My first encounter with Hans Rosenberg was in the fall semester of 1952 when I switched from evening classers to day sessions full-time at Brooklyn College. His presence in the classroom was both fascinating and intimidating. He constantly took pains to engage each student in the room, and he still serves me as a model of teaching-effectiveness. Short and slightly pudgy but with ramrod posture, he had an expressive, unusually lively face and a profoundly serious but good-natured demeanor; he spoke with a slight impediment, with the heavy accent of his native Rhineland, and with an English vocabulary that was dazzling in scope. He was the epitome of the learned European professor, respected and esteemed by his colleagues. Some of his reputation as a teacher who demanded much of himself and of his students had preceded my entry into his class, and had conveyed a picture of a man who often literally got drunk on ideas in front of his students.