"Tanner!" said I musingly, as I left the bridge; "Tanner! what can the man who cures raw skins by means of a preparation of oak bark and other materials have to do with the name which these fakers, as they call themselves, bestow on the smallest silver coin in these dominions? Tanner! I can't trace the connection between the man of bark and the silver coin, unless journeymen tanners are in the habit of working for sixpence a day. But I have it," I continued, flourishing my hat over my head, "tanner, in this instance, is not an English word." Is it not surprising that the language of Mr. Petulengro and of Tawno Chikno, is continually coming to my assistance whenever I appear to be at a nonplus with respect to the derivation of crabbed words? I have made out crabbed words in AEschylus by means of the speech of Chikno and Petulengro, and even in my Biblical researches I have derived no slight assistance from it. It appears to be a kind of picklock, an open sesame, Tanner--Tawno! the one is but a modification of the other; they were originally identical, and have still much the same signification. Tanner, in the language of the apple-woman, meaneth the smallest of English silver coins; and Tawno, in the language of the Petulengros, though bestowed upon the biggest of the Romans, according to strict interpretation, signifieth a little child. So I left the bridge, retracing my steps for a considerable way, as I thought I had seen enough in the direction in which I had hitherto been wandering. [At last I came to a kind of open place from which three large streets branched, and in the middle of the place stood the figure of a man on horseback. It was admirably executed, and I stood still to survey it. "Is that the statue of Cromwell?" said I to a drayman who was passing by, driving a team of that enormous breed of horses which had struck me on the bridge. "Who?" said the man in a surly tone, stopping short. "Cromwell," said I; "did you never hear of Oliver Cromwell?" "Oh, Oliver," said the drayman, and a fine burst of intelligence lighted up his broad English countenance. "To be sure I have; yes, and read of him too. A fine fellow was Oliver, master, and the poor man's friend. Whether that's his figure, though, I can't say. I hopes it be." Then touching his hat to me, he followed his gigantic team, turning his head to look at the statue as he walked along. That man had he lived in Oliver's time would have made a capital ironside, especially if mounted on one of those dray horses of his. I remained looking at the statue some time longer. Turning round, I perceived that I was close by a bookseller's shop, into which, after deliberating a moment, I entered. An elderly, good-tempered looking man was standing behind the counter. "Have you the _Dairyman's Daughter_?" I demanded. "Just one copy, young gentleman," said the bookseller, rubbing his hands; "you are just in time, if you want one; all the rest are sold."