ries
of the Guul Elv, the course of which we thence followed to Drontheim.

One of the stations was a lonely _gaard_, standing apart from the road,
on a high hill. As we drove up, a horrid old hag came out to receive us.
"Can I get three horses soon?" I asked. "No," she answered with a
chuckle. "How soon?" "In a few hours," was her indifferent reply, but
the promise of paying fast rates got them in less than one. My friend
wanted a glass of wine, but the old woman said she had nothing but milk.
We were sitting on the steps with our pipes, shortly afterwards, when
she said: "Why don't you go into the house?" "It smells too strongly of
paint," I answered. "But you had better go in," said she, and shuffled
off. When we entered, behold! there were three glasses of very good
Marsala on the table. "How do you sell your milk?" I asked her. "That
kind is three skillings a dram," she answered. The secret probably was
that she had no license to sell wine. I was reminded of an incident
which occurred to me in Maine, during the prevalence of the prohibitory
law. I was staying at an hotel in a certain town, and jestingly asked
the landlord: "Where is the Maine Law? I should like to see it." "Why,"
said he, "I have it here in the house;"' and he unlocked a back room and
astonished me with the sight of a private bar, studded with full
decanters.

The men folks were all away at work, and our postillion was a strapping
girl of eighteen, who rode behind Braisted. She was gotten up on an
immense scale, but nature had expended so much vigour on her body that
none was left for her brain. She was a consummate representation of
health and stupidity. At the station where we stopped for the night I
could not help admiring the solid bulk of the landlady's sister.
Although not over twenty four she must have weighed full two hundred.
Her waist was of remarkable thickness, and her bust might be made into
three average American ones. I can now understand why Mugge calls his
heroine Ilda "the strong maiden."

A drive of thirty-five miles down the picturesque valley of the Guul
brought us to Drontheim the next day--the eighth after leaving
Christiania.

CHAPTER XXIII.

DRONTHEIM.--VOYAGE UP THE COAST OF NORWAY.

Our first view of Drontheim (or _Trondhjem_, as it should properly be
written) was from the top of the hill behind the town, at the
termination of six miles of execrable road, and perhaps the relief
springing from that circumst