The　Man　Who　Was　Thursday
  by　G。　K。　Chesterton
  A　WILD；　MAD；　HILARIOUS　AND　PROFOUNDLY　MOVING　TALE
  It　is　very　difficult　to　classify　THE　MAN　WHO　WAS　THURSDAY。　It　is　possible　to　say　that　it　is　a　gripping　adventure　story　of　murderous　criminals　and　brilliant　policemen；　but　it　was　to　be　expected　that　the　author　of　the　Father　Brown　stories　should　tell　a　detective　story　like　no…one　else。　On　this　level；　therefore；　THE　MAN　WHO　WAS　THURSDAY　succeeds　superbly；　if　nothing　else；　it　is　a　magnificent　tour…de…force　of　suspense…writing。
  However；　the　reader　will　soon　discover　that　it　is　much　more　than　that。　Carried　along　on　the　boisterous　rush　of　the　narrative　by　Chesterton's　wonderful　high…spirited　style；　he　will　soon　see　that　he　is　being　carried　into　much　deeper　waters　than　he　had　planned　on；　and　the　totally　unforeseeable　denouement　will　prove　for　the　modern　reader；　as　it　has　for　thousands　of　others　since　1908　when　the　book　was　first　published；　an　inevitable　and　moving　experience；　as　the　investigators　finally　discover　who　Sunday　is。
  THE　MAN　WHO　WAS　THURSDAY
  A　NIGHTMARE
  G。　K。　CHESTERTON
  To　Edmund　Clerihew　Bentley
  A　cloud　was　on　the　mind　of　men；　and　wailing　went　the　weather；　Yea；　a　sick　cloud　upon　the　soul　when　we　were　boys　together。　Science　announced　nonentity　and　art　admired　decay；　The　world　was　old　and　ended：　but　you　and　I　were　gay；　Round　us　in　antic　order　their　crippled　vices　came　Lust　that　had　lost　its　laughter；　fear　that　had　lost　its　shame。　Like　the　white　lock　of　Whistler；　that　lit　our　aimless　gloom；　Men　showed　their　own　white　feather　as　proudly　as　a　plume。　Life　was　a　fly　that　faded；　and　death　a　drone　that　stung；　The　world　was　very　old　indeed　when　you　and　I　were　young。　They　twisted　even　decent　sin　to　shapes　not　to　be　named：　Men　were　ashamed　of　honour；　but　we　were　not　ashamed。　Weak　if　we　were　and　foolish；　not　thus　we　failed；　not　thus；　When　that　black　Baal　blocked　the　heavens　he　had　no　hymns　from　us　Children　we　wereour　forts　of　sand　were　even　as　weak　as　eve；　High　as　they　went　we　piled　them　up　to　break　that　bitter　sea。　Fools　as　we　were　in　motley；　all　jangling　and　absurd；　When　all　church　bells　were　silent　our　cap　and　beds　were　heard。
  Not　all　unhelped　we　held　the　fort；　our　tiny　flags　unfurled；　Some　giants　laboured　in　that　cloud　to　lift　it　from　the　world。　I　find　again　the　book　we　found；　I　feel　the　hour　that　flings　Far　out　of　fish…shaped　Paumanok　some　cry　of　cleaner　things；　And　the　Green　Carnation　withered；　as　in　forest　fires　that　pass；　Roared　in　the　wind　of　all　the　world　ten　million　leaves　of　grass；　Or　sane　and　sweet　and　sudden　as　a　bird　sings　in　the　rain　Truth　out　of　Tusitala　spoke　and　pleasure　out　of　pain。　Yea；　cool　and　clear　and　sudden　as　a　bird　sings　in　the　grey；　Dunedin　to　Samoa　spoke；　and　darkness　unto　day。　But　we　were　young；　we　lived　to　see　God　break　their　bitter　charms。　God　and　the　good　Republic　come　riding　back　in　arms：　We　have　seen　the　City　of　Mansoul；　even　as　it　rocked；　relieved　Blessed　are　they　who　did　not　see；　but　being　blind；　believed。
  This　is　a　tale　of　those　old　fears；　even　of　those　emptied　hells；　And　none　but　you　shall　understand　the　true　thing　that　it　tells　Of　what　colossal　gods　of　shame　could　cow　men　and　yet　crash；　Of　what　huge　devils　hid　the　stars；　yet　fell　at　a　pistol　flash。　The　doubts　that　were　so　plain　to　chase；　so　dreadful　to　withstand　Oh；　who　shall　understand　but　you；　yea；　who　shall　understand？　The　doubts　that　drove　us　through　the　night　as　we　two　talked　amain；　And　day　had　broken　on　the　streets　e'er　it　broke　upon　the　brain。　Between　us；　by　the　peace　of　God；　such　truth　can　now　be　told；　Yea；　there　is　strength　in　striking　root　and　good　in　growing　old。　We　have　found　common　things　at　last　and　marriage　and　a　creed；　And　I　may　safely　write　it　now；　and　you　may　safely　read。
  G。　K。　C。
  CHAPTER　I
  THE　TWO　POETS　OF　SAFFRON　PARK
  THE　suburb　of　Saffron　Park　lay　on　the　sunset　side　of　London；　as　red　and　ragged　as　a　cloud　of　sunset。　It　was　built　of　a　bright　brick　throughout；　its　sky…line　was　fantastic；　and　even　its　ground　plan　was　wild。　It　had　been　the　outburst　of　a　speculative　builder；　faintly　tinged　with　art；　who　called　its　architecture　sometimes　Elizabethan　and　sometimes　Queen　Anne；　apparently　under　the　impression　that　the　two　sovereigns　were　identical。　It　was　described　with　some　justice　as　an　artistic　colony；　though　it　never　in　any　definable　way　produced　any　art。　But　although　its　pretensions　to　be　an　intellectual　centre　were　a　little　vague；　its　pretensions　to　be　a　pleasant　place　were　quite　indisputable。　The　stranger　who　looked　for　the　first　time　at　the　quaint　red　houses　could　only　think　how　very　oddly　shaped　the　people　must　be　who　could　fit　in　to　them。　Nor　when　he　met　the　people　was　he　disappointed　in　this　respect。　The　place　was　not　only　pleasant；　but　perfect；　if　once　he　could　regard　it　not　as　a　deception　but　rather　as　a　dream。　Even　if　the　people　were　not　〃artists；〃　the　whole　was　nevertheless　artistic。　That　young　man　with　the　long；　auburn　hair　and　the　impudent　facethat　young　man　was　not　really　a　poet；　but　surely　he　was　a　poem。　That　old　gentleman　with　the　wild；　white　beard　and　the　wild；　white　hatthat　venerable　humbug　was　not　really　a　philosopher；　but　at　least　he　was　the　cause　of　philosophy　in　others。　That　scientific　gentleman　with　the　bald；　egg…like　head　and　the　bare；　bird…like　neck　had　no　real　right　to　the　airs　of　science　that　he　assumed。　He　had　not　discovered　anything　new　in　biology；　but　what　biological　creature　could　he　have　discovered　more　singular　than　himself？　Thus；　and　thus　only；　the　whole　place　had　properly　to　be　regarded；　it　had　to　be　considered　not　so　much　as　a　workshop　for　artists；　but　as　a　frail　but　finished　work　of　art。　A　man　who　stepped　into　its　social　atmosphere　felt　as　if　he　had　stepped　into　a　written　comedy。
  More　especially　this　attractive　unreality　fell　upon　it　about　nightfall；　when　the　extravagant　roofs　were　dark　against　the　afterglow　and　the　whole　insane　village　seemed　as　separate　as　a　drifting　cloud。　This　again　was　more　strongly　true　of　the　many　nights　of　local　festivity；　when　the　little　gardens　were　often　illuminated；　and　the　big　Chinese　lanterns　glowed　in　the　dwarfish　trees　like　some　fierce　and　monstrous　fruit。　And　this　was　strongest　of　all　on　one　particular　evening；　still　vaguely　remembered　in　the　locality；　of　which　the　auburn…haired　poet　was　the　hero。　It　was　not　by　any　means　the　only　evening　of　which　he　was　the　hero。　On　many　nights　those　passing　by　his　little　back　garden　might　hear　his　high；　didactic　voice　laying　down　the　law　to　men　and　particularly　to　women。　The　attitude　of　women　in　such　cases　was　indeed　one　of　the　paradoxes　of　the　place。　Most　of　the　women　were　of　the　kind　vaguely　called　emancipated；　and　professed　some　protest　against　male　supremacy。　Yet　these　new　women　would　always　pay　to　a　man　the　extravagant　compliment　which　no　ordinary　woman　ever　pays　to　him；　that　of　listening　while　he　is　talking。　And　Mr。　Lucian　Gregory；　the　red…haired　poet；　was　really　（in　some　sense）　a　man　worth　listening　to；　even　if　one　only　laughed　at　the　end　of　it。　He　put　the　old　cant　of　the　lawlessness　of　art　and　the　art　of　lawlessness　with　a　certain　impudent　freshness　which　gave　at　least　a　momentary　pleasure。　He　was　helped　in　some　degree　by　the　arresting　oddity　of　his　appearance；　which　he　worked；　as　the　phrase　goes；　for　all　it　was　worth。　His　dark　red　hair　parted　in　the　middle　was　literally　like　a　woman's；　and　curved　into　the　slow　curls　of　a　virgin　in　a　pre…Raphaelite　picture。　From　within　this　almost　saintly　oval；　however；　his　face　projected　suddenly　broad　and　brutal；　the　chin　carried　forward　with　a　look　of　cockney　contempt。　This　combination　at　once　tickled　and　terrified　the　nerves　of　a　neurotic　population。　He　seemed　like　a　walking　blasphemy；　a　blend　of　the　angel　and　the　ape。
  This　particular　evening；　if　it　is　remembered　for　nothing　else；　will　be　remembered　in　that　place　for　its　strange　sunset。　It　looked　like　the　end　of　the　world。　All　the　heaven　seemed　covered　with　a　quite　vivid　and　palpable　plumage；　you　could　only　say　that　the　sky　was　full　of　feathers；　and　of　feathers　that　almost　brushed　the　face。　Across　the　great　part　of　the　dome　they　were　grey；　with　the　strangest　tints　of　violet　and　mauve　and　an　unnatural　pink　or　pale　green；　but　towards　the　west　the　whole　grew　past　description；　transparent　and　passionate；　and　the　last　red…hot　plumes　of　it　covered　up　the　sun　like　something　too　good　to　be　seen。　The　whole　was　so　close　about　the　earth；　as　to　express　nothing　but　a　violent　secrecy。　The　very　empyrean　seemed　to　be　a　secret。　It　expressed　that　splendid　smallness　which　is　the　soul　of　local　patriotism。　The　very　sky　seemed　small。
  I　say　that　there　are　some　inhabitants　who　may　remember　the　evening　if　only　by　that　oppressive　sky。　There　are　others　who　may　remember　it　because　it　marked　the　first　appearance　in　the　place　of　the　second　poet　of　Saffron　Park。　For　a　long　time　the　red…haired　revolutionary　had　reigned　without　a　rival；　it　was　upon　the　night　of　the　sunset　that　his　solitude　suddenly　ended。　The　new　poet；　who　introduced　himself　by　the　name　of　Gabriel　Syme　was　a　very　mild…looking　mortal；　with　a　fair；　pointed　beard　and　faint；　yellow　hair。　But　an　impression　grew　that　he　was　less　meek　than　he　looked。　He　signalised　his　entrance　by　differing　with　the　established　poet；　Gregory；　upon　the　whole　nature