Hold on, I'm a-comin'

This is totally where I expect to end up eventually, if not sooner:

The thought that a pauper's grave would be the coup de grâce was too much to bear for journalists of the 19th century. In 1874, the newspaper fraternity took title to 24 lots — room for 360 graves — on a hilltop at the Cypress Hills Cemetery, straddling the Brooklyn-Queens line. The plot was intended for "friendless journalists" who had died without the means to buy burial sites of their own.

("Friendless journalist" may strike you as a tautology, but there was a time when such distinctions were made.)

Among the early burials was John B. Wood of The Sun, so admired for his ability to distill any news item into 10 lines of type that he was called the "Great American Condenser." He could set type, too, and worked on the first volume of The New York Times in 1851. In January 1884, Wood, then 56, fell into the ice-caked Hudson River. He was pulled out, but efforts to revive him with a stiff brandy at a West Street saloon were unavailing.