eing held in the church of St.
Eustache, the largest in Paris, and all lovers of music being so eager
to gain admission, that the immense aisles of this grand old pile (which
will contain five thousand persons), are always crowded to overflowing
on these occasions, every one paying a franc for his admission: the sum
thus gained, together with the collections taken up in the middle of the
service, by the committee of ladies chosen for that purpose (who go
round among the crowd, preceded by the beadle, and followed by two or
three attendant gentlemen, carrying a little embroidered bag of a
particular shape, used for that purpose, in which they receive the
contributions of the benevolent), constitute a fund, from which many an
unfortunate or superannuated brother of the tuneful craft obtains
relief.

This vast building, with its lofty arches, is admirably calculated for
the performance of grand religious compositions; the effect of the music
being enhanced by the aspect of the building, and the accessories of
sculpture, painting, and carving, which render this church one of the
richest in the capital.

To obtain places on any occasion of the kind, it is necessary to go an
hour or two in advance; and the gradual filling of the aisles is one of
the most curious scenes which a stranger can contemplate. As there are
no pews, each person, on entering, helps himself or herself to a chair,
which he holds aloft over the heads of his already seated neighbors, as
he slowly forces his way onward through their serried ranks, until he
espies some unappropriated gap into which he can insinuate his chair and
himself; the police and the beadles always taking care to keep a little
pathway, just large enough to squeeze through, open all through the
outer aisle that runs round the church. For the unfortunate people who
form the walls of this pathway, the process of filling is a severe
infliction; the uninterrupted stream of in-comers, forcing their way
along with a ruthless disregard of the shoulders of those between whom
they pass, is really, (especially when the in-comer happens to be a very
stout man, or a very fat lady, enveloped in an unusual quantity of
drapery,) almost overpowering. Every now and then the beadle comes
along, rapping his silver-headed cane on the pavement, and crying, "Way,
there! keep out of the path!" and escorting a party of privileged
individuals for whom seats have been reserved; and, as the beadle is
always tal