"In the country a man's spirit is free and easy; his mind is discharged, and at its own disposal: but in the city, the persons of friends and acquaintances, one's own and other people's business, foolish quarrels, ceremonious visits, impertinent discourses, and a thousand other fopperies and diversions, steal away the greater part of our time, and leave us no leisure for better and more necessary employment. Great towns are but a larger sort of prison to the soul, like cages to birds, or 'pounds' to beasts." * * * * * There is a good story told, and we believe a new one--(at least, so far as we know, it is such, as the manuscript which records it is from a traveled friend, in whose "hand-of-write" it has remained long in the "Drawer")--a story of Samuel Rogers, the rich banker, and accomplished poet of "The Pleasures of Memory:" Rogers arrived at Paris at noon one day in the year 18--. He found all his countrymen prepared to attend a splendid party at Versailles. They were all loud in expressing their regrets that he could not accompany them. They were "very sorry"--but "the thing was impossible:" "full court-dresses alone were admissible;" and to obtain one _then_--why "of course it was in vain to think of it." Rogers listened very patiently; told them to "leave him entirely to himself;" and added, that "he was sure he could find some amusement somewhere." No sooner were they gone, than he began to dress; and within the space of a single hour he was on the road to Versailles, fully equipped, in a blue coat, white waistcoat, and drab pantaloons. At the door of the splendid mansion in which the company were assembled, his further progress was opposed by a servant whose livery was far more showy and imposing than his own costume. Rogers affected the utmost astonishment at the interruption, and made as if he would have passed on. The servant pointed to his dress: "It is not _comme il faut_: you can not pass in: Monsieur must retire." "Dress! dress!" exclaimed Rogers, with well-feigned surprise: "Not pass! not enter! Why, mine is the same dress that is worn by the _General Court_ at Boston!" No sooner were the words uttered, than the doors flew open, and the obsequious valet, "booing and booing," like Sir Pertinax Macsycophant in the play, preceded the poet, and in a loud voice announced: "_Monsieur le General Court, de Boston!_" The amusement of the Americans in the group scarcely exceeded that of the new-made "General" himself. On another occasion, Rogers relates, he was announced at a Parisian party as "Monsieur le Mort," by a lackey, who had mistaken him for "Tom Moore." Not unlike an old New-Yorker, who was announced from his card as "_Monsieur le Koque en Bow!_" His simple name was Quackenbos!