There are certain professions, in themselves honest, useful, and even estimable, for which society has agreed to entertain a feeling of contempt.  It is, for instance, very difficult to think of a curate as anything except a butt for satirists, or to be respectful to the profession of tailoring, although many a man for private pecuniary reasons is meek before the particular individual who makes his clothes.  Yet the novelist and the playwright, who hold the mirror up to modern humanity, are occasionally kind even to curates and tailors.  There is a youthful athlete in Holy Orders who thrashes, to our immense admiration, the village bully, bewildering his victim and his admirers with his mastery of what is described a little vaguely as the ’old Oxford science.’  Once, at least, a glamour of romance has been shed over the son of a tailor, and it becomes imaginable that even the chalker of unfinished coats may in the future be posed as heroic.  There is still, however, a profession which no eccentric novelist has ever ventured to represent as other than entirely contemptible.  The commercial traveller is beneath satire, and outside the region of sympathy.  If he appears at all in fiction or on the stage, he is irredeemably vulgar.  He is never heroic, never even a villain, rarely comic, always, poor man, objectionable.  This is a peculiar thing in the literature of a people like the English, who are not ashamed to glory in their commercial success, and are always ready to cheer a politician who professes to have the interests of trade at heart.  Amid the current eulogies of the working man and the apotheosis of the beings called ’Captains of Industry,’ the bagman surely ought to find at least an apologist.  Without him it seems likely that many articles would fail to find a place in the windows of the provincial shopkeepers.  Without him large sections of the public would probably remain ignorant for years of new brands of cigarettes, and dyspeptic people might never come across the foods which Americans prepare for their use.

Also the individual bagman is often not without his charm.  He knows, if not courts and princes, at least hotels and railway companies.  He is on terms of easy familiarity with every ‘boots’ in several counties.  He can calculate to a nicety how long a train is likely to be delayed by a fair ‘somewhere along the line.’  He is also full of information about local politics.  In Connaught, for instance, an experienced member of the profession will gauge for you the exact strength of the existing League in any district.  He knows what publicans may be regarded as ’priest’s men,’ and who have leanings towards independence.  His knowledge is frequently minute, and he can prophesy the result of a District Council election by reckoning up the number of leading men who read the United Irishman, and weighing them against those who delight in the pages of the Leader.  The men who can do these things are themselves local.  They reside in their district, and, as a rule, push the sales and collect the debts of local brewers and flour-merchants.  The representatives of the larger English firms only make their rounds twice or three times a year, and are less interesting.  They pay the penalty of being cosmopolitan, and tend to become superficial in their judgment of men and things.

Hyacinth, like most members of the public, was ignorant of the greatness and interest of his new profession.  He entered upon it with some misgiving, and viewed his trunk of sample blankets and shawls with disgust.  Even a new overcoat, though warm and weatherproof, afforded him little joy, being itself a sample of Mr. Quinn’s frieze.  One thought alone cheered him, and even generated a little enthusiasm for his work.  It occurred to him that in selling the produce of the Ballymoy Mill he was advancing the industrial revival of Ireland.  He knew that other people, quite heroic figures, were working for the same end.  A Government Board found joyous scope for the energies of its officials in giving advice to people who wanted to cure fish or make lace.  It earned the blessing which is to rest upon those who are reviled and evil spoken of, for no one, except literary people, who write for English magazines, ever had a good word for it.  There were also those ­their activity took the form of letters to the newspapers ­who desired to utilize the artistic capacity of the Celt, and to enrich the world with beautiful fabrics and carpentry.  They, too, were workers in the cause of the revival.  Then there were great ladies, the very cream of the Anglo-Irish aristocracy, who petted tweeds and stockings, and offered magnificent prizes to industrious cottagers.  They earned quite large sums of money for their proteges by holding sales in places like Belfast and Manchester, where titles can be judiciously cheapened to a wealthy bourgeoisie, and the wives of ship-builders and cotton-spinners will spend cheerfully in return for the privilege of shaking hands with a Countess.  A crowd of minor enthusiasts fostered such industries as sprigging, and there was one man who believed that the future prosperity of Ireland might be secured by teaching people to make dolls.  It was altogether a noble army, and even a commercial traveller might hold his head high in the world if he counted himself one of its soldiers.  Hitherto results have not been at all commensurate with the amount of printer’s ink expended in magazine articles and advertisements.  Yet something has been accomplished.  Nunneries here and there have been induced to accept presents of knitting-machines, and people have begun to regard as somehow sacred the words ‘technical education.’  The National Board of Education has also spent a large sum of money in reviving among its teachers the almost forgotten art of making paper boats.

Hyacinth very soon discovered that his patriotic view of this work did not commend itself to his brother travellers.  He found that they had no feeling but one of contempt for people whom they regarded as meddling amateurs.  Occasionally, when some convent, under a bustling Mother Superior, advanced from the region of half-charitable sales at exhibitions into the competition of the open market, contempt became dislike, and wishes were expressed in quite unsuitable language that the good ladies would mind their own proper business.  Until Hyacinth learnt to conceal his hopes of Ireland’s future as a manufacturing country he was regarded with suspicion.  No one, of course, objected to his making what use he could of patriotism as an advertisement, but he was given to understand that, like other advertisements, it could not be quoted among the initiated without a serious breach of good manners.  Even as an advertisement it was not rated highly.

There was an elderly gentleman, stout and somewhat bibulous, who superintended the consumption of certain brands of American cigarettes in the province of Connaught.  Hyacinth met him in the exceedingly dirty Railway Hotel at Knock.  Since there were no other guests, and the evening was wet, the two were thrown upon each other’s society in the commercial-room.

‘I don’t think,’ said Mr. Hollywell, in reply to a remark of Hyacinth’s, ’that there’s the least use trying to drag patriotic sentiment into business.  Of course, since you represent an Irish house ­woollen goods, I think you said ­you’re quite right to run the fact for all it’s worth.  I don’t in the least blame you.  Only I don’t think you’ll find it pays.’

He sipped his whisky-and-water ­it was still early, and he had only arrived at his third glass ­and then proceeded to give his personal experience.

’Now, I work for an American firm.  If there was any force in the patriotic idea I shouldn’t sell a single cigarette.  My people are in the big tobacco combine.  You must have read the sort of things the newspapers wrote about us when we started.  From any point of view, British Imperial or Irish National, we should have been boycotted long ago if patriotism had anything to do with trade.  But look at the facts.  Our chief rivals in this district are two Irish firms.  They advertise in Gaelic, which is a mistake to start with, because nobody can read it.  They get the newspaper people to write articles recommending a “great home industry” to public support.  They get local branches of all the different leagues to pass resolutions pledging their members to smoke only Irish tobacco.  But until quite lately they simply didn’t have a look in.’

‘Why?’ asked Hyacinth.  ‘Were your things cheaper or better?’

‘No,’ said the other, ’I don’t think they were either.  You see, prices are bound to come out pretty even in the long run, and I should say that, if anything, they sold a slightly better article.  It’s hard to say exactly why we beat them.  When competition is really keen a lot of little things that you would hardly notice make all the difference.  For one thing, I get a free hand in the matter of subscribing to local bazaars and race-meetings.  I’ve often taken as much as a pound’s worth of tickets for a five-pound note that some priest was raffling in aid of a new chapel.  It’s wonderful the orders you can get from shopkeepers in that kind of way.  Then, we get our things up better.  Look at that.’

He handed Hyacinth a highly-glazed packet with a picture of a handsome brown dog on it.

‘Keep it,’ said Mr. Hollywell.  ’I give away twenty or thirty of those packets every week.  Now look inside.  What have you?  Oh, H.M.S. Majestic.  That’s one of a series of photos of “Britain’s first line of defence.”  Lots of people go on buying those cigarettes just to get a complete collection of the photos.  We supply an album to keep them in for one and sixpence.  There’s another of our makes which has pictures of actresses and pretty women.  They are extraordinarily popular.  They’re perfectly all right, of course, from the moral point of view, but one in every ten is in tights or sitting with her legs very much crossed, just to keep up the expectation.  It’s very queer the people who go for those photos.  You’d expect it to be young men, but it isn’t.’

The subject was not particularly interesting to Hyacinth, but since his companion was evidently anxious to go on talking, he asked the expected question.

‘Young women,’ said Mr. Hollywell.  ’I found it out quite by accident.  I got a lot of complaints from one particular town that our cigarettes had no photos with them.  I discovered after a while that a girl in one of the principal shops had hit on a dodge for getting out the photos without apparently injuring the packets.  The funny thing was that she never touched the ironclads or the “Types of the soldiers of all nations,” which you might have thought would interest her, but she collared every single actress, and had duplicates of most of them.  And she wasn’t an exception.  Most girls goad their young men to buy these cigarettes and make collections of the photos.  Queer, isn’t it?  I can’t imagine why they do it.’

‘You said just now,’ said Hyacinth, ’that latterly you hadn’t done quite so well.  Did you run out of actresses and battleships?’

’No; but one of the Irish firms took to offering prizes and enclosing coupons.  You collected twenty coupons, and you got a silver-backed looking-glass ­girls again, you see ­or two thousand coupons, and you got a new bicycle.  It’s an old dodge, of course, but somehow it always seems to pay.  However, all this doesn’t matter to you.  All I wanted was to show you that there is no use relying on patriotism.  The thing to go in for in any business is attractive novelties, cheap lines, and, in the country shops, long credit.’

It was not very long before Hyacinth began to realize the soundness of Mr. Hollywell’s contempt for patriotism.  In the town of Clogher he found the walls placarded with the advertisements of an ultra-patriotic draper.  ‘Feach Annseo,’ he read, ’The Irish House.  Support Home Manufactures.’  Another placard was even more vehement in its appeal.  ‘Why curse England,’ it asked, ‘and support her manufactures?’ Try O’Reilly, the one-price man.’  The sentiments were so admirable that Hyacinth followed the advice and tried O’Reilly.

The shop was crowded when he entered, for it was market day in Clogher.  The Irish country-people, whose manners otherwise are the best in the world, have one really objectionable habit.  In the street or in a crowded building they push their way to the spot they want to reach, without the smallest regard for the feelings of anyone who happens to be in the way.  Sturdy country-women, carrying baskets which doubled the passage room they required, hustled Hyacinth into a corner, and for a time defeated his efforts to emerge.  Getting his case of samples safely between his legs, he amused himself watching the patriot shopkeeper and his assistants conducting their business.  It was perfectly obvious that in one respect the announcements of the attractive placard departed from the truth:  O’Reilly was not a ‘one-price man,’ He charged for every article what he thought his customers were likely to pay.  The result was that every sale involved prolonged bargaining and heated argument.  In most cases no harm was done.  The country-women were keenly alive to the value of their money, and evidently enjoyed the process of beating down the price by halfpennies until the real value of the article was reached.  Then Mr. O’Reilly and his assistants were accustomed to close the haggle with a beautiful formula: 

‘To you,’ they said, with confidential smiles and flattering emphasis on the pronoun ­’to you the price will be one and a penny; but, really, there will be no profit on the sale.’

Occasionally with timid and inexperienced customers O’Reilly’s method proved its value.  Hyacinth saw him sell a dress-length of serge to a young woman with a baby in her arms for a penny a yard more than he had charged a moment before for the same material.  Another thing which struck him as he watched was the small amount of actual cash which was paid across the counter.  Most of the women, even those who seemed quite poor, had accounts in the shop, and did not shrink from increasing them.  Once or twice a stranger presented some sort of a letter of introduction, and was at once accommodated with apparently unlimited credit.

At length there was a lull in the business, and Hyacinth succeeded in spreading his goods on a vacant counter, and attracting the attention of Mr. O’Reilly.  He began with shawls.

‘I hope,’ he said, ’that you will give me a good order for these shawls.’

Mr. O’Reilly fingered them knowingly.

‘Price?’ he said.

Hyacinth mentioned a sum which left a fair margin of profit for Mr. Quinn.  O’Reilly shook his head and laughed.

‘Can’t do it.’

Hyacinth reduced his price at once as far as possible.

‘No use,’ said Mr. O’Reilly.

Compared with the suave oratory to which he treated his customers, this extreme economy of words was striking.

‘See here,’ he said, producing a bundle of shawls from a shelf beside him.  ’I get these for twenty-five shillings a dozen less from Thompson and Taylor of Manchester.’

Hyacinth looked at them curiously.  Each bore a prominent label setting forth a name for the garment in large letters surrounded with wreaths of shamrocks.  ‘The Colleen Bawn,’ he read, ‘Erin’s Own,’ ’The Kathleen Mavourneen,’ ‘The Cruiskeen Lawn.’  The appropriateness of this last title was not obvious to the mere Irishman, but the colour of the garment was green, so perhaps there was a connection of thought in the maker’s mind between that and ‘Lawn.’  ‘Cruiskeen’ he may have taken for the name of a place.

‘Are these,’ asked Hyacinth, ‘what you advertise as Irish goods?’

Mr. O’Reilly cleared his throat twice before he replied.

‘They are got up specially for the Irish market.’  In the interests of his employer Hyacinth kept his temper, but the effort was a severe one.

‘These,’ he said, ’are half cotton.  Mine are pure wool.  They are really far better value even if they were double the price.’

Mr. O’Reilly shrugged his shoulders.

’I don’t say they’re not, but I should not sell one of yours for every dozen of the others.’

‘Try,’ said Hyacinth; ’give them a fair chance.  Tell the people that they will last twice as long.  Tell them that they are made in Ireland.’

’That would not be the slightest use.  They would simply laugh in my face.  My customers don’t care a pin where the goods are made.  I have never in my life been asked for Irish manufacture.’

‘Then, why on earth do you stick up those advertisements?’ said Hyacinth, pointing to the ‘Feach Annseo’ which appeared on a hoarding across the street.

Mr. O’Reilly was perfectly frank and unashamed.

’The other drapery house in the town is owned by a Scotchman, and of course it pays more or less to keep on saying that I am Irish.  Besides, I mean to stand for the Urban Council in March, and those sort of ads. are useful at an election, even if they are no good for business.’

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ said Hyacinth, shirking a discussion on the morality of advertising:  ’I’ll let you have a dozen shawls at cost price, and take back what you can’t sell, if you give me your word to do your best for them.’

Similar discussions followed the display of serges and blankets.  It appeared that nice-looking goods could be sent over from England at lower prices.  It was vain for Hyacinth to press the fact that his things were better.  Mr. O’Reilly admitted as much.

’But what am I to do?  The people don’t want what is good.  They want a cheap article which looks well, and they don’t care a pin whether the thing is made in England, Ireland, or America.  Take my advice,’ he added as Hyacinth left the shop:  ’get your boss to do inferior lines ­cheap, cheap and showy.’

So far Mr. Hollywell’s opinions were entirely justified.  The appeal of the patriotic press to the public and the shopkeepers on behalf of the industrial revival of Ireland had certainly not affected the town of Clogher.  Hyacinth was bitterly disappointed; but hope, when it is born of enthusiasm, dies hard, and he was greatly interested in a speech which he read one day in the ‘Mayo Telegraph’.  It had been made at a meeting of the League by an Ardnaree shopkeeper called Dowling.  A trade rival ­the fact of the rivalry was not emphasized ­had advertised in a Scotch paper for a milliner.  Dowling was exceedingly indignant.  He quoted emigration statistics showing the number of girls who left Mayo every year for the United States.  He pointed out that all of them might be employed at home, as milliners or otherwise, if only the public would boycott shops which sold English goods or employed Scotch milliners.  He more than suspected that the obnoxious advertisement was part of an organized attempt to effect a new plantation of Connaught ­’worse than Cromwell’s was.’  The fact that Connaught was the only part of Ireland which Cromwell did not propose to plant escaped the notice of both Mr. Dowling and his audience.  The speech concluded with a passionate peroration and a verse, no doubt declaimed soundingly, of ’The West’s Awake.’

Hyacinth made an expedition to Ardnaree, and called hopefully on the orator.  His reception was depressing in the extreme.  The shop, which was large and imposing, was stocked with goods which were obviously English, and Mr. Dowling curtly refused even to look at the samples of Mr. Quinn’s manufactures.  Hyacinth quoted his own speech to the man, and was amazed at the cynical indifference with which he ignored the dilemma.

‘Business is one thing,’ he said, ’and politics is something entirely different.’

Hyacinth lost his temper completely.

‘I shall write to the papers,’ he said, Vand expose you.  I shall have your speech reprinted, and along with it an account of the way you conduct your business.’

A mean, hard smile crossed Mr. Dowling’s mouth before he answered: 

‘Perhaps you don’t know that my wife is the Archbishop’s niece?’

Hyacinth stared at him.  For a minute or two he entirely failed to understand what Mrs. Dowling’s relationship to a great ecclesiastic had to do with the question.  At last a light broke on him.

’You mean that an editor wouldn’t print my letter because he would be afraid of offending a Roman Catholic Archbishop?’

The expression ‘Roman Catholic’ caught Mr. Dowling’s attention.

‘Are you a Protestant?’ he asked.  ’You are ­a dirty Protestant ­and you dare to come here into my own house, and insult me and trample on my religious convictions.  I’m a Catholic and a member of the League.  What do you mean, you Souper, you Sour-face, by talking to me about Irish manufactures?  Get out of this house, and go to the hell that’s waiting for you!’

As Hyacinth turned to go, there flashed across his mind the recollection of Miss Goold and her friends who wrote for the Croppy.

‘There’s one paper in Ireland, anyhow,’ he said, ’which is not afraid of your wife nor your Archbishop.  I’ll write to the Croppy, and you’ll see if they won’t publish the facts.’

Mr. Dowling grinned.

‘I don’t care if they do,’ he said.  ’The priests are dead against the Croppy, and there’s hardly a man in the town reads it.  Go up there now to Hely’s and try if you can buy a copy.  I tell you it isn’t on sale here at all, and whatever they publish will do me no harm.’

When Hyacinth returned to the hotel he found Mr. Holywell seated, with the inevitable whisky-and-water beside him, in the commercial-room.

‘Well, Mr. Conneally,’ he said, ’and how is patriotism paying you?  Find people ready to buy what’s Irish?’

Hyacinth, boiling over with indignation, related his experience with Mr. Dowling.

‘What did I tell you?’ said Mr. Hollywell.  ’But anyhow you’re just as well out of a deal with that fellow.  I wouldn’t care to do business with him myself.  I happen to know, and you may take my word for it ’ ­his voice sunk to a confidential whisper ­’that he’s very deep in the books of two English firms, and that he daren’t ­simply daren’t ­place an order with anyone else.  They’d have him in the Bankruptcy Court to-morrow if he did.  I shouldn’t feel easy with Mr. Dowling’s cheque for an account until I saw how the clerk took it across the bank counter.  You mark my words, there’ll be a fire in that establishment before the year’s out.’

The prophecy was fulfilled, as Hyacinth learnt from the Mayo Telegraphy and Mr. Dowling’s whole stock of goods was consumed.  There were rumours that a sceptical insurance company made difficulties about paying the compensation demanded; but the inhabitants of Ardnaree marked their confidence in the husband of an Archbishop’s niece by presenting him with an address of sympathy and a purse containing ten sovereigns.

Most of Hyacinth’s business was done with small shopkeepers in remote districts.  The country-people who lived out of reach of such centres of fashion as Ardnaree and Clogher were sufficiently unsophisticated to prefer things which were really good.  Hats and bonnets were not quite universal among the women in the mountain districts far back where they spoke Irish, and Mr. Quinn’s head-kerchiefs were still in request.  Even the younger women wanted garments which would keep them warm and dry, and Hyacinth often returned well satisfied from a tour of the country shops.  Sometimes he doubted whether he ought to trust the people with more than a few pounds’ worth of goods, but he gradually learnt that, unlike the patriotic Mr. Dowling, they were universally honest.  He discovered, too, that these people, with their imperfect English and little knowledge of the world, were exceedingly shrewd.  They had very little real confidence in oratorical politicians, and their interest in public affairs went no further than voting consistently for the man their priest recommended.  But they quickly understood Hyacinth’s arguments when he told them that the support of Irish manufactures would help to save their sons and daughters from the curse of emigration.

‘Faith, sir,’ said a shopkeeper who kept a few blankets and tweeds among his flour-sacks and porter-barrels, ’since you were talking to the boys last month, I couldn’t induce one of them to take the foreign stuff if I was to offer him a shilling along with it.’