and in consequence the bigger ships look colossal. As we passed
under a timber ship from Norway, which seemed to block up the heavens
like a cathedral, the man in a straw hat pointed to an odd wooden
figurehead carved like a woman, and said, like one continuing
a conversation, "Now, why have they left off having them.
They didn't do any one any harm?"

I replied with some flippancy about the captain's wife being jealous;
but I knew in my heart that the man had struck a deep note.
There has been something in our most recent civilisation which is
mysteriously hostile to such healthy and humane symbols.

"They hate anything like that, which is human and pretty," he continued,
exactly echoing my thoughts. "I believe they broke up all the jolly
old figureheads with hatchets and enjoyed doing it."

"Like Mr. Quilp," I answered, "when he battered the wooden Admiral
with the poker."

His whole face suddenly became alive, and for the first time
he stood erect and stared at me.

"Do you come to Yarmouth for that?" he asked.

"For what?"

"For Dickens," he answered, and drummed with his foot on the deck.

"No," I answered; "I come for fun, though that is much the same thing."