them, and binding them to trees along the
roadside, are now rendered impracticable by the
unceasing stream of traffic which is ever rolling
along all the main roads, and the number of
mounted troopers to be met with in all parts of
the country. But even now the whole colony
is occasionally startled and dismayed by some
daring outrage, the very bravery of which
robs us of the disgust we ought to feel at
villainy—as the attack, last year, upon the
escort, when the whole of the gold in its
charge was captured by a gang of armed
men—and the still more recent robbery of the
bank at Ballarat, when four men, in the
middle of the day, entered a bank situated in
a populous diggings, and, locking themselves
in, bound and gagged the manager and all
his clerks, cleared out its stores, and walked
quietly away with a booty of some fourteen
thousand pounds. The coolness of these men
is still further expressed by the fact that one
of them actually lodged his share of the
money in the very bank at Melbourne of
which he had robbed the branch at Ballarat,
thus getting an exchange of notes. But, with
all their daring, such men commonly want
the tact and prudence necessary to ensure an
ultimate escape; for, in the first of these
instances, the robbers were all taken and
hung, and in the last they are now in
Melbourne gaol awaiting trial. In each instance,
one of the gang turned queen's evidence, so
that, as might be supposed, they are not
more wanting in tact than in the instincts of
generosity and honour.

But to return to our dray. The main road
through the forest has become so impassable
that we prefer the tracks of our own making
which lie near to the foot of Mount Macedon,
and upon which, from the division of the
traffic, the ruts are not particularly deep;
where, also, we may venture to cross the
creeks without any fear of being swallowed
up in the holes, which are left wherever a
bullock-dray may have been dug out during
the preceding winter. Under the shade of
the trees the grass retains some of its verdure,
and we camp in a green spot for dinner.
During the whole time that we are resting,
vehicles and foot passengers are continually
passing. Long American wagons on springs,
with three or four horses in light harness,
well matched and well managed by a driver,
who sits on the top of his high load, holding
the reins, smoking a cigar, and talking to his
cattle in a language Greek to English draymen.
English wagons, heavier and more
unmanageable, fitted in the old-fashioned
style, with double shafts and heavy chain
traces, the driver compelled to walk by the
side of his horses, and, consequently, unable
to manage them half so well as the Yankee,
who twists his team through narrow openings
in the timber just shaves the numerous
stumps and logs, runs his wheels within an
inch of the deep holes, trots down the steep
hills with his foot upon the patent break, and
climbs up them with a steady pull, a touch
on his leader's flanks, and a "Hi! hi! git on
thar!" calculating that "no human on airth
can take a team through thir openings, 'cept
he's been raised in the States. No, SIR!"
After him come colonial drays of all shapes
and sizes, drawn by one, two, three, or four
horses—occasional spring-carts, containing
passengers, ripe fruit, or even fresh fish—and
sometimes vehicles of unknown name,
combining all the others in themselves. Then
there come also ponderous drays piled up
with heavy goods, drawn by four, six, or
eight bullocks, crawling along at snail's pace,
urged by continual shouts and heavy lashes,
machines that produce more noise than work.
Presently, perhaps, a shout of "Clear the
way!" passes along the line, and two of the
conveyances that run daily between Melbourne
and Castlemaine dash by us at full gallop—
American again; low, light vehicles that
seem utterly unfitted for such roads, but
which, nevertheless, can run all others off
them. Behind, comes the Argus, a vehicle of
the same kind with its daily load of
newspapers for the diggings. All at full speed.
This is the country for a man who would
learn how to drive four in hand. Another
cloud of dust in the opposite direction clears
off, and four troopers, with their swords
drawn, come into view. Two light-carts,
each drawn by four horses, follow; more
troopers riding at the side of them, whilst
others gallop through the bush for fifty yards
about, and four more follow in the rear.
This is the Bendigo and Castlemaine escort,
with its precious cargo. Numerous foot
passengers fill up the intervals. Old diggers
returning from town with a light compact
pack, or swag, fitting closely and well up
upon the shoulders. New chums, with heavy
loads lashed badly and carried awkwardly—
carpet-bags stuffed full of all manner of
unnecessaries, rolls of blankets, tents, guns,
tools, and all sorts of things which they will
live to learn are almost as cheap on the
diggings as in town. Sometimes, a very new man
passes, in black coat and Wellington boots,
and, worst of all, wearing a tall black hat, an
abomination quite as rare upon the roads as
an umbrella. Then a party of Germans with
their wives, each woman having a small pack
tied on her shoulders, and the children,
carrying as their share of the common burden
the kettle and frying-pan or the provision
bag. I once passed a German family, in the
middle of winter, when the mud was yards
deep. One man was dragging a small
handcart, in which were stowed four very young
children and a regular assortment of picks,
shovels, and other tools; another—an old
man—pushed behind: he wore a curious
coat, much too short for him, and, as he
stooped to push, there peeped from the shallow
pockets the brass-mounted butts of two huge
horse-pistols, with flint and pan. Two women
and several children of all sizes walked beside