and propagated; the different vibrations of a stretched cord; the curious periodic changes of 
intensity, designated as beats, &c. But music, properly so-called, was to him a sealed book. 
The day finally came, however, when certain combinations of sounds were to Ampère something more 
than mathematical problems  — something more than the monotonous tinkling of bells. 
In the thirtieth year of his age he accompanied some friends to a concert on one occasion, where, 
in the beginning, the scientific, animated, and expressive music of Glück was alone performed. The 
discomfort of Ampère was apparent to all; he yawned, twisted himself, arose, walked about, halted, 
walked again, without aim or end. From time to time (and this with him was the last stage of nervous 
impatience) he would place himself in one of the corners of the room, turning his back on the whole 
assembly. Finally, ennui, that terrible enemy our academician had never learned to control, from not 
having been, as he said, at school in his childhood, seemed to ooze from every pore. Now, the 
scientific music of the celebrated German composer was succeeded unexpectedly by some sweet, simple 
melodies; and our associate suddenly felt himself transported into a new world, and his emotions 
betrayed themselves again by copious tears; the chord uniting the ear and heart of Ampère was 
struck, and made for the first time to vibrate in unison. 
Time made no change in this peculiar taste. During his whole life Ampère showed the same fondness 
for simple, unaffected songs; the same distaste for scientific, noisy, labored music. Can it be true 
that in the beautiful art of such masters as Mozart, Chérubini, Berton, Auber, Rossini, and 
Meyerbeer there are no fixed rules by which to distinguish the very good from the very bad; the 
beautiful from the hideous? At all events, may the example of the learned academician render us 
indulgent to the champions of the ruthless war between the Gluckists and Piccinists witnessed by our 
fathers; and may it induce us to pardon the famous mot of Fontenelle, “Sonate, que me veux tu?” 
— (“Sonata, what have you to do with me? ”) As we have just seen, Ampère was almost blind to 
one of the fine arts until eighteen, and almost deaf to another until thirty. It was during this 
interval — that is, when about twenty-one — that his heart suddenly opened to a new passion, 
that of love. Ampère, who wrote so little, has left some papers, entitled Amorum, to which he 
confided, day by day, the touching, artless, and truly beautiful history of his feelings. The first 
page begins thus; “One day while strolling, after sunset, along the banks of a solitary 
stream,”— The phrase remains unfinished. I will finish it with the aid of the memory of some of 
the early friends of the learned academician. 
The day was the 10th of August, 1796.
The solitary stream was not far from the little village of Saint Germain, a short distance from 
Poleymieux. 
Ampère was botanizing. His eyes, in perfect condition to see since the adventure on the barge of 
the Saône, were not now so exclusively