The Sun.
London, England, 1831-10-25 00:00:00

THE ANNUALS.

These graceful little works come to us at a period
when their magic is much needed. They come to
us amid the fogs and gloom of November, in the
proverbial season of hypochondriasis and dyspepsia,
as if for the express purpose of wiling away our me-
lancholy, refining our tastes, and luring us for a
time from the cares and vexations of business—that
term so comprehensive to an Englishman, and be-
yond which he scarcely presumes to entertain an
idea! Henceforth when we look forward to No-
vember, we shall look forward to it, not as the har-
binger of mist, and rain, and cheerless, unsocial
darkness, but of the smiling, sunshiny Annuals, with
their exquisite embellishments, their picturesque
exterior, their suitable admixture of prose and verse,
of gaieties and gravities, of fact and fiction, of ro-
mance and sentiment. This, though trifling in its
way, is a point gained to humanity.
But not only are the Annuals acceptable for their
own intrinsic qualifications, they are welcome also
as being agreeable recorders of the past. The sea-
son of their forthcoming is an epoch from which to
date; a point on which to look back, for the purpose
of reviving faded reminiscences. The " Amulet,"
the " Tourist in Italy," and a variety of other An-
nuals, are now lying before us. How many recol-
lections, half pleasing, half painful, des their pre-
sence conjure up ! Where be the smiling, youthful
faces who but last November turned over with us
their attractive pages ? Where the slight, fairy
figures, buoyant with health and hope and youth,
and beaming with all the witchery of woman,
which shook with laughter at the quaint wood-
cuts of the last " Comic Annual?" Gone—all
gone ; some beyond seas to India ; others to that
dark, silent home, whence there is no more issu-
ing forth ; one has journeyed to this country, and
one to that ; Mary has become a wife and mother;
Sophy an old maid and a Blue ; Tom is being
flogged at Eton, and Richard at Reading; 11,bert
has gone to Paris, John to Cambridge, Charles,
the scape-grace, to the Devil ;—in a word all are
gone, and forgotten too, till now again brought
visibly before us by the reappearance of these splen-
did ephemera.

If it were not for the Annuals, we really know
not what we should do. We have no histories just
now before us—•no poems (excepting such as we
could readily dispense with—no tales—no satires
comedies—no tragedies ;—the monomania of
Reform has wholly taken possession of the reading
public ;—the booksellers, from Paternoster-row to
Burlington-street, one and all, are lying on their oars,
or figuring in the columns of the Gazette ; —so to
the Annuals we must of necessity turn for amuse-
ment, and, alas, even for instruction ! Welcome,
then, most welcome is their appearance, as sunshine
to flowers, twilight to the wearied peasant, a fee to
a lawyer, a pension f o a placeman, or a translation to
a Bishop.

We have a strong affection for Annuals, and can-
not bring ourselves to subject them to the ordinary
laws of criticism. We cannot choose but grant an
act of dispensation in their favour, and permit them
to run their brief course rejoicing. Who could
have the heart to abuse that which seems created
only to make him happy The Annuals are not
meant to be scrutinized, but admired; not to
be criticized, but commended. If, then, in the
subjoined remarks the reader imagine that we
intend to be rigid overmuch, or even critical towards
these graceful, literary and pictorial bijoux, he will
find himself altogether mistaken. We are going to
praise therm with all our heart, with all our soul, and
with all our strength ; but if in the course of our
remarks we cannot keep our tail under—if, in spite
of ourselves, the acetbity of our churlish, ungracious
vocation will now and then peep forth—it %,‘ ill be
but as the slight squeeze of the lemon into the bowl,
to be instantly followed by a qualifying infusion of
the saccharine.