31 OCTOBER 1829, Page 10

THE ANNUALS FOR M30.

FORGET ME NOT.

THE WINTER'S WREATH.

FIHENDSKIP'S OFFERING.

THE IRIS. JUVENILE ANNUALS.

THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT, AND JUVENILE SOUVENIR.

THE JUVENILE FORGET ME NOT.

THE JUVENILE KEEPSAKE.

ALL the critics of the week have something extremely pretty to say once a year on ihe appearance of the Christmas Annuals. They are compared to the most beautiful flowers and the brightest gems. One writer, in particular, has run through the entire horticultural nomen- clature in search of the most complimentary comparison ; and we see that the Annualists are so grateful to him for his favours, that they are all of them willing to receive him on their lists of Poet e Mihores. For our parts, the very prettiness of the Annuals takes away the power of inventing pretty things to say of them : they are so complete at all points, they are so perfect in all their embellishments, so neat in all their parts of essential utility, and in their contents so inoffensive, so various, and often so agreeable and entertaining, that we feel, when we have exclaimed" 'What charming little books these are!" that we have exhausted our stock of criticism. We used to be dissatisfied with a want of genius which we remarked in them ; but we have learned to be content with ordinary talent pleasingly exercised, and look elsewhere for genius—for example, to the specimens of the arts with which they are adorned. We are older, and have learned to be satisfied with less and truly, he who cannot derive much real delight from the examination of these volumes, is young enough to build cas- tles in the air, or old enough to be rated as a curmudgeon, triple-skin- ned in clab-tree bark.

The Annuals have now been long established, and since their birth the body of contributors has varied but little. We may obtain from them a pretty accurate statement of our force in light infantry ; and a very active and well-appointed corps it undoubtedly is. It strikes us that ts efforts would prove more efficacious if divided into detachments, and stationed at different points. By which we mean to say, that the wri- ters in all the Annuals are nearly the same; so that, except where one assumes a decidedly religious garb, there is no difference in character. The Forg,et Me Not differs only from the Souvenir or the Offering in its back : their lists of contributors are almost identical, and if there should be any marked inequality in them, the effect is wholly to be attributed to hazard. We would assist the choice of contributors, by giving to each a predominant character : let one, for instance, be dis- tinguished for the copiousness of its tales—another for its humour— another for the quantity and excellence of its poetry—one for the gra- vity and strictness of its demeanour, another for its gaiety and spirit of amusement. Choice would then be easy, and the tastes of persons consulted. At present, surely he is an unhappy man who has to select one Annual out of even the four which we have before us. We put down, as we have said, the literary part to be equal—the embellish- ments and engravings are therefore the points of compavison: but there is this charming thing in one, and that charming thing in another— this is so elegantly got up, and that is so luxuriantly enveloped—this excels in figures, and that in landscapes—this in pieces of character, and that in traits of pathos—so that the distracted purchaser either hastily lays his hand on the nearest to him, or rushing out of the shop in &- spier, retreats to the Strand in search of fresh air and tranquillity. We cannot assist him in his perplexity. The Winter's Wreath, which was formerly an Annual of secondary pretensions, has now raised itself to the very first rank both of art and literature. It is sin- gular that all the four Annuals-before us have their model of a beauti- ful woman—even the serious souvenir, the religious Iris, under the superintendence of Mr. DALE, puts forth its lovely face : it is true that "The Madonna '' is printed in large letters below. The Winter's Wreath is preceded by a fine strapping girl by NORTHCOTE: she is named the "Idol of Memory," and is certainly not a person to be ne:ily forgotten. The Friendship's Offering has its "love' by Woon, and is designated "Mine Own :" she is a creature who, if not set aside with the mark of ownership, would doubtless be quickly ap- propriated. The Friendship's ()Ping is indeed profuse of beauties, and all by WOOD, whose visions seem to be of the most beatified de- scription ; for the frontispiece is a sweet little creature playing on the lyre, and at tlfe end of the book is a Psyche reclining on a couch and prodigal of her charms. But the beauty of the season is beyond a doubt the " Flower Girl" of the Fo7get Me Not; who, by the by, is no flower girl at all—she is manifestly a woman of fashion in a fancy dress, and her features are cast in the finest order of aristocratical moulds. It is painted by GADGAIN—the artist is a happy man to whom such a face consents to sit for half a dozen fine mornings.

We must defer till another opportunity a more particular notice of the contents of the Animals : we shall be better able to make a com- parative judgment of their merits when the three most boasted pro- ductions of the kind are set before us.

The three Juvenile a, nnuals in our list are well adapted to their purpose of amusing youth. Several of the stories and poems have pleased us more than the contents of some of their elder brethren. Miss JEWS-

BURY is particularly happy in her "Beggar of Bagdad," in the Juve- nile Forget Me Not. We were mightily amused by the complaint

among the birds, of a partiality in the distribution of the goods of life. The stroke of " Let us rebel, said the Tomtits," is excellent. We must make one short extract ; and it shall be from WILLIAM HOW1TT'S

CHILDREN AT PLAY.

Up in the morning as soon as the lark, Late in the evening, when falleth the dark, Far in the moorland, or under the tree, Come the sweet voices of children to me.

I am an old man—my hair it is gray, But I sit in the sunshine to watch you at play, And a kindlier current doth run through my vein,

And I bless you, bright creatures! again and again.

I rejoice in your sports,—in the warm summer weather, With hand lock'd in hand, when ye'rc striving together; But I see what you see not—the sorrow and strife, Of the years that will come in the contest of life ;— For I am an old man—and age looketh on To the time that will be—from the time that is gone ;— But you, blessed creatures! you think not of sorrow; Your joy is to-day, and ye have no to-morrow.

Aye sport ye—and wrestle—be glad as the sun, AO lie down to rest when your pastime is done ; For your dreams are of sunshine, of blossoms and dew, And the God of the Blessed doth watch over you,

And the angels of heaven are mission'd to keep

Unbroken the calm of your sealed sleep ;—

And an old man's blessing doth on ye (you) dwell

The whole day long—and so fare ye well.