The Annual Catalogue (1737) Or, A New and Compleat List of All The New Books, New Editions of Books, Pamphlets, &c. — Edition Insights

Alphabetical Order as a Structural Principle

The catalogue is arranged alphabetically by title, from 'A Brabanal's (Sol.) complaint' to 'Numerus Infaustus.' This structure imposes a neutral, non-hierarchical order on a diverse range of works: sermons sit beside treatises on fluxions, and a 'Natural History of Bugs' follows a 'Natural History of Chocolate.' The alphabetical sequence erases genre boundaries, forcing the reader to encounter law, poetry, and medicine as equivalent commodities. The preface boasts that 'the Variety this Tract affords, will yield something to please every Reader,' but the arrangement itself is a statement of commercial logic—every book is a product, listed without favor.

Price and the Material Book

Every entry includes a price, from sixpence for a pamphlet to six guineas for the four-volume Nouveau Theatre de la Grande Bretagne with 300 copper plates. The catalogue thus doubles as a price list, enabling country buyers to order by mail with exact payment. The preface notes that the list gives 'an Account of the Prices they sell for, and whom printed by.' This transparency is the catalogue's chief utility. The prices also hint at the material value of different formats: a single sermon costs 6d., while a multi-volume law abridgment runs to 2l. 10s. The reader is constantly reminded that books are objects with a cost, not merely texts.

The Bookseller's Voice and the Reader Addressed

The preface speaks in the first person ('I have printed the Titles'), but the editor remains unnamed. The intended audience is explicitly 'Gentlemen, Ladies, and Booksellers in the Country.' The tone is deferential and utilitarian: the catalogue is offered in the hope it 'will be grateful to The Editor.' There is no claim to completeness or authority—only a promise of convenience. The entries themselves are stripped of commentary; the only editorial intervention is the italicization of the bookseller's name. This restraint creates a flat, documentary voice that contrasts sharply with the sensational titles it lists, such as 'Memoirs of the famous Madam de Brinvilliers, who poisoned her Father.'

Readers approaching the Annual Catalogue should treat it as a primary source for the book trade of 1736, not as a reading guide. Its value lies in what it reveals about pricing, distribution, and the range of printed matter available to an 18th-century audience. The alphabetical list rewards browsing: juxtapositions are often revealing, and the prices ground abstract titles in economic reality. For scholars of bibliography or cultural history, this catalogue offers a snapshot of a literary marketplace in which sermons and scandal-memoirs competed on equal footing.

There’s something humbling about that old catalogue—how it lists books as goods, priced and shelved, waiting for readers who might never come. It makes me think of Browning, all that patient indexing of his words. We still want our guides. Some afternoons, I find myself returning to The Browning Cyclopædia: A Guide to the Study of the Works of Robert Browning — Inside the Classic the way one might revisit a well-worn margin note, just to see what was noticed then.