• ONE OF "US."*

TlIE scarcity of both wit and laughter in these days is generally admitted, and is felt by none more keenly than by novel-readers who possess any discrimination at all. They have almost ceased to look for an " amusing" novel, in the true meaning of a term that has lost its meaning by being freely applied to an unfailing supply of rubbish in three volumes, which may be got through without any effort deserving the name of thought, or even attention. One would lay one's-self open to the charge of being "a humourist " brought by dear Mrs. Elton against Mr. Knightley, to the disgust of Miss Austen's Emma, were one to cavil at the judgment of the women who turn over in a week the leaves of a big boxfal of novels with one of the rival

labels upon them, and will answer languidly, "Very amus-

ing, indeed !" or "Rather amusing, I think 1" to any question as to their merits. It does not signify what those novels are about ; they may be as diversified as old Polonius's list of the players' repertory ; they may be as " soft" as the story of "the young, the slim, the low-voiced, her own Belfilaire," which was almost too much for Mrs. Wititterly ; they may be chronicles of all the blighted hopes that have done the Cowes week, and all the broken hearts that have ever tried Baden ; the same epithet will be applied to them. It used to be the fashion to say every- thing was "charming," now it is the fashion to say everything is "amusing," just when the novelists who once could make us laugh no longer try to do so, and melodrama has taken posses- sion of the stage by train and cab.

In such an "inhuman dearth," shall we not acknowledge

the long-unfelt sentiment of gratitude in favour of a writer who gives us a novel which is, in the real meaning of the word, "amusing P" The occurrence is so unex- pected, that it is almost disconcerting ; we pause, and try to recollect when it was that we were last amused,—and, like Mrs. Nickleby, we can't be sure. " Was it the day before yesterday ? No; it must have been the year before last." Then. we begin to think this is too good to be continu- ous. The writer surely caunot "stay" at this pace? We are not going to be treated to three volumes (even though they be thin ones) as clever throughout as the first chapter of One-of" Us," in which Mr. Randolph, as the John Lessenden of his story, takes us, in the character of the casual observer, to the Indigo Smijthes, for the annual festival of the " Haversham Week." We really are though, for the second chapter is as amusing as the first, and the reader soon settles down to a comfortable conviction that he is in for a very good thing indeed, of a de- cidedly now kind. Perhaps he will feel disposed to differ with the author respecting the definition of his book, for One of " Us " is not like any of the varieties of the novel ; but after all, that is the author's business. When the doctors declared that they could not find out that any- thing was wrong with Mr. Nadgett's liver, Mr. Nadgett remarked that "it was his own liver, and he hoped. he ought to know." Now, One of" Us" is Mr. Randolph's own book, and, no doubt, he holds that he ought to know whether

it is or is not a novel, while he clearly has a right to call it a novel, if he pleases. It is just as surprising and as pleasant under that title as if the author had called it an extravaganza in prose, which it really is. Mr. Randolph is a daring and thorough-going nonconformist to the canons of novel-writing, but justifies his dissent by the success of his experiment. He is endowed with that rare combination, keen wit and exuberant fuu ; and while the latter puts plot, out of consideration, and just scampers along, disporting itself amid whimsies of the least expected kind, the former accompanies it with a

• this of " Us:" a Nod. By Edmund Randolph, Junior. London ; Sampson Low and CO.

shower of dainty, good things, as though the sky did in truth rain kissing-comfits. It is not possible to read this book without thiuking what a pleasure it must have been to write it, and what capital company John Lessenden and Edmund Randolph were for each other. How delightful it would be, supposing one were young enough, and possessed of the necessary amount of money, animal spirits, and savoir-faire, to be one of the "Us " whose doings at the Indigo Smijthes' and elsewhere we peruse with unflagging amusement, until the majority are transported to a remote region where a brisk little war is going on (we are told that we are nob to be made aware of the locality, but it feels like Montenegro), and the satirist and farceur turns into a narrator of the graphic sort, so successfully that he might almost make his lady- readers understand military movements. We particularise his lady-readers, because One of " U s " is more of a man's book than a woman's ; it is, for the most part, as light as thistledown, and as vague as the delight of doing-nothing-and-not-thinking-about-it on a fine day ; but, on the other hand, it abounds in epigram, and has just that sub-acid sort of sound sense in it from which women are apt to shy, and of which the universally-admitted" amusing" novel of the period is guiltless. The sporting scenes have the accuracy of Mr. 'Trollope's, without their minute- ness and argumentative topography ; the author takes his indomitable sense of humour with him everywhere, and every- thing gives it a chance, from the boundless resources of the millionaire host, who gets promptly snuffed out by his guests at Haversham, to the dogs, whom Mr. Randolph thoroughly under- stands.

The talk is excellent all through. We cannot recall anything quite like it, with the same mingling of good-breeding, "irre- sponsible chatter," and wit, so deftly placed that it seems frankly accidental, except the talk in a novel by the late Count de Jarnac, called Dark and Fair, probably quite unknown to the present generation of novel-readers, but which is an ex- tremely entertaining book. We could not exactly describe why it is that Mr. Lesseudeu reminds us of Sir Charles Rockingham, and the banter of One of " Us," of the wide-ranging, witty

absurdities of Cammy, Tinny, and the incorrigible but irre- sistible Lord Walter of that novel ; we only know that we have never enjoyed any book since Dark and Fair in precisely the same way that we have enjoyed One of "Us." Of course, the tone of Mr. Randolph's story is more large and liberal,

and its dramatis personai are more various and representa- tive. Sir Charles Rockingham would never have thought of admitting a Yankee tourist to his learned and leisurely re- treat, and no Yankee tourist would have known what to do, had be found himself there. Mr. Randolph introduces a delightful Yankee at Haversham, likewise an Irishman, of whom we deeply regret to see so little ; and a certain Skipwith, who has not been approached since Major Peudennis's time. Not that he is like Mr. .Thackeray's masterpiece, but that he is as good in his way; and for so much, or so little, as we see of him, And then there are the ladies,—Mrs. Indigo Smijthe, who is a charmingly natural, frank, clever creature, much oppressed by her gorgeous, golden-calf like condition, but with a fine talent for organisation and raise en scene; the two scheming women who do the mystery and mischief of the story—we do not know precisely what its mystery and mischief are, but that does not matter ; we are perfectly content with dimness tempered by epigrams of this quality—the proud mother, who exhibits her daughter's drawings to the celebrated artist D'Aubiguy (an amalgamated portrait of first-rate excellence); and Mrs.

Golightly.

Mrs. Golightly is a gem. She is not absolutely novel; she has been sketched before, but rarely with such fidelity, impartiality, and moderation. We have not space to do justice to the book by means of extracts ; there are several which we should like to give—for instance, there is a story about a mastiff called Caspar, and it makes us look round, like Rip van Winkle, and say," There was a dog "—but perhaps our readers would rather have the entrance of Mrs. Golightly upon the scene than the history of Caspar, and they cannot have both :—

" Rather more then twenty-flve years ago (says Mr. Lessenden) I met Mrs. Golightly, then Mrs. Askew, a young matron. I was the merest child at the time On the whole, she was kind to me, and I loved her. But there were two little Askews, whom I hated, a boy and a girl. How well I remember her, at that early period ! She had hair as black as the raven's wing, a clear, Madonna-like face, and wore rich, many-flounced dresses of sober hue, and sandals with elastic crossings, over white, open- work stockings. She and her belongings and I and mine were staying at the house of a common relative in the Midlands, and every Tuesday morning she used to drive to the station in the pony-carriage, go off by the early train, and spend the day in London. She would return in time for dinner in the evening, and always came back looking so fresh and pretty, that every one said these little trips did her a world of good, and she would admit as much herself. Her complexion was something angelic Too or twelve years later, 1 was, one morning, airing my first coat- tail under the colonnade at Wiesbaden, when I noticed a. young lady, trimly made, wearing a short dress cut into points, leaning on tho arm of a young gentleman, and talking in a very lively manner. Straw-coloured hair had just come in, and straw, shot with pale gold, and in immense quantities, was her's. It was Mrs. Askew ! I stopped short, and gasped her Da1110. Nothing could have been nicer or in stronger contrast to my gaucherie than her manner, as she intro- duced me to her husband, Mr. Golightly, a slim youth with a moustache (Mr. Askew was a heavyish man of fifty), and took me back to lunch with thorn, when I learned that they were on their wedding tour ! I did manage to stammer out a question about my old enemies, the children,' and was told they were at school. Now, I had left school a year, and I congratulated myself on the way that Time avenges all things. Bat I asked no more, and before I went that night she gave me a bow from her slipper, which she snipped off on purpose, and which I took, though what I was to do with it I had no definite idea. This was while Golightly went out for a smoke, for at that time I was uncertain as to whether smoking agreed with me or not. The happy couple left next day, and I did not meet her again for two years, when an afternoon in May brought us together again. Golightly was not there. She was pale, and inclined to be interesting ; and sang a semi-sacred song, to her own accompaniment. It had a pretty little moral, and was applauded by the company. There was a meek look of fervour in her eyes. I asked after the children, and got no answer but a sigh ; after Golightly, and the corner of her eyes twinkled with sudden moisture. Then I asked no more, but talked to her of astronomy, which happened to be the subject of the moment. We have met frequently since then ; Golightly, I am happy to say, turned up all right, and, when on visits, they are sometimes oven in the same house together. But the children. Ah ! there's the rub. My impression is that the boy is commanding a station in the South Pacific, and the girl mellowing into the sere and yellow, with a flock of grown-up daughters round bor. All I know for a fact is that on thii particular morn- ing Mrs. Golightly sits beside me, her hair still of a pale gold, her complexion clear, white, soft, but unnatural ; her figure, if any- thing, more severely trained than when I first saw her. During breakfast she nurses in her lap a fluffy, white dog, who holds decided opinions of his own ; for, after eyeing Skipwith, who is sitting oppo- site, in a most aggressive manner for someminutes,eb tale. Hliebius isrsmtsintrteossa, furious bark, and makes for him across

however, catches hire in time, and requests Skipwith to put down his eyeglass, for the dog 'cannot bear them, and it always upsets him to be looked at in that way.'"

Thus happily introduced, Mrs. Golightly is, as may be sup- posed, a delightful element in the story, which is at once more

and less than a story, but a singularly fascinating book, Taoist mime. There are many points of excellence which we must leave the reader to discover for himself ; but we should like to direct attention to the extremely clever way in which the coming-on of fever and the delirium of a fever-patient are re- presented. The perfectly matter-of-course way in. which the phantoms of the perturbed brain are accepted by the sick man as common-place reality, is as deceptive as the dream of Alice in Wonderiand ; the reader cannot make out where the fever begins, and the facts end. Thorp is not a dull page in the book, though there are some incoherent ones; and, its general effect is that of a firework file, with several "bouquets."