AN ASCENT OF THE MATTERHORN. 237 
pastures and steep grassy slopes, the great moun- 
tain ever in front and the glistening snows of the 
Dent Blanche and the Breithorn flanking it on 
either side. 
At sunrise we came to the first cabin, at the foot 
of the upper pyramid of the Matterhorn, on a nar- 
row crest of rocks which separates the Furggen 
glacier from the Matterhorn glacier. This cabin, 
built by the Swiss Alpenclub, is quite a comforta- 
ble place, with plenty of straw, blankets, and fuel. 
Many who climb the mountain spend the night 
here, setting out at sunrise for the summit. The 
walls of the cabin are covered with lead-pencil in- 
scriptions in every tongue. One of these, in par- 
ticular, is noteworthy as being higher above the 
sea-level than any other poetry in the English 
language. 
“Little Matt Horner 
Sat in the corner, 
And vowed he would not be climbed: 
We tried it, you know, 
But found so much snow 
We very politely declined.” 
This is not much as poetry; but it is worthy of 
notice that in a climate and at an altitude in 
which ordinary spring poetry is frozen through’ 
and through in a minute, this little blossom has 
survived. 
For a few moments we watched the sun rising 
over the glaciers of the Weissthor pass, and then 
John the Baptist had us again under way. We 
stood right at the foot of the mountain; but the 
nearer we came the steeper it looked, and there 
