Volume 99 — "WAX TO RECEIVE, AND MARBLE TO RETAIN."

"Whacks to Receive."

According to an evening paper, the wedding-present of Colonel GOURAUD to a distinguished couple took the novel and charming form of a phonograph, recording, for all time, the musical portion of the marriage ceremony. In all probability, this precedent will be widely followed, and a set of waxen phonographic cylinders will be a familiar feature in the list of presents at every wedding of any pretensions to smartness. Still, there may be cases in which those who intend to imitate Colonel GOURAUD'S example would do well to consider first whether the conditions are equally appropriate. For instance, young JACK RIVENLUTE is not a bad fellow, though he may not be given to sentiment, and VIOLA MANDOLINE is a very charming girl, if she is apt to be a trifle high-flown and exacting at times. When they marry—(they have not even met at present, but they will marry, the year after next, unless Mr. Punch's Own Second-sighted Seer grossly deceives himself)—when they marry, VIOLA'S Uncle JOHN will be the person to present them with the then orthodox phonograph and appurtenances. But if he could foresee the future as distinctly as Mr. Punch's Seer has done in the following prophetic visions, he might substitute a biscuit-box, or a fish-slice and fork, a Tantalus spirit-case, or even a dumb-waiter, as likely, on the whole, to inspire a more permanent gratitude.

FIRST ANNIVERSARY—say, in 1893.

SCENE—A charming drawing-room. TIME—About 9:30 P.M.

Mr. RIVENLUTE is on a chair by the open window; Mrs. RIVENLUTE on a low stool by his side.

Mrs. R. (for the fiftieth time). I can't ever thank you nearly enough for this lovely ring, JACK dear!

Jack (rather gruffly). Oh, it's all right, Pussy. Glad you like it, I'm sure. Do they mean to bring in the lamps? It's pitch dark.

Mrs. R. I'll ring presently—not just yet. It was so dear of you to remember what day it was!

Jack (who only just remembered it in time, as he was driving home). Been a brute if I hadn't!

Mrs. R. You couldn't be a brute, JACK, if you tried—not to me. I'm so glad we haven't got to go out anywhere to-night, aren't you?

Jack (heartily). Rather! Beastly bore turning out after dinner. What on earth are you up to over there?

Mrs. R. (who has risen, and has apparently been winding up some instrument in the corner—as she returns). Oh, it's only something I wanted to do this evening.... Now, JACK, listen!

[The phonograph begins to click and whirr.

Jack. That beastly cat in the room again! Turn it out quick—it's going to be ill.

Mrs. R. (laughing a little hysterically). No—no, JACK, it isn't poor Snowball this time! Wait, and you will hear something.

[The "Voice that Breathed o'er Eden" is suddenly rendered by an organ and full choir: the remarks of two choristers (who are having a little difference over a hymn-book), and the subdued sniffs of MRS. MANDOLINE, being distinctly audible between the verses.

Mrs. R. (breaking down). Oh, JACK, isn't it beautiful? Wasn't it sweet of Uncle JOHN to give it to us!

Jack (who, privately, would have infinitely preferred a small cheque). Yes—he's a good old buffer at bottom.

Mrs. R. He's a perfect old love! Tell me, JACK, you're not sorry you married me, are you?

Jack. What a thing to ask a fellow Of course I'm not!

Mrs. R. (softly). Do you know, JACK, I'm sometimes sorry I married you, though.

Jack (uneasily). Come, I say, you know—what on earth for?

Mrs. R. Because I should like to marry you all over again!... Ah, I knew I should frighten you! (The final "Amen" of the Choir dies away, amid the coughing, rustling, and nasal trumpeting of last year's Congregation.) There are some more cylinders, JACK—shall we put them in next?

Jack (who feels sufficiently solemnised). Well, if you ask me, I think they'll keep till next year. Pity to disturb the effect of that last, eh?

SECOND ANNIVERARY—1894.

Same Scene and Time. Mrs. RIVENLUTE discovered alone.

Mrs. R. He might at least have made some allusion to the day—it would have been only decent! He can't possibly have forgotten! I don't know, though, very likely he has.... Well, I'm not going to remind him! I suppose he means to stay downstairs, smoking, as usual, all the evening. Oh, if I could only make him ashamed of himself just once!... I know! Uncle JOHN'S phonograph! He can't help hearing that. (She winds it up, as JACK R. enters, yawning.) Dear me, this is an unexpected honour. (Softening slightly.) Have you come up to keep me company—for once?

Jack. Well, to tell you the truth, my dear, I fancy I left the evening paper here. An, there it is.

[He seizes it, and prepares to go.

Mrs. R. You can read it here, if you like, you know—I don't mind your smoking.

Jack. Thanks—but it's cosier in the study.

Mrs. R. Of course I know that any place where I don't happen to be is cosier in your opinion.

Jack. Oh, hang it, don't begin all that again—there, I'll stay! (He chooses a comfortable chair.) What the doose is that?

[The phonograph has begun to buzz and hum.

Mrs. R. Hush!—it's Uncle JOHN'S present.

[The "Wedding March" strikes up with a deafening blare.

Jack (startled). Bless my soul! I thought something had blown up. "Hallelujah Chorus," is it—or what?

Mrs. R. (coldly). As it happens, it is MENDELSSOHN'S "Wedding March."

Jack. Sounded familiar somehow. 'Jove! MENDELSSOHN was determined to let 'em know he was married!

Mrs. R. That was intended to let people know we were married. It is our Wedding March.

Jack. Ours? You said it was MENDELSSOHN'S just now! But what are you turning it on now, for?

Mrs. R. Do you remember what day this is, by any chance?

Jack. Haven't an idea. Isn't there a calendar on your writing-table?—that ought to tell you, if you want to know.

Mrs. R. Thank you, I don't require a calendar. To-day is the twenty-third—the day you and I were married. [Sighs.

Jack. 'Pon my word I believe you're right. The twenty-third—so it is! [He becomes silent.

Mrs. R. (to herself, as the "Wedding March" continues jubilantly). He is ashamed of himself. I knew he would be—only he doesn't quite know how to tell me so; he will presently.... I wish I could see his face.... If he is only sorry enough, I think I shall forgive him. JACK! (Softly.) JACK dear! (A prolonged snore from the arm-chair. She goes to him and touches his arm.) You had better go down-stairs and have your cigar, hadn't you? It may keep you awake! (Bitterly.)

Jack (opening his eyes). Eh?—oh! Well, if you're sure you don't mind being alone, I rather think I will.

Mrs. R. I should infinitely prefer being alone—I am so used to it.

[Exit JACK, as the "Wedding March" comes to a triumphant conclusion.

THIRD ANNIVERSARY—1895.

Same Scene. Time, 11:30 P.M. Mrs. MANDOLINE discovered with her Daughter.

Mrs. M. Nearly twelve, and JACK not in yet—on this of all days, too! VIOLA, you will be weak, culpably weak, if you don't speak to him, very seriously, when he does come in.

Mrs. R. (ruefully). I can't, Mother. We're not on speaking terms just now, you know.

Mrs. M. Then I shall. Fortunately, I am on speaking terms with him—as he will find out! (A ring.) There he is, at last! Go, my poor darling, leave me to bring him to a sense of his disgraceful conduct. (Mrs. R. retires by the back drawing-room.) How shall I begin? Ah, poor JOHN'S phonograph! How lucky I remembered it! (Selecting a cylinder.) There, if anything can pierce his hard heart, that will!

[Winds up machine, which breaks into a merry marriage peal as JACK enters in evening dress.

Jack (sullenly). Now just look here, VIOLA—(recognising Mrs. M.) Hullo, the Mum!

Mrs. M. (raising her voice above the clamour). Mum no longer, Sir. Do you hear those bells?

Jack. Do I hear those bells? Am I deaf? The whole Parish can hear them, I should think!

Mrs. M. I don't care if they do. I want to touch your conscience, if I can, and I still hope—bad as you are—that when the voices of those bells—so long silent—rung in anticipation of such a very different future—fall upon your ear once more, they may—

Jack (with a sardonic laugh). "So long silent!" I like that. Sorry to disappoint you, my dear Mamma, but that phonograph, as a domestic stimulant, was played out long ago—it has played me out often enough! Perhaps you don't know it, but really VIOLA has rather overdone it. Whenever we have a tiff, she sets the "Voice from Eden" at me; if she chooses to consider herself ill-used, I am treated to a preserved echo of our marriage vows, and the Bishop's address; when she is in the sulks, I get the congratulations in the vestry; and if ever I grumble at the weekly bills, it's drowned in the "Wedding March!" As for your precious bells, I can't dine with a man at the Club without hearing the confounded things pealing out the moment I let myself in. That infernal phonograph, which you seem to fondly imagine will make me burst into tears, and live happy ever after, has driven me out of the house many a time when I was willing enough to stay at home; but to be put through one's wedding ceremony three times a week is enough to send any fellow to the Club, or out of his mind. I'd smash the d——d thing with pleasure, only it seems to afford VI some consolation. I can't say I find it soothing myself.

[Before Mr. MANDOLINE can think of a suitable reply, Mrs. R. enters from the inner room, where she has remained till now. She is carrying a small steel poker, which she silently places in the hand of her astonished husband.

Jack. Hullo! you here? What's this for?

[Staring blankly at the poker.

Mrs. R. (meekly). To—to smash the d——d thing with.

[The marriage peal ceases abruptly, as Mrs. MANDOLINE, comparatively reassured, discreetly leaves the couple to come to a better understanding without further assistance.