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"This coat, I am sorry to say, will fit many of my acquaintances in New-York. I beg them, for their own sakes and for mine, to wear it. I wish them, and all the world, to know that my father was a tailor, and that I am 'a showman' by profession, and all the gilding shall make nothing else of me. When a man is ashamed of his origin, or gets above his business, he is a poor devil, who merits the detestation of all who know him. The idea that a shoemaker or a tinker cannot be a gentleman, is simply ridiculous; but it is not as much so as that which assumes every man necessarily to be a gentleman if he happens to be wealthy. Money should in no sense be made the standard of respectability or honor. We should never worship 'golden calves.'"

In my account of our European tour, I have confined myself principally to incidents connected with the exhibition of Tom Thumb. It must not be supposed that I had no recreation meanwhile, or that I restricted myself to a circle of observation with a golden rim. Of course, I constantly had "an eye to business," but this still left me an eye to look around upon men and things, without respect to my vocation of a showman. Every part of Europe which we visited was indeed a great "curiosity shop" to me, and I had great pleasure in viewing its many departments. Usually it was done in "double quick time," though thoroughly. I shall here mention one of the occasions, and I cannot do better than to call it

A DAY WITH ALBERT SMITH.

While in London, my friend ALBERT SMITH, who is a jolly companion, as well as a witty and sensible author, promised that when I reached Birmingham he would come and spend a day with me in "sight-seeing," including a visit to the house in which Shakspeare was born.

Early one morning in the month of September, 1844, the sun rose in unusual splendor for that country, finding my friend Smith and myself on the box-seat of an English mail-coach, whirling at the rate of twelve miles an hour over the magnificent road leading from Birmingham to Stratford. The distance is thirty miles. At a little village four miles before reaching Stratford, we found that the genius of the bard of Avon had travelled thus far, for we noticed a sign over a miserable barber's shop, "Shakspeare hair-dressing -- a good shave for a penny." In twenty minutes more we were set down at the door of the Red Horse Hotel in Stratford. The coach-man and guard were each paid half a crown as their perquisites.

While breakfast was preparing, we called for a guide-book to the town, and the waiter brought in a book, saying that we should find in it the best description extant of the birth and burial-place of Shakspeare. I was not a little proud to find this volume to be no other than the "Sketch-Book" of our illustrious countryman, Washington Irving; and in glancing over his humorous description of the place, I discovered that he had stopped at the same hotel where we were then awaiting breakfast.

After examining the Shakspeare House, as well as the tomb and the church in which all that is mortal of the great poet rests, we ordered a post-chaise for Warwick Castle. While the horses were being harnessed, a stage-coach stopped at the hotel, and two gentlemen alighted. One was a sedate, sensible-looking man; the other an addle-headed fop. The former was mild and unassuming in his manners; the latter was all talk, without sense or meaning-in fact, a regular Charles Chatterbox. He evidently had a high opinion of himself; and was determined that all within hearing should understand that he was -- somebody. Presently the sedate gentleman said:

"Edward, this is Stratford. Let us go and see the house where Shakspeare was born."

"Who the devil is Shakspeare?" asked the sensible young gentleman.

Our post-chaise was at the door; we leaped into it, and were off, leaving the "nice young man" to enjoy a visit to the birth-place of an individual of whom he had never before heard. The distance to Warwick is fourteen miles. We went to the Castle, and approaching the door of the Great Hall, were informed by a well-dressed porter that the Earl of Warwick and family were absent, and that he was permitted to show the apartments to visitors. He introduced us successively into the "Red Drawing-Room." "The Cedar Drawing-Room," "The Gilt Room," "The State Bed-Roon," "Lady Warwick's Boudoir," "The Compass Room," "The Chapel," and "The Great Dining-Room." As we passed out of The Castle, the polite porter touched his head (he of course had no hat on it) in a style which spoke plainer than words, "Half a crown each, if you please, gentlemen." We responded to the call, and were then placed in charge of another guide, who took us to the top of "Guy's Tower," at the bottom of which he touched his hat a shilling's worth; and placing ourselves in charge of a third conductor, an old man of severity, we proceeded to the Greenhouse to see the Warwick Vase. The old gentleman mounted a rostrum at the side of the vase and commenced a set speech, which we began to fear was interminable; so tossing him the usual fee, we left him in the middle of his oration.