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?

  Each “pipe is put out,” and my “stops” are no more,
  I belong to a “period” remote;
  And as to the tongues that wagged freely of yore,
  They have long disappeared down the throat.

  My pedals are broken or gone quite awry,
  My “keys”—­you may “note”—­are now dust;
  No longer a “swell”—­not as faint as a sigh—­
  While my bellows, good people, are “bust.”

  I am twisted and worn, in a ruinous state,
  But prythee, good people, don’t sneer! 
  My joys and my sorrows I’ve tried to relate,
  And in judging me don’t be severe!!!

Leaving the organ, and passing behind the “high altar,” we beheld the tomb of the redoubtable saint, who is supposed to have been shut up there at the end of the 10th century, though the gilt ornament (?) above is some four centuries younger.  The set of old paintings to the right and left represent scenes in the good man’s life, who, if he had only changed the i in his name to o—­and the king would have agreed readily—­by the perpetual allusion to Savon, would perhaps have done much for the natives generally.  The robing-room, wherein the head of the revered man is kept in a casket, and the “Salle du Chapitre,” with quaint carvings of the 12th century, beyond, are other places of interest.

The “Chateau de Miramont,” which adjoins, is now used as a convent (or college), and visitors are not permitted to inspect it.  We bought a lithographed print of the church and its environs for half a franc, from our round-backed guide, besides depositing a “douceur” in his horny palm, and consequently parted with him on the best of terms.  The road for some distance being rather steep, we preferred to walk and let the carriage follow, but when nearing the junction with the Pierrefitte road, we mounted again and bowled along at a smart pace over the well-known bridge to the hotel.

There was nothing striking about our hotel life, although we found it pleasant, being a “parti carre.”  We were generally the sole partakers of the table-d’hote, at which the food was excellent, the jugged chamois (izard) being especially good.  Light, however, was at a premium.  It may have been all out of compliment, to bear testimony to our being “shining lights” ourselves; still, for all that, we should have been glad to forego the politeness, and receive, instead, a reinforcement of lamps.

Argeles itself is a peculiar old place; though devoid of much interest, except on market-days.  The curious houses and towers, the street watercourses (as at Bagneres de Bigorre), the church, and the strange chapel-like building now used as a diocesan college, are all that is noteworthy even, excepting the “State schools,” built three years ago.