[Illustration:  St. Bertrand De Comminges.]

Notre Dame, or Sainte Marie, as the cathedral is called, attracted our attention most, and though the front view is perfectly spoilt by the lofty scaffolding erected before it, the inside fully compensates for this defect, although it is impossible to view the ruinous state of some portions without great regret.

The English are supposed to be a very lucky people, and at any rate we have reason to be thankful that we are not a republic, nor as a rule neglectful of old historical buildings; and the sight of this magnificent old place, mouldering away with no apparent aid forthcoming—­except such as the liberality of occasional visitors provides, and that, for such a work, is practically nil—­did not provoke any wish to change our nationality.  It is not as if the French said, “We are becoming a Protestant people, and therefore wish to destroy all signs of our having once followed the faith of Rome;” for in that case censure would be utterly misplaced; but surely if the national religion remains Roman Catholic, an ancient and wonderfully interesting old cathedral like this ought to be suitably preserved.

Having been built at two different periods (viz. the close of the 11th and the middle of the 14th centuries), the architecture presents two distinct styles, which in parts, are particularly incongruous.  The organ and pulpit combined, which are on the left of the entrance, constitute a very handsome work of the “Renaissance” period, and are most unique.  On the opposite side of the building a crocodile—­or the remains of one—­hangs from the wall, doubtless brought, as M. Joanne suggests, from some Egyptian crusade; but the “church” puts a very different complexion on the subject, as will be seen from the following, which—­with all its faults—­will be, we trust, pardoned, since it issues from the mouth of so badly-treated a reptile as

    “THE CROCODILE OF ST. BERTRAND.”

    A crocodile truly, there’s no one could doubt,
    On taking a look at my skin: 
    It’s as dry and as tough as a petrified clout,[1]
    Though, alas! there is nothing within.

    I’ve been here on this wall for a jolly long time,
    And the “cronies” a legend will tell
    Of the wonderful things, void of reason and rhyme,
    That during my lifetime befell.

    They’ll tell you I lived in “this” beautiful vale,
    And found in the river a home;
    While even the bravest would start and turn pale,
    If they chanced in my pathway to roam.

    They’ll tell how I swallow’d the babies and lambs,
    And harassed the cows in the mead;
    And such slander completely my character damns,
    While I’ve no one to help me to plead.

    And they’ll whine how I met the great Bertrand himself,
    The miracle-worker and saint. 
    But those women will tell any “walkers” for pelf,
    And swear I’m all black—­when I ain’t.