There is a drive round the Argelès valley, which on a fine day is simply splendid, and ought certainly not to be missed. At ten a.m. a landau with two good horses was at the door, and away we went towards Argelès station, across the line, over a new piece of road, and then across a rather shaky, but wholly quaint, wooden bridge (under which flows the Gave de Pau) to the base of the hills. As we continued along this road in the direction of Pierrefitte, the views of the mountains on the Argelès side were especially fine. The Pic d'Arrens (7435 ft.) and the Col de Tortes (5903 ft.), with the wild Pic de Gabizos (8808 ft.) with its toothed summits, behind it—in the direction of Eaux Bonnes: over Pierrefitte the Pic de Soulom (5798 ft.), the Pic de Viscos (7025 ft.), and far up the Cauterets valley the Cabaliros (7655 ft.), the Pic de Labassa (9781 ft.), and the Pyramide de Peyrelance (8800 ft. about). An especially interesting part arrives, as the road approaches the wonderful old ruin of the Château de Beaucens (with "oubliettes" towers, a "donjon" of the 14th century, and west walls of the 16th ditto), which stands on the left, not far from the village of the same name. Crossing the river again, we just managed to pass over some newly-laid road, to the village of Villelongue—above which, on the left, towers the imposing Pic de Villelongue—and soon after found ourselves beside the river again at the foot of the Pic de Soulom, where it is very lovely, and crossing another bridge, reached Soulom itself. It seemed to us an old and somewhat dirty town—not to say filthy—but the church is worthy of a visit. It was formerly fortified, and the construction of the belfry—if such it can be called—is curious. The inscription over the door, "This is the house of God and the gate of heaven," written in Latin, seems somewhat grotesque for such a building, although the dome is painted to represent the sky in all the "intensity" of a starlight night. A few yards along the road and we stood on the bridge over the "Gave de Cauterets," at the other side of which is Pierrefitte —and from which point the scenery is especially grand. Passing the Hôtel de la Poste (recommended) on the left, and the way to the station on the right, we bore up the hill in the former direction, towards St. Savin.
This old place—in fact the oldest village in the valley—is an easy walk from Argelès, and should certainly not be excluded from a visit. Having passed the dismantled Château de Despourrins and the statue at the roadside erected in the poet's (Despourrins') honour, we had a grand glimpse of the valley below; and, leaving behind the Chapelle de Piétad (16th century), which stands on a point above the road, we entered the village. The street leading to the ancient Roman Church is ancient too, reminding one, in the curious construction of the houses, of Chester, the style of supporting the upper part on wooden beams, reaching over the road, and leaving a passage beneath, being very similar. The church has been restored and is in capital preservation. As there were so many objects of interest, chiefly connected with the great St. Savin himself, we sent for the verger, sexton, bellringer, parish beadle, or whatever the "goîtreux" individual called himself, and paid great attention to all he had to say. Although a good deal was quite unintelligible, the following are some of the most interesting facts. Entering at the small side door, immediately within stands a curious and very old bénitier (font), with two curious individuals carved in the stone supporting the basin. These are supposed to represent two "Cagots," a despised race for whom the font itself was constructed. Very few people know anything about their origin, but they were greatly detested by the inhabitants of the country, and not even allowed to worship in the same church, or use the same "holy water" as the rest. They still exist about Gavarnie and a few other spots, and we hope to learn more of them. The old battered organ next presents itself to the view, with the long flight of steps leading up to it, but as it wished to tell its own story, without further description behold
"THE ORGAN'S TALE."
Good people who gaze at my ruinous state,
Don't lift up your noses and sneer:
I've a pitiful story I wish to relate,
And, I pray you, believe me sincere.
I was young, I was "sweet," in the years that are gone,
The breath through my proud bosom rolled,
And I loved to peal forth as the service went on,
O'er the heads of the worshipping fold.
How time speeds along! Three whole centuries—yes!—
Have passed since the day of my birth;
And, good people, I thought myself then, you may guess,
The loveliest organ on earth.
Such pipes and such stops! and a swell—such a swell!!!
My music rang under the dome;
And the way that I held the old folks 'neath my spell
You should know; but alas! they've gone "home."
Then my varnish was bright, and my panels were gay
With devices both script'ral and quaint;
I frightened the sinner with hair turning grey,
But charmed into rapture the saint.
Those faces once painted so brightly would smile,
And put out their tongues at my voice;
As the pedals were played, they would wag all the while,
And the children below would rejoice.
Now is it not sad to have once been so grand,
And now to be shattered and old?
To look but a ruin up here, where I stand
Decidedly out in the cold?