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We returned to the hotel, took a post-chaise, and drove through decidedly the most lovely country I ever beheld. Since taking that tour, I have heard that two gentlemen once made a bet, each, that he could name the most delightful drive in England. Many persons were present, and the two gentlemen wrote on separate slips of paper the scene which he most admired. One gentleman wrote, "The road from Warwick to Coventry;" the other had written, "The road from Coventry to Warwick."

In less than an hour we were set down at the outer walls of Kenilworth Castle, which Scott has greatly aided to immortalize in his celebrated novel of that name.

This once noble and magnificent castle is now a stupendous ruin, which has been so often described that I think it unnecessary to say any thing further about it here. We spent half an hour in examining the interesting ruins, and then proceeded by post-chaise to Coventry, a distance of six or eight miles. Here we remained four hours, during which time we visited St. Mary's Hall, which has attracted the notice of many antiquaries. We also took a peep at the effigy of the celebrated "Peeping Tom," after which we visited an exhibition called the "Happy Family," consisting of about two hundred birds and animals of opposite natures and propensities, all living in harmony together in one cage. This exhibition was so remarkable that I bought it for $2500, (£500) and hired the proprietor to accompany it to New-York, where it has ever since been an attractive feature in my Museum.

We took the cars the same evening for Birmingham, where we arrived at ten o'clock, my friend Albert Smith remarking, that never before in his life had he accomplished a day's journey on the Yankee go-ahead principle, he afterwards published a chapter in Bentley's Magazine, entitled "A Day with Barnum," in which he said we accomplished business with such rapidity, that when he attempted to write out the accounts of the day, he found the whole thing so confused in his brain that he came near "locating" Peeping Tom in the house of Shakspeare, while Guy of Warwick would stick his head above the ruins of Kenilworth -- the Warwick Vase appearing in Coventry, etc.

During our journey, I amused him with many of my adventures, including the history of Joice Heth, the Mermaid, the Buffalo Hunt, etc., which he afterwards served up in his "Scattergood Family," making me the hero. At this time my friend was an author, dramatist and dentist, but subsequently he was exalted to the dignity of a "showman," and I am most happy to learn that he has accumulated a fortune from the exhibition of the panorama illustrating his extraordinary ascent of Mont Blanc.

I introduce the foregoing merely as a sample of my many adventures in examining the great curiosity shop of Europe. Indeed, I have in my possession sufficient material, as shadowed forth in my letters to the New-York Atlas, to form volumes.

I was not wholly free from the usual infirmity of travellers, viz., a desire to look at the old castles of feudal times, whether in preservation or in ruins; but there was one of our party, Mr. H. G. Sherman, who had a peculiar and irresistible taste for the antique. He gathered trunks full of stone and timber mementoes from every place of note which we visited; and if there was any thing which he admired more than all else, it was an old castle. He spent many hours in clambering the broken walls of Kenilworth, in viewing the towers and dungeons of Warwick, and climbing the precipices of Dumbarton. When travelling by coach, Sherman always secured an outside seat, and, if possible, next to the coachman, so as to be able to make inquiries regarding every thing which he might happen to see.

On our journey from Belfast to Drogheda, Sherman occupied his usual seat beside the driver, and asked him a thousand questions. The coachman was a regular wag, with genuine Irish wit, and he determined to have a little bit of fun at the expense of the inquisitive Yankee. As we came within eight miles of Drogheda, the watchful eye of Sherman caught the glimpse of a large stone pile, appearing like a castle, peering up among some trees in a field half a mile from the road-side.

"Oh, look here! what do you call that?" exclaimed Sherman, giving the coachman an elbowing in the ribs which was anything but pleasant.

"Faith," replied the coachman, "you may well ask what we call that, for divil a call do we know what to call it. That is a castle, sir, beyond all question the oldest in Ireland -- indade, none of the old books nor journals contain any account of it. It is known, however, that Brian Borrhoime inhabited it some time, though it is supposed to have been built centuries before his day."

"I'll give you half-a-crown to stop the coach long enough for me to run and bring a scrap of it away," said Sherman.

Sure, and is n't this the royal mail coach? and I would not dare detain it for half the Bank of Ireland," replied the honest coachman.