The New York Times, September 14, 1914. Lemme get this straight: Upon the injection of this Lovecraftian substance into a freshly dead person, his or her eyes turn into “superb emeralds, set like jewels in their sockets,” and then it turns out no funeral is necessary after all. Could this “Icard” (transparent anagram for “I, Drac”) be any more brazen in his campaign to take over Marseilles with his private army of the undead?
Still, it would all make a great ad for the glossies. You’ve got this Lionel Atwill-type in a white lab coat brandishing a big hypodermic, see? He’s shooting the goo into the pallid arm of a young lovely whose charms are barely covered by her winding sheet. Her wide-open eyes are superb green emeralds, and nicely set off by the stainless steel mortuary table upon which she reposes, whose outline is isometric to the fireplug shape of the bottle containing your client’s naphtha-like beverage.
Los Angeles Times, March 8, 1914. Yeah, that’s the ticket: Cops should be “great big missionaries” who teach “sex matters” to boys–“at least the rudiments.” Why was this forward-thinking plan never implemented?
Cleveland Plain Dealer, June 27, 1948. It’s great that the market responded to the needs of WWII vets who left limbs behind at Normandy and Iwo Jima, but there’s something unsettling about those two chipper “Hey Kids!!”-style exclamation marks. (A big Hope Chest thanks to David L. for sending this our way.) 
Chicago Tribune, June 24, 1853. “Wilfully murdered”–yep, good call by that coroner’s jury. A pest house, by the by, is a quarantined warehouse for people with infectious diseases, e.g. cholera, smallpox, tuberculosis. It’s kind of classy on the part of Chicago to situate its pest house on the lake shore.
Washington Post, October 20, 1912. This is the kind of science I can get behind. I’ve never understood the perfume thing. None of them smell good to me, and the urge to colonize other folks’ olfactories with a cocktail of floral essence, whale puke and volatile biological substances extracted from the buttholes of rodents strikes me as passive-aggressive or sociopathic, depending on the intensity of the pong. Never in my life have I gotten out of bed and said to myself, “Yes indeed, everybody’s gonna smell me coming and going today!” Maybe the notion made slightly better sense before the democratization of soap, hot water, flush toilets and other techno-hygienic blessings, but there’s just no excuse for it now. Anyway, it’s been shown to cause hysteria and neurasthenia. 
Chicago Tribune, October 24, 1936.
Washington Post, January 7, 1944. Perhaps you thought the Third Reich was an enlightened society? Well forget about that.
The Hope Chest 