"No," said he, "decidedly no. To be able to show one's goods to the multitudes that pass these windows nearly every hour of the day is an asset that cannot be overestimated."
This is neither the time nor the place to go into the ethics or the fine principles of the most recently developed of American professions—advertising; the salesmanship of goods and of ideas not so much by the merchandise itself as by the representation of it. Neither is it the place to review the vast position that the modern department store has taken in the development of modern advertising of every sort: Newspapers, magazines, bill-boards, electric signs, other forms of display as well. There are folk who say that if it were not for the department-store advertising we should not have had the fully developed metropolitan newspaper of today; while, on the other hand, some of the larger merchants are not reluctant in saying that our modern metropolitan newspapers are the chief causes that have made the department-store as we know it in New York and other large cities of the United States possible. Be these things as they may, the fact does remain, however, solid and indisputable, that the co-operation between these two groups of interests has been more than profitable to their patrons, to say nothing of themselves. And not the least of the contributing causes to such profits is the fundamental honesty of the advertisements.
Not so very many years ago the measure of integrity in advertising was, to speak charitably, a variable one. When they talked about them in print merchants were very likely to become overenthusiastic about their goods. Modesty was flung to the four winds. Printers' ink seemed to be taken as an automatic absolution for exaggeration—and oftimes absolute mis-statement—and, strangely enough, the public appeared to fall in with the idea. More often than not the merchant "got away with it"—or, if not, made good with bad grace, in which case the customer was satisfied. He had to be.
But not so with Macy's. Early in its history an advertising policy was formulated that has endured to the present and will continue to endure. It is the house's stoutly expressed belief that there is no possible excuse whatsoever for misrepresentation and, following this out, it is its invariable rule to stand back of its advertising, to the last ditch. To this end it has inculcated such a spirit of conservatism into its advertising department that the superlative is eliminated and forbidden in describing Macy goods. "We may think that these articles are the best, or the most beautiful, or the greatest bargain, but we can't absolutely be sure of it." That is its attitude. The only possible criticism is the same that one applies to the man who stands so straight that he leans backward.
Is the system flawless? Of course not—no system is. Not many weeks ago an incident occurred that shows how Macy's may slip up—and then make good; it put out a small newspaper advertisement featuring coats for small boys at $8.74. These were advertised as "wool chinchilla" and so potent was the appeal of the notice that by ten o'clock the entire stock of nine hundred coats was gone. Then one of the store executives discovered that the coats were not all wool and things began to hum.
"Never said that they were all wool," the responsible sub-executive cornered. "People ought to know that they can't buy an all-wool coat for that money."
That made no difference with the big boss. Patiently and firmly he explained that in a Macy advertisement "wool" means "all-wool" except where it is clearly specified that it contains cotton. Another advertisement was inserted in the newspapers the following day. It explained and apologized for the mis-statement and said, "We would deem it a favor if our customers would bring in these coats and accept a return of their money." Out of the nine hundred coats sold one was brought back for credit, while another was brought in by a customer who wanted to keep the coat but thought that she might get a rebate. She didn't. Macy's may lean over backward but it doesn't drag on the ground—an instance of which is contained in the following:
Christmas candy for Sunday Schools was advertised in a number of New York newspapers at the very low price of $7.44 for one hundred pounds. In one newspaper three pieces of type fell out of the form with the result that the advertisement went to press quoting a hundred-weight of candy at forty-four cents! It was patent that it was a typographical error, for the decimal point, as well as the dollar mark and the figure 7 was gone and there was a blank space where the types were missing. Three would-be customers tried, however, to hold the store accountable for the very obvious error. And Macy's balked!
The lowest-in-the-city-prices policy keeps the advertising department on its toes continually. Other stores' prices must be anticipated wherever it is humanly possible, which means constant revisions of the copy. Occasionally a price duel develops that becomes spectacular in the extreme. In a recent memorable one "hard water soap" figured as the casus belli. Macy patrons know their right now to expect lowest prices, so when another store began to cut Macy's advertised prices on this commodity, Macy's had to return in suite. Whereupon the other store cut under Macy's again; and Macy's in turn went its competitor one better. It then became a merry game of parry and thrust until, one fine day, Macy's was selling twelve dozen cakes of hard water soap for the inconsiderable sum of one copper cent. One came near godliness for a small amount that day. The public profited hugely, but Macy's lived up to its policy.
As a rule advertisements originate with the department managers. Keeping in mind that they are the buyers, the merchants responsible for the moving of their stock, it can be seen that they know best the goods that ought to be featured. The value of the space used is charged against their departments, so that their requisitions are governed accordingly. The advertising manager is a large factor, however, in the allotment of space—not only the clearing-house, but practically the court of last resort—concerning the rival claims by the department manager for space upon a given day. After all, there is a limit to the size of a newspaper page.