talented authors of the picturesque romances to which I have referred,
insist that there is a great demand for these literary wares, and they
would suffer much loss if they were to discontinue their production.

Could not the matter be compromised? We are less sensitive than our
American cousins, and if the scene were changed from St. Francisco to
some quiet watering-place on the Kentish Coast, our kindred beyond
the seas ought to be satisfied. I do not pretend to be a master of the
style of those who write Backwood sensations, but I think I can jot
down a few lines to show what I mean. Beneath I give a specimen of the
sort of thing that might take the place of stories revelling in such
titles as the "_Luck of Murder Camp_," "_Slack Bill's Banker_," and
"_The Talk of Stab-in-the-Backman's Chasm_."

THE CHAFF OF HERNE BAY CREEK.

CHAPTER XX.--_CHARLEY MEETS A CHUM_.

The Miners who had been digging all day long the rough shingle for
treasure-trove, had retired to their rudely constructed cabins. These
rough huts were built of wood, and furnished with a seat on either
side. There were two small windows let into the oaken walls--each
of them not more than six inches square. They were absolutely free
from furniture--save perhaps, a foot of cheap looking-glass, and
here and there a wooden-peg used by the Miners for hanging up their
slouch-hats, their red flannel-shirts, and their long leather-boots.

These huts were not unlike the other habitations in the wild Far West,
save that they had this peculiarity--each hut was mounted on a huge
springless framework, supported by four lumbering wooden wheels. By