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F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand
Francis Cowley Burnand was a prominent English playwright and humorist, best known for his long association with the satirical magazine *Punch*, where he served as editor from 1880 to 1906. He wrote numerous plays and operas, including the successful burlesque "The Latest Edition of the White Cat" and the comic opera "The Chieftain" in collaboration with Arthur Sullivan. Burnand's work is noted for its wit and comedic brilliance, significantly influencing Victorian theatre and humor.
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MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.Journalistic."The Prisoner, who was fashionably attired, and of genteel appearance;" i.e., An ill-got-up swell-mobsman. "A powerful-looking fellow;" i.e., An awful ruffian. "A rumour has reached us"—(in the well-nigh impenetrable recesses wherein, as journalists, we habitually conceal ourselves). "Nothing fresh has transpired;"...
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CHAPTER I. THE IDEA—ADVICE—TITLE—PLAN—ON PAPER—SUGGESTION—COST—BOODELS—OLD FRIENDS—JENKYNS SOAMES—DESIGNS—STAIRCASES—BAYS—OBJECTIONS—ORDER OF ARCHITECTURE—STABLES—PRICE—GIVEN UP—CAZELL'S IDEA. appy Thought.—To get a country house for the winter. To fill it with friends. To have one wing for bachelors. Another wing for maidens with chaperons. To have the Nave,...
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"GOOD OLD GRACE!" (Doggerel on "The Doctor," by an "Old Duffer.") "Dr. Grace, who seemed to forget his lameness, played with great vigour and dash, and his cuts and drives possessed all their old brilliancy."—The Times, on the exciting finish in the Cricket Match between the M.C.C. and the Australians, June 3, 1890. One hundred and eleven runs, and eighty-five minutes...
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Sweet odours, radiant colours, glittering light! How swift a change from the dusk sodden night Of London in mid-winter! Titania here might revel as at home; Fair forms are floating soft as Paphian foam, Bright as an iceberg-splinter. Dianas doubtless, yet their frost holds fire; The snowiest bosom covers soft desire, And these are snowy, verily. As blanched—and bare—as Himalaya's peaks,...
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Fleacatcher.—Yes, the trout in the river Itching (this is the only correct spelling) are red, and, before they are boiled, raw. The best method of catching them is to tickle them. When you have hooked an Itching trout, you first scratch him, and then cook him. Novice.—We only knew one man who could make a decent rod, and he died twenty years ago. Remember the old adage so dear to Izaak, Qui parcit...
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At intervals of a few years the torpor of London Society is stirred by the carefully disseminated intelligence that a new planet has begun to twinkle in the firmament of fashion, and the telescopes of all those who are in search of novelty are immediately directed to the spot. Partially dropping metaphor, it may be stated that a hitherto unknown lady emerges, like the planet, from a cloud under which,...
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First Well-informed Man. There hasn't been much in this debate on the Addresses. Second W. I. M. Oh. I don't know. They've promised a pretty big list of measures. How they're going to find time for the lot I can't make out. First W. I. M. (contemptuously). Yes, that's always the way with these Governments. They all talk mighty big at the beginning of the Session, and then,...
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The Chief Secretary's Musical Performance, with Accompaniment.—Mr. John Morley arrived last Friday at Kingston. He went to Bray. He was "accompanied" by the Under Secretary. Surely the Leader of the Opposition, now at Belfast, won't lose such a chance as this item of news offers. The "Water-Carnival."—Good idea! But a very large proportion of those whom the show attracts...
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It was the first day under the operation of the new Act. Everyone was a little nervous about the outcome, and John Jones, the Barrister, was no exception to the general rule. At three o'clock he was in the full swing of an impassioned appeal to the Jury. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Jones," said the Judge, glancing at the clock, "but I am afraid I must interrupt you. I cannot hear you any...
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Chorus of Female Spectators. We shall see better here than what we did last Droring-Room. Law, 'ow it did come down, too, pouring the 'ole day. I was that sorry for the poor 'orses!... Oh, that one was nice, Marire! Did you see 'er train?—all flame-coloured satting—lovely! Ain't them flowers beautiful? Oh, Liza, 'ere's a pore skinny-lookin' thing coming...
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