omewhere on the
outskirts of Lahore city stands a mazy gathering of tombs and cloister
walks called Chajju Bhagat's Chubara, built no one knows when and
decaying no one cares how soon. Though this temple was large and
spotlessly clean within and without, the silence and rest of the place
were those of the courtyards in the far-off Punjab. The priests had made
many gardens in corners of the wall--gardens perhaps forty feet long by
twenty wide, and each, though different from its neighbour, containing a
little pond with goldfish, a stone lantern or two, hummocks of rock,
flat stones carved with inscriptions, and a cherry or peach tree all
blossom.

Stone-paved paths ran across the courtyard and connected building with
building. In an inner enclosure, where lay the prettiest garden of all,
was a golden tablet ten or twelve feet high, against which stood in high
relief of hammered bronze the figure of a goddess in flowing robes. The
space between the paved paths here was strewn with snowy-white pebbles,
and in white pebbles on red they had written on the ground, "How happy."
You might take them as you pleased--for the sigh of contentment or the
question of despair.

The temple itself, reached by a wooden bridge, was nearly dark, but
there was light enough to show a hundred subdued splendours of brown and
gold, of silk and faithfully painted screen. If you have once seen a
Buddhist altar where the Master of the Law sits among golden bells,
ancient bronzes, flowers in vases, and banners of tapestry, you will
begin to understand why the Roman Catholic Church once prospered so
mightily in this country, and will prosper in all lands where it finds
an elaborate ritual already existing. An art-loving folk will have a God
who is to be propitiated with pretty things as surely as a race bred
among rocks and moors and driving clouds will enshrine their deity in
the storm, and make him the austere recipient of the sacrifice of the
rebellious human spirit. Do you remember the story of the Bad People of
Iquique? The man who told me that yarn told me another--of the Good
People of Somewhere Else. They also were simple South Americans with
nothing to wear, and had been conducting a service of their own in
honour of their God before a black-jowled Jesuit father. At a critical
moment some one forgot the ritual, or a monkey invaded the sanctity of
that forest shrine and stole the priest's only garment. Anyhow, an
absurdity happened, and the