The Wishing Book

1897 SEARS ROEBUCK CATALOGUE; introductions by S. J. Perelman and Richard Rovere. 786 pages. Chelsea House. $14.95.

Any archaeologist knows that nothing gives a better picture of how vanished civilizations lived, loved and fought than the utensils, ornaments and weapons that were left behind in successive layers of kitchen midden. For this reason alone, this hardback facsimile of an 1897 Sears Roebuck catalogue is a dazzling trove for students of Americana. It certainly is one of the happiest publishing ideas in years.

Back in the days when two stuffed turtledoves under glass decorated many a tasteful parlor, whole families sat for hours poring over the treasures in a Sears catalogue. It was called "the wishing book," and it was usually tattered and dog-eared by the time somebody punched a hole in it and hung it in the family privy. When this particular catalogue appeared, the firm of Sears Roebuck and Co.--founded by Richard W. Sears, a former railroad-station agent, and Alvah Roebuck, a watch repairman --was four years old and prospering.

Dizzying Array. Legend has it that Sears wrote every single word of the copy that described the dizzying array of 6,000 articles listed in the book. Alternating between soft sell and hard, occasionally combining both, his exhortatory prose provides an intriguing contrast with today's merchandising methods. S. J. Perelman, in his introductory essay, even professes to see a touch of malevolence in Sears' flat statement: "Our boot and shoe department is admirable. If we can't suit you in quality and price, there is no use in looking further."

Still, whether offering hall trees ("Money won't buy more stylish goods") or watches ("Almost given away"), Sears appealed to a buying public that was then largely rural and firmly bound by the Puritan ethic: waste was sinful, and so were fripperies. But it was also an epoch when ordinary folks were beginning to yearn for "nice things" and even a few luxuries--if they were cheap enough and guaranteed to be durable. It was an enjoyment simply to peruse the bargains offered in men's toupees and nerve pills, mowing machines and dog-powered churns, foot scrapers and kraut cutters. Sears sewing machines and wagons, forges or stoves, were guaranteed to give the purchaser status ("The neighbors would admire it once they were permitted to inspect it").

The Sears catalogue lists a variety of capsules, tinctures, pills and boluses calculated to cure almost any known ailment, physical or mental. There were worm cakes and a highly touted microbe killer ("Will prevent LaGrippe, Catarrh, Consumption, Malaria, Blood Poison, Rheumatism and all disorders of the blood"). There was also an elixir "guaranteed to destroy all desire for liquor" and a magical tonic called "Peruvian wine of cocoa" that was recommended "if you wish to accomplish double the amount of work or have to undergo an unusual amount of hardship." Arsenic wafers were offered to tone up the complexion, and an "electric ring for rheumatism" (85-c-; goldplated, $1.25).

Triple Threat. Both beauty preparations and apparel were designed to assure women customers that they would have the proper hourglass look. There was a triple-threat package, for instance, called the "Princess bust developer." It combined a "bust expander, bust cream or food" with an instrument resembling a plumber's plunger that promised (for $1.46) to "enlarge any lady's bust from two to three inches." A ladies' "Snow White Venus" union suit sold for 75-c- ("One of the handsomest union suits we have ever seen. And we have seen nearly every style"). For only $1 there was the latest thing in corsets: "Will not stretch, break, roll up or pucker . . . priced so low that even persons in the humbler walks of life can easily afford to buy it."

A do-it-yourself blacksmith outfit ("Sharpen the plows, shoe the horses, set the loose tires, mend the machinery --don't say you can't do the work") was offered for $25. Solid-oak dining tables that extended to 12 ft. were $16.50, rocking chairs were 85-c- each, and a "Grade AA" surrey with fringe on top cost $87.

Sears obviously was worried that many customers might find the ordeal of ordering by mail simply too much. "Don't be afraid you will make a mistake," the catalogue exhorted. "We receive hundreds of orders every day from young and old who never before sent away for goods . . . Tell us what you want in your own way, written in any language, no matter whether good or poor writing." Customers took them at their word. For example, there was this note from one irate purchaser: "I got the pump which i by from you, but why for God's sake you doan send me the handle. I loose to me by customer. Wats the use a pump when she doan treat me rite. I rote ten days and me customer he holloer for air like hell from the pump." Naturally, it was all a mistake. Soon there was another letter:

"Oh Hell after i rite i find the God damn handle in the box excuse me."

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