And speaking of young men, did you ever, when shopping in New York, notice the different varieties of clerks one sees. There is your zealous clerk, who thinks fuss is impressive. When you enter, he places one hand on the counter and turns a somerset over to the other side, with an astonishing agility equalled only at the circus; he twitches down the desired piece of goods from the shelf and slaps it down on the counter with a whirlwind velocity that would send your bonnet through the door into the street were it not fastened firmly on by the strings. You catch your breath and sneeze at the dust he has raised, and trust that this part of the performance is over. Not at all; he repeats it with another elevation of the piece of goods in the air, announcing the price per yard, just as its second flapping descent makes said announcement inaudible. You sneeze again as the dust fills your nostrils, and stoop to pick up your handkerchief which he has sent flying to the floor. By this time, if you can recollect what it is you came to buy, or how many yards of the same you desire, you have more self-possession and patience than I.
Then there is your stupid clerk, who thinks you mean blue when you say green; who thinks flannel and ribbon are one and the same article; who gives you short measure and short change if you buy, and impresses you with the idea that he "don't come home till morning." Then there is your impertinent clerk, who puts his face unnecessarily close to your bonnet; who assures you that every article he sells is "chaste," if you know what that means in such a connexion; who inquires, before you have even glanced at the fabric, "how many yards you said you would require?" who leans forward on both elbows and stares you in the face as if his very soul were exhaling. He's a study! Then there's your inattentive clerk, who makes you wait for an answer while he finishes some discussion with a brother clerk, or details to him some grievance he has suffered with the principal of the establishment, or narrates to him some personal affair, apart from business; meanwhile tossing for your inspection, as one would throw a bone to a troublesome dog, any piece of goods that comes handiest, to occupy your mind till he gets ready to attend you. Then there's your surly clerk, who acts as though he were afflicted with a perpetual cold in his head, that incapacitates him from giving any information you require, save by piecemeal, and at long intervals, but who has yet a marvellous quick ear to catch any conversation that may be going on between you and your companion; who, if the latter ventures to remark to you confidentially that she has seen the article under consideration at less cost, at such or such a place, volunteers the civil remark "that it must have been a beauty!" Then, there's your clerk with a high and mighty presence. What! ask him the price of a ribbon, or a yard of silk? Shade of Daniel Webster forbid! The idea is sacrilege. You pass to another counter as fast as possible, in search of some more ordinary mortal, capable of understanding petty human wants. Then, there's your dandy clerk. Isn't that cherry-colored neck-tie killing? And the sleeve-buttons on those wristbands? And the way that hair is brushed? And the seal-ring on that little finger? And the cut of that coat, particularly about the shoulders, and the lovely fit of the sleeves. Don't he consider himself an ornament to the shop?
Last, not least, there's your sensible, self-respecting, gentlemanly clerk—young or old, married or single, as the case may be—incapable alike of officiousness or inattention; who gives you time silently to look at that which you desire to see; who answers you civilly and respectfully when you speak to him; who counts your change carefully for you, and sends you off with the desire to make another purchase at that shop the very first opportunity.
As to the female clerks, my pen is fettered there; as I always make it a rule to stand by my own sex in any and every attempt to earn their own livelihood innocently and honestly, no matter how many blunders they make in doing it. Suffice it to say that there is quite as much variety in their deportment as in that of the males. I think if I were about to join them, I should be sadly puzzled whether to choose a male or female shop-proprietor. When a man is a brute, he is such a brute! And when one's bread and butter depends on him, heaven help the dependent. Now, one could call a woman-proprietor a "nasty thing," and then she'd say, "you are another," and there'd be an end of it. But a man-brute would "know the law," as he calls it; and swear that he'd "paid you your salary, and didn't owe you a cent;" and scare you, if you were not up to such rascality, with what he could say if you made him any trouble. Or, if you were young and pretty, you might have to choose between the endurance of his condescending attentions or the loss of your place. That much I can say on the subject. Also that I have seen some of the prettiest and most lady-like women I ever saw, employed as clerks in New York; also there are some so ill-mannered that they pretend not to hear what you inquire for, and keep you standing till they have taken a minute inventory of the dry-goods on your back. Then there are some who look so utterly weary and homesick and heartsick, that you long to say—"Poor thing! come cry it all out on my shoulder."
A MORNING AT STEWART'S.
It is not often that I treat myself to a stroll into Stewart's great shop. Mortal woman cannot behold such perfection too often and live. It is like a view of the vast ocean, so humiliating and depressing by its immensity and sublimity that little atoms of humanity are glad to creep away from it, to some locally-big elevation of their own. Once in a while, when I feel strong enough to bear it, when the day is very bright, and the atmosphere propitious, I put on a bold face and plunge in with the throng. When I say "throng" I don't wish to be understood as meaning anything like a mob. It is a very curious circumstance that how objectionably soever "throngs" may behave elsewhere, even that most disorderly of all throngs, a woman-throng—yet at Stewart's so suggestive of order and system is the place, that immediately on entering, they involuntarily "fall into line," like proper little Sunday scholars in a procession, and never shuffle or elbow the least bit. Perhaps they are astonished into good behavior by the sight of those well-behaved statuesque clerks—I don't know. Perhaps with the artistic manner in which yonder silky-inky bearded Italian-looking, red-neck-tied gentleman, has arranged the different shades of silk on yonder counter; so that, as the light falls on it from the window, it looks like a splendid display of folded tulips and roses. Perhaps it is the imposing well-to-do portly individual who walks up and down between the rows of counters, snapping his eyes about, as if to say—"Ladies, if this don't suit you, what in heaven's name will?" Perhaps it is the eel-like manner in which little "Cash" winds in and out, with his neatly-tied parcels, and bank-bills and change. Perhaps it is the astounding sight of yonder fur-cape, as displayed to advantage on one of those revolving lay-figures. Perhaps it is the cloak room up-stairs, where the ladies sigh as they tumble over heaps of beautiful garments, unable to choose from such a superfluity. "How happy could I be with either, were the other dear charmer away!" Perhaps 'tis the thought of the money that must have been expended in this wonderful Juniper store, inside and out, first and last, and "if they only had it," how many diamonds, and laces, and silks it would buy, all at once; instead of taking it in disgraceful little installments from their stingy husbands, so that they positively blush when Stewart's factotum inquires, "Any thing more this morning, ma'am?" to be obliged to answer "No." I don't pretend to comprehend the talismanic spell; but I know that at other than Stewart's I see those very women, snub and brow-beat clerks, and put on astounding airs generally, as women will when let out on a shopping spree.—I see none of it there. Indeed, I sometimes think that if the great Stewart himself were bodily to order them out, they would neither mutter, nor peep mutinously; but turn about, like a flock of sheep, and obediently leap over the threshold. The amount of it is, Stewart is a sort of dry-goods "Rarey." Perhaps husbands wink at the thing and give the little dears coppers to spend there on purpose—I don't know.
THE WORKING-GIRLS OF NEW YORK.
