A Happy Heart At Bloomingdale’s


I can remember Mickey Mantle before he hurt his knees and the exact spiral of a pass from John Unitas to Raymond Berry, but I’m too young to remember the golden age of the American department store. That age occurred, I gather, from the 188Os to the middle or late 1950s, and people who care about shopping still grow misty at the memory.

And why not? The department stores of the golden age featured “reading and sitting rooms, ‘silence’ rooms for the frazzled shopper, specially lighted rooms where women could examine gowns to determine how they would look in ballroom gaslight,” not to mention “service [that] was defined by personal attention from store employees and in the stocking of exclusive or unique merchandise. …”

Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it? This description comes from a tender and bitter essay, “A Sad Heart at the Department Store,” by Marjorie Rosenberg, which appeared in the spring 1985 issue of The American Scholar . Though I don’t remember the golden age of the department store, Rosenberg’s essay—part love song, part lament—got me interested in finding out something more about the pleasures I had missed.

According to Robert Hendrickson in his book The Grand Emporiums , the first true department store was Bon Marché of Paris, established in 1838. Its founder, Aristide Bouciçaut—a man “no bigger than Napoleon and ultimately much more successful,” Hendrickson says—based his business on policies that were very unusual at the time. Customers were encouraged to enter the store and browse for as long as they pleased. Fixed prices were marked on all goods, so there was no unpleasant haggling. In what struck many contemporary merchants as a concession close to insane, customers were given a money-back guarantee.

The business policies popularized by Bouciçaut in Paris were taken up by the owners of such American emporiums as A. T. Stewart’s, Wanamaker’s, Macy’s, Strawbridge & Clothier, and Marshall Field’s. John Wanamaker of Philadelphia, probably the greatest of our nineteenthcentury department store magnates, remembered the practices that prevailed in earlier times: “The law of trading was then the law of the jungle, take care of number one . The rules of the game were: don’t pay the first price asked; look out for yourself in bargaining; haggle … as hard as you can. … And when a thing was sold, it was sold—no returns.”

Zions Cooperative Mercantile Institution of Salt Lake City, founded in 1869, claims to be America’s first department store, and certainly it was our first incorporated department store. But the distinction of being the first recognizably modern department store in the United States probably belongs to either the Marble Dry Goods Palace, built by the New York merchant A.T. Stewart in 1848, or the Cast Iron Palace, built by Stewart in 1862.

In the Marble Palace, which still stands as a block-long office building near City Hall Park in New York City, Stewart held the first American fashion shows and sometimes rang up sales of ten thousand dollars in a day. The newspapers of the time called him “Stewart the Great” or “King Stewart.”

The king held his throne by treating his customers royally. “Never cheat a customer, even if you can,” he told his clerks. “If she pays the full figure, present her with a hair of dress braid, a card of buttons, a pair of shoestrings. You must make her happy so she will come back again.”

One customer who came back again and again was Mary Todd Lincoln, who redecorated the White House with goods purchased entirely from Stewart’s and who, at the time of her husband’s death, owed twenty-seven thousand dollars to Stewart’s for clothing. When Stewart himself died in 1876, fifty-three years after he opened a small store with three thousand dollars’ worth of Irish linen and laces, he left an estate worth more than fifty million dollars.

What distinguished the department stores of the golden age from the general stores and dry goods establishments that preceded them was, in the view of Marjorie Rosenberg, the “institutionalization of trust between buyer and seller.” That trust was made visible in such business practices as marked and fixed prices and the money-back guarantee. But there was more to it. There was also the role played by the department store in the community it served—a role “impossible to define in purely economic terms,” Rosenberg says, because it rested upon a feeling of local rootedness.

Consider Rich’s department store in Atlanta. In the 1920s, when the price of cotton plummeted, Rich’s announced that, to help farmers through the crisis, it would buy five thousand bales at well above the market price. In 1930, when Atlanta could not meet the payroll for its schoolteachers, Walter Rich suggested the city pay teachers in scrip redeemable for cash at his store. At the time of the great Atlanta fire of 1917, and the Winicoff Hotel fire of 1946, the store “assisted bereaved customers financially, even providing burial clothes for many of the victims.”

In recent years, Rosenberg charges, as more and more local enterprises have come under the control of larger chains with headquarters in distant locations, the sense of a vital tie between the department store and the community has diminished. Limited support of local activities still exists, but that support strikes her as tainted—based “not on a relationship with the community, but on the possibility for tax deductions.”