We are indebted to the publishers for an advanced copy of this eminently clever and readable work, which, we venture to predict, will at once secure to its author a distinguished and distinctive place among American writers. We are not aware that he proposes to attach his name, to what is, we believe, a first production in the book form, though he is already favorably known to the public as an occasional writer; and we therefore abstain from mentioning it, though very sensible that the book would neither detract from the name, nor the name from the book. It is a work almost _sui generis_, as, indeed, is in our opinion the genius of the author; for that he has genius is undeniable. It is not a novel—not a romance—not a book of travels—not a half-theological, half-controversial, all-indecent, tract in the guise of any one of the three. But it is a fine tissue of humor, wit, adventure, pathos, and description, woven into just enough of active and moving story to create a living interest—it is, in short, the seeings, thinkings, and in some sort, perhaps, the doings, of a clear-sighted, enthusiastical traveler, at once a man of the world and a scholar, with the eye of an artist, the tongue of a poet, the heart of a mountaineer over “at home among the rocks,” a bit of a Pantagruelist withal, who has seen much, pondered much, learned much, and has much to say about many countries, many things, and many people, which and who are really worth being seen, thought, and heard of. Of the style of his romance and incident our readers may judge from the scene in his preface, wherein the narrator becomes acquainted with his hero, Hugh Pynnshurst, and we think it cannot fail to impress them with an idea of his power; although power is not, we think, so decidedly his forte, as quaint humor, and shrewd, original, bold-spoken and fearless appreciation and criticism of men, books, and things. “One day, on the Faulhorn, I met a person who looked like a countryman, saluted him and passed by. We were on the edge of a precipice, walking upon a level road about seven feet wide. On one side was the perpendicular rock; but, at its outer line, the road shelved abruptly to the edge of the precipice which hung over an awful chasm three hundred feet in depth. “There was snow a foot deep upon it. I heard one half-muffled cry, and turned to see what I trust never to see again. He had walked too near the outer edge, and the snow had slipped from under him, and in an instant he was three feet from the line of the level, and slowly, slowly, the snow was yielding to his weight, and slowly, but ceaselessly, he slided toward the brink, carrying the white mass with him. “Not any other cry escaped him; but he raised his wild, black eyes to mine as I stood opposite him. There was beauty on his face, but it was white, white with horror.