amongst the slush of melting snow, to a broad-topped crag, that projected far over a precipitous gully, plunging down towards the Glacier de Trélaporte. On the top of this rock we unpacked our provisions, and made our first long halt. We excused our laziness, for it was getting late, by saying the "crack" cannot be ascended till the day is further advanced and the shadows less bitterly cold. Our ledge was of the most sensational character. The cliff above overhung, and the tiny streams from the melting snow on the ridge fell far outside us in sheets of sunlit rain. Below, the cliff still receded, so that the stones dislodged by us fell four or five hundred feet before they touched the grim walls of the gully. My seat was at the extreme end of the projecting crag, and somewhat destitute of foothold. I will own that, at moments, the appalling precipice exerted such an effect on my brain, that the very stability of our perch itself seemed doubtful, and I almost seemed to feel it rock as if it were starting on its tremendous plunge through space.
After three-quarters of an hour, we packed the knapsack and scattered ourselves over the mountain, seeking for a suitable place for the camera. A little ledge, barely wide enough to squeeze along, led to the flat-topped tower which forms the Charmoz wall of the cleft, and which, from the Mer de Glace, looks like a hole through the ridge. It is not in actual
