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._