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Updated: June 18, 2025
Only the great roots of the mysterious trees could be seen, the rest being far aloft, and all round it was a wood of little, lively and happy things. They might have been two innocent naturalists, or even two children fishing for eels or tittlebats on that summer holiday when Paynter pulled up something that weighed in the net more heavily than any bone.
From Blotton's behaviour, too, on the Cobham business, it is clear he thought Mr. Pickwick's scientific researches were also "humbug." A paper by that gentleman had just been read "The tracing of the source of the ponds at Hampstead" and "Some observations on the theory of tittlebats." There was somewhat too much of this "bossing."
There sat the man who had traced to their source the mighty ponds of Hampstead, and agitated the scientific world with his Theory of Tittlebats, as calm and unmoved as the deep waters of the one on a frosty day, or as a solitary specimen of the other in the inmost recesses of an earthen jar.
On Sundays, on the quays by the Seine, I pick him out from the crowd intent upon the capture of tittlebats, because he is seated upon his handkerchief. I go up to him and we have a talk. "Fish biting, Monsieur Jupille?" "Hardly at all." "Sport is not what it used to be?" "Ah! Monsieur Mouillard, if you could have seen it thirty years ago!" This date is always cropping up with him.
It belongs to the same class as the first chapter of Martin Chuzzlewit, with its preposterous pedigree of the Chuzzlewit family, or even the first chapter of Pickwick, with its immortal imbecilities about the Theory of Tittlebats and Mr. Blotton of Aldgate.
On Sundays, on the quays by the Seine, I pick him out from the crowd intent upon the capture of tittlebats, because he is seated upon his handkerchief. I go up to him and we have a talk. "Fish biting, Monsieur Jupille?" "Hardly at all." "Sport is not what it used to be?" "Ah! Monsieur Mouillard, if you could have seen it thirty years ago!" This date is always cropping up with him.
You see, we've all come out this time ready for the job; our officers on the Prince George only did their bit just for a day or two's holiday like, and our job was to look after the mounseers' cruisers, not to catch tittlebats and winkles, and it wasn't so very long after that we was at it hammer and tongs with a big French frigate, making work for the doctor of a precious different kind, and for our ship's carpenters too.
On Sundays, on the quays by the Seine, I pick him out from the crowd intent upon the capture of tittlebats, because he is seated upon his handkerchief. I go up to him and we have a talk. "Fish biting, Monsieur Jupille?" "Hardly at all." "Sport is not what it used to be?" "Ah! Monsieur Mouillard, if you could have seen it thirty years ago!" This date is always cropping up with him.
The incidents and adventures had scarcely any other object than to create amusement. Mr. Pickwick himself appeared on the scene with fantastic honours and the badge of absurdity, as "the man who had traced to their source the mighty ponds of Hampstead, and agitated the scientific world with the Theory of Tittlebats." But in all this there is a gradual change. Mr.
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