; for had we not all become intimately acquainted with Law? Therefore we had a newspaper of our own.
Let me tell you of the happy days (happily past) when I was editor-in-chief and proprietor of “The Murderers’ Home Journal,” sometimes lovingly referred to as “The Dead House Squealer.” The public will never turn over a file of its pages, but they may read here some extracts from its columns. As to the paper itself, it was as artistic as black and blue pencils could make it. We all contributed what and when we pleased. It appeared when convenient, and as nothing was charged for advertisements or subscriptions, no wonder it prospered. Every one in our community read it and read no other. It contained real poetry, jokes—what jokes!—essays on our neighbors’ behavior, and news—local news, together with advertisements which simply compelled attention. The letters therein to the editor-in-chief left nothing to the imagination. And the leaders—ah, I wrote them! How proudly I referred to myself as “we”! Sometimes I used a pencil almost as blue as myself, never a pen—a vein can be opened with a pen.
Every proprietor admires and praises his own publication, and I shall proceed to “Munsey” mine. I can say without egotism, since it is but imperfectly expressed justice, that there has never been another newspaper “approaching” it. “Old Sol” does not affect the Death-Chamber; no sun shone on it, so of course we could not “see it in the ‘Sun’”; but we were as up to date in our own affairs as the “Times” permitted, as sensational in local matters as all the “yellows” combined; nothing in the “World” got ahead of our “Journal” in this respect. Having no “News” we invented it, just as do the newspapers for which you pay, but we never had to take anything back. The “Tribune” from which it issued was my cage, and I, the editor-in-chief, remained as deaf as a “Post” to all abuse (I am used to it). As for a “Press,” we had none. It was printed by my tired fingers. The illustrations were alluring, and though we received neither “Telegram” nor “Mail and Express,” yet we never forgot a text to “Herald” our first column. It was always the same one—“Damn the Jury.” Its politics were “sound.” (All politics are that.) We opposed the government with a capital O, and that institution responded with the only practical solution for restraining the license of modern journalism—it killed the editors. I can truthfully say that it cost me a great deal of money to escape even as far as the “Tombs.” Many of my unfortunate associates have also “passed away” to similar places, and I wish some reporters I know of could be assigned to interview them.
I pass over all the local news which appeared in the “Murderers’ Home Journal.” Such announcements as “John, the Greek, has come back for nineteen years—foolish John!” “Bill Newfeldt caught a mouse in his sock last night—poor thing!” Such as the above, and the chronicled fact that Doctor Sam’s office hours in the morning were from twelve A.M. to twelve P.M., and in the afternoon from twelve P.M. to twelve A.M. (in spite of this he had no “patients”), or a brilliantly worded “ad” advising the reader to take “Molineux’s Bromo-Seltzer”; all these were replete with absorbing interest to us, but not to you.
It was when the “divine afflatus” came upon us, as had the influenza the month previous—we all had it—that you might be interested. Many and varied were the verses that deluged the editorial sanctum; jingles, triolets, lyrics, epigrams, and of course the very first offered was—there, you have guessed it—“Spring.” I give it just as it came to me, leaving it for you to decide whether it be humorous or pitiful.
SPRING IN THE DEATH-CHAMBER.
Sweet Spring is here, and we all know it too,
But not, alas, as outside poets do.
Here are no birds, or flowers, or murmuring stream,
Our Spring arrives—when they turn off the steam.