At the beginning of the decade, the population of three thousand was swollen by swarms of travellers heading to and from the goldfields. Three breweries struggled to quench their thirst at 40 hotels.

A frontier town transformed into a respectable city when a Bishop was appointed in 1863. Messages streaked down the telegraph wire to keep businessmen and editors up-todate.

Galvanized iron roofing kept the merchandise dry in the emporiums of Auburn Street, street lights lit the way for late-night shoppers, and a thin strip of tar appeared to stop the traffic getting bogged.

Several coaching firms vied for business. They owed their popularity to the extroverted personality of their drivers, larger-than-life characters who could not only keep the passengers entertained, but humour a bellicose bushranger as well.

People paid extra for a seat on the “box” next to the likes of Jim Conroy, who always whipped up the horses to arrive in Auburn Street at a spanking trot, and pulled up with a “wh-oa there” and a flourish of the whip.

The biggest social change of the decade was the introduction of the “Free Selection Act.”

This was a piece of legislation that broke the stranglehold of the squatters on the land, and threw the country open for purchase by small farmers.

For the first time, it was possible for a man of limited means to raise a family on small blocks ranging from 40 to 640 acres.

Charles Macalister, in “Old Pioneering Days in the Sunny South,” wrote; “within a few weeks hundreds of little roughhewn cabins were standing on the selected blocks; “cockatoo” and “chock and log” fences erected around each small holding; clearing and burning off going on by night and day; and soon the ploughs of the selectors were tearing up the virgin soil, and the tinkling bells of farmer’s cattle were heard …”

Soon the countryside was much more thickly populated than it is now. The spread of rural settlement introduced a serious social problem – a rising generation of restless youths with no access to schools or churches.

That lack of moral instruction, combined with resentment against the squatters who locked up the water and bullied the small selectors, fostered a rebellious spirit in the sons of the “cockatoo farmers”.

Resentment led to stock theft, cattle duffing, poddy-dodging and gully-raking.

Bush youngsters loved a fast horse then as much as they like a fast ute now. It was a small step from “borrowing” a thoroughbred to stealing one, and a short hop from stealing a horse to “bailing up” a prospector on the road from the goldfields. The epidemic of bushranging was started by Johnny Peisley, who was born near Bigga, and Francis Christie (alias Frank Gardiner), who grew up near Boro.

Peisley was soon hanged, but Gardiner went on to organise the hard-riding young tearaways into a gang, starting the biggest crime wave the colony had ever seen.

Early in 1862 the New South Wales Police force was established to battle the menace, and at the end of that year detailed crime statistics were published for the first time.

In 10 months there had been 17 murders and 64 cases of Highway Robbery in the local police district.

That was worse than any other district in the colony … but it was just the beginning. By the end of the decade, highway robberies were beyond counting. 53 stagecoaches were “stuck up” and 21 civilians were murdered by bushrangers in this district alone.

There were 23 major gun-battles, 3 policemen were shot dead, and 20 bushrangers killed or hanged.

All this happened at a time when the population of the whole district was no bigger than the roll-up at a Crookwell polling booth.

Hundreds of bushrangers carried out thousands of holdups.

Frank Gardiner, Ben Hall and John Gilbert spawned hordes of masked imitators, conscientiously calling each other “Frank,” “Ben” and “Johnny”. The family names of many of those imitators still adorn the Crookwell electoral roll.

“Bailing up the Mail” was easy. The “Royal Mail” was carried by passenger coach. Large quantities of cash were sent by letter, as cheques had not been invented. But there were many tricks of the trade, and not all first-time bushrangers succeeded. Let Jim Conroy tell the story; “Bushrangers! Well I was stuck up twice, the first time at Towrang between Goulburn and Marulan.

“I carried twelve passengers inside and one on the box. It was ten at night. We arrived at an angle in the road formed by two mountains. A man rushed up the gully, “Stop!” he shouted and immediately fired. The report of the gun frightened the horses. I gave them the whip and free rein, until at last I pulled up at Plumb’s Hotel, Shelley’s Flats.

“‘That was a most ungentlemanly bushranger’, I remarked to the passengers. “If he had asked me properly, I would have stopped’.

“‘You take it mighty cool’, says one, staring hard. “But bless you, I could afford to joke, we were out of danger. “The inside passengers were badly scared, and one lady’s dress was burnt by the smoldering wad from the bushranger’s gun.”

Better luck next time!

By the end of the decade, the Sydney to Goulburn railway line had been officially opened by Lord and Lady Belmore. Steel rails made travel fast, comfortable and affordable for the first time in history. Goulburn was the southern terminus of the railway until 1875, cementing its status as a transport hub. Goods and produce came and went from all directions.

It was an era of growth, employment and prosperity that would last for over a hundred years, and turn Goulburn in to “the Queen City of the South”.

So, what happened to Jim Conroy?

The last coach hold-up occurred in a flurry of gunfire on the outskirts of town, the night before the railway opened.

Jim hung up his whip, picked up a whistle, and started a new career as a railway guard.