In October 1913, the Graduate College was formally opened. There 

 was first a series of lectures by distinguished European scholars, Riehl, 

 of Berlin, Shipley, of Cambridge, and Godley, of Oxford. The cere- 

 mony of dedication of the new college and of the Cleveland Memorial 

 Tower was held in the great quadrangle, which was filled with camp- 

 chairs. The whole court had been covered with a great awning, in case 

 of rain, but a heavy gale of the night before had torn that to ribbons 

 and wrecked it utterly. Fortunately, it was not needed, as the great day 

 was blessed with the radiant serenity which we always associate with 

 the American October. Former President Taft made the memorial 

 address on Mr. Cleveland, which was admirable in tone and temper, 

 especially in view of the political hostility between the two men. It was 

 a very brilliant occasion and, in the course of it, Godley remarked to 

 another Englishman: "These people certainly do understand cere- 

 monial," In the evening a state dinner inaugurated Procter Hall, of 

 which Shipley said: "This hall was five hundred years old the day it 

 was finished." 



Of 1914, the overshadowing event was, of course, the World War; the 

 long-expected and long-threatening broke at last and proved to be, in 

 both character and duration, far more terrible than any one had im- 

 agined it could be. We were at Cataumet in that dreadful time of sus- 

 pense when the fate of the world was at stake, and also when the 

 German avalanche almost reached Paris. Every morning, I discussed 

 the situation with an Italian friend, who was a trained soldier and had 

 been a member of the Great General Staff of Italy. He was very pessi- 

 mistic and when, after reading the papers, he shifted his lines of col- 

 oured pins ever nearer to Paris, he would exclaim: "Ah! poor France! 

 France is licked." Like all the professional soldiers I have known, he 

 had unbounded admiration for the German army and thought it in- 

 vincible. 



On the morning of September 7, we read the glorious, though mys- 

 tifying, news that the German advance had been stopped and turned 

 back. The correspondents wrote of a wholesale defeat, a "retreat from 

 Moscow," and predicted the early and overwhelming victory of the 

 AHies, but this rosy vision soon faded away and we were left in a state 

 of perplexity. 



While the War lasted, I could not work, except for my routine 

 duties; productive activities ceased altogether and the publication of 

 the Patagonian Reports had to be suspended. So great was my anxiety 

 over the situation in Europe, that I could hardly fix my attention on 



C301 2 



