agtolstind has been
ascertained to be 160 feet higher, and Snaehatten is dethroned.

The river Driv came out of a glen on our left, and entered a deep gorge
in front, down which our road lay, following the rapid descent of the
foaming stream. At the station of Kongsvold, we had descended to 3000
feet again, yet no trees appeared. Beyond this, the road for ten miles
has been with great labour hewn out of the solid rock, at the bottom of
a frightful defile, like some of those among the Alps. Formerly, it
climbed high up on the mountain-side, running on the brink of almost
perpendicular cliffs, and the _Vaarsti_, as it is called, was then
reckoned one of the most difficult and dangerous roads in the country.
Now it is one of the safest and most delightful. We went down the pass
on a sharp trot, almost too fast to enjoy the wild scenery as it
deserved. The Driv fell through the cleft in a succession of rapids,
while smaller streams leaped to meet him in links of silver cataract
down a thousand feet of cliff. Birch and fir now clothed the little
terraces and spare corners of soil, and the huge masses of rock, hanging
over our heads, were tinted with black, warm brown, and russet orange,
in such a manner as to produce the most charming effects of colour. Over
the cornices of the mountain-walls, hovering at least two thousand feet
above, gleamed here and there the scattered snowy _jotuns_ of the
highest fjeld.

The pass gradually opened into a narrow valley, where we found a little
cultivation again. Here was the post of Drivstuen, kept by a merry old
lady. Our next stage descended through increasing habitation and
culture to the inn of Rise, where we stopped for the night, having the
Dovre Fjeld fairly behind us. The morning looked wild and threatening,
but the clouds gradually hauled off to the eastward, leaving us the
promise of a fine day. Our road led over hills covered with forests of
fir and pine, whence we looked into a broad valley clothed with the same
dark garment of forest, to which the dazzling white snows of the fjeld
in the background made a striking contrast. We here left the waters of
the Driv and struck upon those of the Orkla, which flow into Drontheim
Fjord. At Stuen, we got a fair breakfast of eggs, milk, cheese, bread
and butter. Eggs are plentiful everywhere, yet, singularly enough, we
were nearly a fortnight in Norway before we either saw or heard a single
fowl. Where they were kept we could not discov