As a European historian who has learned to believe that everything worthwhile was discovered by the Germans until it was rediscovered earlier by the Russians, I am somewhat annoyed at having to admit that Mr. Hartz has written something eminently satisfying to my kinfolk and me. He stimulates in us a measure of condescending sympathy with American historians, who must deal with this crazy American people, none of whom apparently knows who he really is—he really is his own grandpa—and each of whom, like the proverbial piano player in the sporting house, is completely ignorant of what goes on upstairs. And how lucky I feel to be working in the clear atmosphere of Europe, where our classes are clean-cut, our parties shrewd and perceptive of their own interests, our political philosophy real and earnest. It is true that according to this picture the socialism we have is not quite as real as the feudalism we used to have, but then, nothing in the historical world is quite perfect. Indeed, Mr. Hartz' view of European history is, if anything, too perfect. It is reminiscent of a Rube Goldberg mechanism in which a fat nobleman opens the door at one end of a corridor and sets off a chain reaction which explodes Nicolai Lenin out the door at the other end.