When it is further remembered: that the principle amusement of the most respectable of the gold-diggers, is that of holding social converse in their tents, or around their evening camp-fires, it will appear less strange, that amongst so many "men of character" one should become acquainted with not a few "romances of real life"--such as that of the "Vandemonian" who became my associate in the "sweet vale of Avoca," and which is here recorded, as one of many a "convict's story," of which I have been the confidant. Volume Three, Chapter V. A CONVICT'S STORY. "You have expressed a desire to hear the story of my life," said my mining partner. "I make you welcome to it. There is not much of my history that I should be ashamed to tell you of; but with that little I shall not trouble you. I have never done anything very bad,--that is, I have never robbed anybody, nor stolen anything that I did not really want. "I am a native of Birmingham, in which town I resided until I was about twenty years of age. "My father was a confirmed drunkard; and the little money he used to earn by working as a journeyman cutler, was pretty certain to be spent in gin. "The support of himself, and four young children fell upon my mother, myself, and a brother--who was one year younger than I. In all Birmingham, there were not two boys more dutiful to their parents, more kind to their younger brothers and sisters, more industrious, and less selfish, than my brother and myself--at the time I am speaking of. "Our hours were wholly occupied in doing all we could, to supply the wants of my father's family. "We sometimes attended an evening school. There we learnt to read and write; but even the time devoted to this, we would have considered as squandered, if we could have been doing anything else--to benefit the unfortunate family to which we belonged. "One evening, after we had got to be grown up to manhood, my younger brother and I were returning from our work, when we saw our father at some distance off, in the middle of the street. We saw that he was intoxicated. Three policemen were around him--two of them with hands upon him. "As usual with my father on such occasions, he was refractory; and the policemen were handling him in a very rough manner. One of them had struck him on the head with his baton, and my father's face was covered with blood. "My brother and I ran up, and offered to take him quietly home--if the policemen would allow us to do so; but as he had assaulted them, and torn their clothes, they refused to let us have him, and insisted in locking him up. My brother and I, then offered to take him to the lock-up ourselves; and, taking him by the hand, I entreated him to go quietly along with us. "The policeman rudely pushed me aside, again collared my father, and commenced dragging him onward. Once more we interfered--though this time, only to entice our father to go with the policemen, without making any resistance.