legitimately send the whole staff (if any) away for a holiday, and commandeer the entire kitchen equipment. This point is more important than you may suppose; since if the staff are at home and you want to use the basement bucket or the soft broom (both of which are essential for efficient whitewashing) it is almost certain that they will at the same time want to put them to some preposterous use of their own; and this causes either delay or friction, probably both. Besides, they keep bustling about behind you and saying, “’T’t, ’t’t,” or “Busy to-day!” in a surprised voice. This is most irritating, and an irritated painter always goes over the edges.

When you have got rid of the staff (if any) you can get to work on the scullery and whitewash the ceiling. Whitewashing is much superior to painting. Painting looks lovely while you are doing it, but is very horrible when it is dry, being streaky or blistery or covered with long hairs. Whitewash looks horrible while you are doing it, but marvellous when it is dry, which is much more satisfactory. In a life of average prosperity and no small public distinction, including an intimacy with a professional tenor and two or three free lunches with noblemen, I can recall few moments of such genuine rapture as the one when you creep down to the basement to find the whitewash dry at last and brilliant as the driven snow.

The other thing about whitewashing is that it is done with a broom, not with a finicking brush and a small pot, but a good fat bucket and the housemaid’s soft-broom. In this way you can really get some bravura into your work. And, except perhaps for watering the garden with a hose, there is no quicker way of making a really good mess. Whitewashing by this method, I find that it takes much longer to remove the whitewash from the floors and other places where it is not intended to go than it does to put the whitewash on the places where it is intended to go; but the charwoman does the removing on Easter Tuesday, and I still think that that method is the best. Especially, perhaps, for outside walls, because in one’s artistic frenzy it is usual to cover most of the rose-trees with whitewash; they look then like those whitewashed orchards, and visitors think you are a scientific gardener, combating Plant Pests.

Personally I don’t pay too much attention to the rather arbitrary rules on painting laid down by the Painters’ Union. Life is too short. For instance, I don’t put my brushes in turpentine when I have finished for the day; and if I do I put the green brush and the light-blue brush and the black brush and the white brush in the same pot, and terrible things happen. I don’t like my art to be hampered by petty notions of economy, and if brushes persist in crystallising into tooth-brushes when left to themselves for an hour or two I simply use a new brush.

Nor do I insist on “cleaning thoroughly the surface before the paint is applied.” Anyone who sets out in practice to clean thoroughly the surface of the basement before applying the paint will find that the Easter holidays have slipped away long before any paint is applied at all. Besides, one of the main objects of paint is to hide the dirt, so why waste time in removing it?

On the other hand, I am not content with mere painting; I go in thoroughly for all the refinements like driers and varnishes and gold-size. Driers and gold-size are extremely necessary when painting the basement, because if there is one thing the staff enjoy more than tea-cups coming away in the ’and, it is really rubbing themselves against wet paint and wandering round muttering complaints about it. Without a driers or some drier or whatever it is, the basement remains wet for ever, and all work ceases while the staff amble about, ecstatically rubbing themselves against the doorposts and saying “T’tt, t’tt,” in a meaning way.

It is a sad quality of oil-paint that when it is dry it no longer looks so lovely and shiny as it looks when it is wet. It was found that the sense of disappointment which this produced was greater than the Painters’ Union could bear; so someone, in order to prevent industrial strife, invented some stuff called varnish, by which, at the very moment of disillusion, the maximum of shininess can be again produced with the minimum of effort. It is one of the few inventions which make a man grateful for the advance of science.

Well, that is all there is about painting. The only difficulty, once you have begun, is to know when to stop. Painting is a kind of fever. The painting of a single chair makes the whole room look dirty; so the whole room has to be painted. Then, of course, the outside of the windows has to be brought up to the same standard; and if once you have painted the outside of a window you are practically committed to painting the whole house.

The only thing that stops me painting is a turpentine crisis, which usually occurs just before church on Sunday morning, when one has three workmanlike coats of glossy enamel or pale-green on one’s hands. Week-end painters should keep a close eye on the situation, and cease work while there is yet sufficient turpentine to cope with the workmanlike coats; for I find that in these days the churchwardens look askance at you if you put in a penny with a pale-green hand.

The extraordinary thing is that this painting fever doesn’t seem to afflict professional painters; they know exactly when to stop. But then they don’t appreciate the luxury of their lot. They don’t realise that theirs is one of the few forms of labour in which a man has some tangible result (well, not tangible, perhaps) to show for his work at the end of the day. There is nothing more satisfactory than that. It is true, no doubt, that the professional painter would rather have a windy article like this to show; all I can say is I would rather have a bright-blue basement or a middle-green conservatory.

A.P.H.

Young Lady (making conversation). “How perfectly sweet! I’m sure I must have been there. I remember those glorious pines.”

Real Artist. “I call that ‘The Fertilising Influence of the Sun’s Rays on the Mind of a Poet lost in Thought.’”

Young Lady. “How perfectly sweet! No wonder he lost it, poor darling.“

THE EVE OF GREAT POSSIBILITIES.

In a Press sighing deeply over the various Labour crises there is the glad news that Mr. Clem Edwards, M.P. (barrister), of the National Democratic Party, has made a match with Mr. James Walton, M.P. (miner), of the Labour Party, to “hew, fill and train two tons of coal in the shortest time for fifty pounds a side.” The contest is to take place at Whitsuntide.

We hope that more Members of Parliament will follow suit, and challenge each other to feats of wholesome toil, to the great benefit of the nation.

In time no doubt the idea would take on with the masses and an immense amount of useful work would be performed disguised as sport. August Bank Holiday might become the great yearly fixture for a sort of Gentlemen v. Players bricklaying competition, and we may one day read of huge crowds being attracted to the East India Docks on Easter Monday to watch stockbrokers, flushed with their victory of Boxing Day, playing a return match with the dockers at unloading margarine. The movement might expand until even on Labour Day work would be in progress.

All this is, however, remote, but the solid fact remains