The Rondo, op. 1 (dedicated to Madame Linde) composed in 1825, and afterwards arranged as a duet, although artistically written throughout, is Chopinʼs weakest work. His individuality was not at that time fully developed, and Hummelʼs influence was unmistakable. It is no disparagement of his talents to say this, for every young pianist of that period made Hummel his model, and, moreover, every genius, however independent, begins by unconsciously imitating his favourite composers and artists. As an instance of this we need only mention Beethoven. In the following works, the “Introduction et Polonaise brillante pour piano et ʼcello” (op. 3), the Sonata in C minor, (op. 4), dedicated to Elsner, and the Trio (op. 8), which, although entitled “Premier Trio,” has had no successor, the leaning towards Hummel is still evident; the motives are easily comprehensible, harmonious, clear and simple in their development, but the Variations on “Don Juan” already bear the true Chopin stamp. [Sidenote: SCHUMANN ON CHOPIN.] In 1831, just after the appearance of this piece, R. Schumann wrote a long article in the _Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung_, under the simple heading, “An opus 2.” We quote a part of it: “Eusebius had just stepped softly into the room. You are familiar with the ironical smile on the pale face by which he tries to excite attention. I was sitting at the piano with Florestan, who is, as you are aware, one of those peculiar musicians who pre-judge everything new and extraordinary. But to-day a surprise awaited him. With the words, ‘Hats off, gentlemen, a genius!’ Eusebius laid before us a piece of music of which we were not allowed to see the title. I carelessly turned over the leaves. There is something fascinating in the enjoyment of music without sound. I think, too, that every composer has his own manner of writing notes; Beethoven looks different to Mozart, just as Jean Paulʼs words do not look like Goetheʼs. But now it seemed to me as if quite strange eyes, flowersʼ eyes, basilisksʼ eyes, peacocksʼ eyes were gazing at me. Light dawned in places; I thought I saw Mozartʼs ‘La ci darem la mano’ entwined in a hundred chords. Leoporello seemed to be looking steadily at me, and Don Juan glided past in his white mantle. ‘Now play it,’ said Florestan. Eusebius consented, and we sat squeezed in a window niche to listen. He played like one inspired and brought forth an innumerable host of the most life-like forms; as if the enthusiasm of the moment had raised his fingers beyond their usual possibilities. With the exception, however, of a happy smile, Florestan only expressed his approbation by saying that these Variations might have been Beethovenʼs or Franz Schubertʼs, if these composers had been pianoforte _virtuosi_. But when he turned to the title page and read, ‘_La ci darem la mano_, varié