Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 105, July 8th 1893

Vox, et præterea nihil! murmured Somebody in the background.
Who made that stale and inappropriate quotation? exclaimed Mr. Oracle Punch, looking severely around the illustrious group gathered in his sanctum about the brazen tripod which bore his brand-new Phonograph.
Nobody answered.
Glad to see you are ashamed of yourself, whoever you are, snapped the Seer.
Rather think the—a—Spook spoke, muttered a self-important-looking personage, obliquely eyeing a shadowy visitor from Borderland.
Humph! Julia may use your hand, but you will not trump mine , retorted the Oracle. If revenants knew what nonsense is put into their spectral mouths by noodles and charlatans, they would never return to be made spectral pilgarlics of.
A ghost is a good thing—in a Christmas story! laughed the jolly old gentleman in a holly-crown. Elsewhere it is generally a fraud and a nuisance.
Right, Father Christmas! cried Mr. Punch. But the Voces from my Oracular Funograph are not ghostly nothings, neither are they ambiguous, like the oracles of the Sibyl of Cumæ,—to which, my eloquent Premier, some have had the audacity to compare certain of your vocal deliverances.
The Old Oracular Hand smiled sweetly. Nescit vox missa reverti , he murmured. Would that Edison could invent a Party Leader's Phonograph whose utterances should satisfy at the time without danger of being quoted against one fifty years later by Cleon the Tanner, or Agoracritus the Sausage-Seller, to whom even the Sibylline Books would scarce have been sacred. But you and your Funograph—as you neatly call it—have never been Paphlagonian, have never had to give up to Party what was meant for Mankind.
And Womankind, surely, Mr. Gladstone? subjoined the Strong-minded Woman, glaring reproachfully through her spectacles at the Anti-Woman's-Rights Premier. I wish I could say as much of you , Sir!